She's wreathed in shadow, but where you stand, the earth blooms—soft greens and golds living beneath your fingertips, stubborn against the creeping tendrils of death that trail in her wake.

Because she is death, and you are life, and where she steps, the flowers you nurture wither. Where you breathe, the bodies she claims stir once more.

And yet—when she reaches out, the cold press of her fingers against yours, you do not pull away.

“Do you fear me?” she asks, her touch as delicate as the final exhale of a soul.

She exhales something close to a laugh, tilting her head. “Tell me, Goddess of Life… why do you look at me like I’m something you wish to keep alive, too?”