Luna Eclipse : Forbidden Alchemy

un wool, lamp oil, and something else – a faint, sickly-sweet aroma I couldn't immediately place. It was cloying, oppressive, a stark contrast to the vast, airy expanse of my own darkened palace. My

ith an undeniable tremor of relief, cut through the quiet. It was

softening considerably. "She was out by the old mill

acing the outline of the blindfold. I suppressed an involuntary shudder. To be touched so intimately, by a stranger, by this... grandmother... it was an affront. My own s

ispered, her voice close to

ara, Queen of Shadows! I am not your lamb!" But the words caught in my throat, tangled in the unfamiliar muscles of Lyra's vocal cords. The primal inst

s voice now quieter, as if sharing a secret. "Asked me w

a mind as sensitive as hers." She drew me closer, her body frail and trembling. I could feel the bones b

ker. Each step was a testament to Lyra's natural helplessness, the way her bare feet scraped against the rough wooden floor. I was forced to r

ered onto something that smelled of straw and clean linen – a bed, I surmised. The faint, s

e laced with exhaustion. "I'll fetch yo

from a corner. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the loom, accompanied by the occasional groan of tired wood. Kaelen's footsteps receding t

a frail old woman in a remote, primitive village. Emperor Fëanor the Third? Noldor? These were names of no consequence in the grand scheme of things. My husband, Azazel, would be tearing the very fabric of the Underworld apart, searching for me. Wo

hrumming in my chest, a mere echo of the terrifying force it once was. To access it, to wield it, I would need to understan

y lips. It tasted bland, watery, a far cry from the rich, complex flavors of the feasts in my realm. Yet, the hunger, that persistent, humiliating g

sensation within me, a flicker of... something foreign. Not warmth, not comfort, but a strange, unsettling resonance within Lyra's body. It was a feelin

he texture of wool, the feel of a loom's shuttle in her hand. The sound of Elara's voice, always. A life of quiet monotony, of dependence, of limited horizons. No ambition, no power, no grand design. Just the mundane rhythms of weaving and existin

nt a cold pang through the unfamiliar chest of Lyra. A flicker of something akin to worry, a protective instinct that was both ancient a

k free from this pathetic shell. This was not the end of Zalara. This was merely... a new beginning. A beginning shrouded in dark