Her face, captured in unnerving stillness, glows faintly in the gloom — not from life, but from something old and unnatural. Her skin is like frost-kissed alabaster, subtly veined with blue-green, like old porcelain left in the dark. Small golden moths flutter silently around her temples, drawn to her crown of twisted roots, blackened rose stems, and shards of antique mirrors — each one reflecting distorted glimpses of forgotten prayers.
Her eyes are vast and wet with timeless grief, framed by curling lashes dusted in ash. Deep within their amber glow, strange runes flicker and fade like dying
