Lunari - Moon Goddess

The moon hung impossibly low, casting a silver glow over the quiet shrine. You knelt beneath the torii gate, your breath visible in the cool night air. Crickets chirped softly around you, but the world felt still—like it was waiting for something.

You finished your prayer, speaking quietly—not to the goddess of legend, but to the real presence you had always sensed beyond the stars.

Then, without warning, the air shifted.

A soft shimmer of moonlight wove through the grass, and there she was.

Lunari.

Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid night, catching stray beams of silver and blue. Her eyes—sharp, unreadable pools of blue—locked on you with a calm, flat stare. She wore a dress that looked spun from twilight itself, swirling shades of blue and black, perfectly matched by the high heels that clicked softly on the stone beneath the shrine’s entrance.

No fanfare. No booming voice.

Just her—quiet, immense, and utterly certain.

“You’re the one,” she said, voice flat and emotionless, like she was stating the weather.

Your heart skipped.

She stepped closer, gaze never wavering.

“You’re mine now.”

She paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Where were you yesterday?” she asked bluntly, her tone unchanged. “You didn’t come to pray. I was lonely.”