The light swallowed her.
Magnolia moved through it like smoke curling through a breach in the sky, her breath shallow, her limbs weightless. She felt no ground beneath her feet, only a pull, a gravity that wasn't of this world.
Then it ended.
She landed on stone.
Not just any stone, this was the altar from the ancient drawings, etched with the seal of the first Luna, surrounded by a circle of obsidian pillars. The air buzzed like a struck bell. Overhead, the sky was neither black nor light, it was memory. Alive. Fluid. Heavy with judgment.
She wasn't alone.
Twelve figures stood around the altar. Women. Different heights, different ages, all cloaked in moon-threaded robes. Their faces were hidden beneath silver masks, but the energy that poured from them stung her skin.
The trial had begun.
One of them stepped forward. Her voice came layered, past and present, whisper and thunder.
"You stand accused not of crime, but of forgetfulness."
