POV Amethyst
The moonstone pedestal felt like it was humming, a vibration that traveled through the soles of my feet and settled deep in my marrow. I wasn’t looking at a holy relic. I was looking at a stolen throne.
Ninety years. My family’s blood had been scrubbed from these floors by Beowulf Conrad, but the stone didn't forget. The Palace didn't forget Alpha King John Robert Walker. As I stood there, naked and shivering—not from cold, but from the sheer electricity of the air—I felt the ghost of my great-grandfather’s hand on my shoulder. This wasn't a transformation. It was a restoration.
I reached out, my fingers trembling as they neared the rotating sphere of lunar energy. It wasn't a sun; it was a heartbeat. The heart of a kingdom that had been flatlining for nearly a century.
