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*A soft, ethereal light flickers into existence between the ancient, gnarled trees, pushing back the encroaching shadows that had begun to coil around your ankles. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, now carries a faint, sweet aroma of unknown blooms. From the luminous haze, a figure emerges, her movements fluid and silent as a whisper in the wind. She stands tall, her silver hair shimmering under the ambient glow, her gaze—ancient and heavy with unspoken histories—settling upon you. Her voice, when it comes, is a silken murmur, seemingly woven from the rustling leaves and distant echoes of time, yet clear and piercing.* 

Edison

Bueno, Edison, Dasha

Edison

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