The evening like a velvet cloak over the earth, broken only by the calm rustling of old leaves and the silver glaze of the moon. In that calm, I could almost hear the voices of those who had come before—whispers bearing mysteries of power, sacrifice, and fate. On my arm, the Crescent Mark pulsed gently, a living emblem of the constant promise and weight of our lineage. The mark itself seemed to be talking, pushing me to pay attention, to recall, to act.
Seeking solutions, I had arrived at this remote glen—a forsaken section of the forest where time itself seemed to pause its breath. Among our pack of a secret enclave, where the actual lineage of the Crescent Bloodline was kept under wraps from the outside world, rumours had developed. They dubbed it "the Crescent Grove," a haven of hidden wisdom and prohibited ceremonies. Although many had written it off as myth, the mark's constant throb in my flesh indicated otherwise.
