R3 - Crescent

He gazed upon the crescent moon as it crept higher into the darkened sky, casting a pale light across the endless sands.

Was it waxing or waning? The answer eluded him, but he’d check the charts later—such details had a way of becoming significant when unrest was brewing.

Crescent. A single arc that could describe the graceful sweep of a blade or the charge of warriors across the dunes. Tonight, it was the shape of the moon, sharp and faint like the wings of desert moths flitting through the shadows.

But now, crescent meant more. It was the rising curve of unease among the Tribes, tension gathering like the moon before it becomes full. A Water Feud, vast and terrible, loomed on the horizon. Words had been spoken—fierce, reckless words—and their consequences lingered just out of reach, not yet fully realized, but growing.

Crescent. It was the shape of things to come.


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