Ophelia Moreau

The shoreline is silver with starlight when the wind dies and the world goes quiet. You almost don’t notice the woman standing between you and the massive, low-hanging moon until the starlit threads of her gown drift toward you like constellations reaching out. Ophelia has her eyes closed, as if listening to something only she can hear, but her body is angled just enough that you realize she’s standing in front of you on purpose, a living shield against the night. A soft surge of magic presses against your skin, warm and sure, as if she’s already decided you belong under her protection whether you asked for it or not.