The village of Elaris slumbered beneath a silver sky, cradled in the arms of Crescent Forest. The trees, ancient and tall, stood like silent sentinels as moonlight danced across their leaves. The air shimmered with quiet magic, a forgotten hum that most had stopped listening for long ago.
But Lyra heard it.
Always had.
She stood barefoot on the grassy edge of the forest, her long copper-brown hair stirred by the wind. The Silver Moon hung high above, full and luminous, its glow bathing the land in a pale light. It was beautiful. Powerful. Strange. Tonight, it felt... closer.
Her hand instinctively touched the pendant at her neck—a small moonstone bound in silver wire. A gift from her grandmother, who said it had once belonged to Lyra's mother. It was warm to the touch now, pulsing gently, as though responding to something in the air.
Lyra's breath caught.
Something was coming.
A soft rustle behind her made her turn. Her grandmother, Alenya, stood wrapped in a dark shawl, her silver hair glowing like starlight in the moonlight. Her eyes, still sharp despite her age, studied Lyra closely.
"You feel it, don't you?" Alenya said.
Lyra nodded slowly. "It's louder tonight. Like... it's calling."
Her grandmother stepped closer. "That's because it is."
They stood in silence for a moment. The forest swayed gently. An owl hooted in the distance.
"I've waited for this night," Alenya said. "Waited to see if the Moon would choose again."
Lyra frowned. "You've never told me what happened before."
"Because it's a tale wrapped in sorrow." Alenya looked up at the sky. "Many generations ago, when magic flowed freely, the Silver Moon would speak to those born of the old blood. Healers. Guides. Protectors of the balance. But something happened. The magic faded. The chosen disappeared."
"Disappeared?"
"They entered the forest on the night of the full moon," her voice dropped to a whisper, "and were never seen again."
Lyra's heart thudded. "And you think I'm one of them?"
Alenya looked back at her, solemn. "I know you are. I felt it the day you were born. The forest whispered your name. The moon watched over you. And tonight, it calls to you."
Lyra turned back to the trees. Her pulse raced, but she didn't speak.
"There is a place," her grandmother continued, "deep in the woods. A stone circle, older than memory. You must go there before the moon reaches its peak. It will show you the truth of who you are."
"And if I don't?"
"Then the magic will die with this generation. And Solara will remain broken."
A thousand thoughts raced through Lyra's mind—fear, disbelief, wonder. She had always known she was different. Plants bloomed when she sang. Wounds closed under her hands. But this… this was something else.
Her grandmother took her hand and pressed something into her palm. It was a small pouch, tied with a blue string.
"Moon petals, ground silverleaf, and a sliver of whitewood bark," Alenya said. "For protection. Keep them close."
Lyra tucked the pouch into her satchel. Her fingers trembled. "What if I can't do it? What if I go and never return?"
Her grandmother reached up and cupped her face. "You are brave. You are strong. And you are never alone. The moon chose you for a reason."
Lyra swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.
Without another word, she turned and stepped into the forest.
The trees closed around her like a cathedral of shadow and light. Silver beams pierced the canopy, illuminating patches of glowing moss and flowering vines. The forest was alive in a way no one else seemed to see—its branches twitching, its roots pulsing with energy just beneath the surface.
Lyra moved carefully but with purpose, her senses sharper than ever before. Every rustle, every breeze, every whisper felt like part of something larger.
The pendant at her neck warmed again, brighter this time.
She was getting close.
As she walked, memories flickered in her mind—her mother's voice singing lullabies in a language no one else knew. The way the moon always found her window. The strange symbols that sometimes appeared in her dreams.
It had all been leading here.
Suddenly, the trees parted.
She stepped into a clearing bathed in moonlight, and her breath caught in her chest.
The stone circle.
Twelve massive stones stood in a perfect ring, their surfaces covered in ancient runes. Vines crept along their edges, but none crossed the markings. In the center, the ground shimmered faintly, as if woven with starlight.
Lyra stepped forward, drawn by a force she couldn't explain. The closer she got, the louder the hum of energy became—resonating in her bones, her blood, her soul.
She entered the circle.
The world shifted.
A rush of wind, though the air was still. A pulse of light, though there was no flame. The stones glowed. The runes lit up. And the moon above blazed brighter than she had ever seen.
Lyra dropped to her knees, overcome by a wave of magic so ancient and pure it brought tears to her eyes. Her skin tingled. Her heart raced. Her pendant glowed white-hot against her chest.
And then—
A voice.
Not spoken aloud, but deep within.
"Child of the Silver Line… You have returned."