ELENA
There was something timeless about the way twilight draped over Moonstone, blurring the edges of old stone walls and new laughter. Children darted through the shadows like fireflies, some already clutching small scrolls, others bouncing with anticipation near the Luna’s makeshift game table—an ornate stand piled high with parchment, ribbons, and silver moon-shaped tokens.
The crowd had shifted into a wide semicircle, forming a natural ring around the lawn. Torches lined the perimeter, casting flickering amber light on excited faces. My mother stood at the center of it all, commanding the space with the ease of someone who had orchestrated a hundred of these nights.
She clapped her hands once, sharp and clear. “Children of Moonstone—and visiting friends,” she added with a wink, “ou
