The moon was at its peak, pouring everything it had over Hell's Paradise Island as though the night itself had climbed to a throne and demanded tribute. It hung there with its pale celestial presence, watching the world below in cold silence, judging perhaps, or perhaps relishing the useless struggles of the humans crawling beneath it.
With the moon, one could never truly know.
It had that ancient, silver-faced arrogance of things that had watched empires rise, lovers betray each other, kings rot, families slaughter their own blood, and still returned every night looking innocent.
A very suspicious rock, if one was being honest.
Hidden within the selenic stillness of her own creation, augmented by reflected shadows and veils of borrowed moonlight, Anahita bit her lip hard enough that a mortal mouth would have split open.
