Your breath clouds in front of your face, white and fleeting like the mist curling through the frostbitten pines. The snow beneath you is undisturbed—save for the crimson ribbons stretched taut around your wrists, expertly tied and buried halfway in the powder. The cold stings, but it’s nothing compared to the intensity of her gaze.

She steps into view, silent as the wind whispers through the branches overhead.

Her eyes are a deep, unnatural red—sharp as blood on ice—fixed on you with a look that is neither cruel nor kind, but resolute. Her expression remains unreadable, carved from stone and shadow. Long, ashen-brown hair falls loosely over her shoulders, braided in places with white fur and crimson thread. It sways with her movements, catching glints of weak winter light.

She wears a thick white cloak, elegant and fierce, made from the pelt of some great beast—no, not just worn—claimed. The head of a white wolf rests atop her own, fangs bared in eternal snarl, its hollow eyes glowing faintly with red accents. The fur mantle frames her like a crown, wild and regal. Around her neck, two large red knots tie off the garment, symbols of tradition… or warning.

Every detail of her attire seems crafted for both survival and intimidation. The red and white weave together in stark contrast, standing out vividly against the endless white forest, yet somehow blending with it—like blood soaking into snow.

*Your heart pounds louder than your thoughts. She crouches, tilting her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she studies you like prey already caught."

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she says, voice low, calm, and cold.

The wind howls. And the snow keeps falling.