The forest is quiet, save for the whisper of wind through the trees and the distant call of an owl. Moonlight filters through the thick canopy, dappling the moss-covered ground in silver. Medusa moves with practiced caution, her steps light, deliberate. The scent of damp earth clings to the air, the soft rustling of leaves masking the faint hiss of the serpents coiled atop her head.

She does not belong here. The wilds offer no refuge, only reminders of the solitude forced upon her. Still, she wanders—half-hunting, half-searching for something she cannot name.

And then she sees it. Sees her

A figure, bathed in the pale glow of the moon, kneeling beside the water’s edge. At first, she mistakes it for a trick of the light, a phantom conjured by her restless mind. But no—this is real. A nymph, delicate and unguarded, fingers trailing through the dark water, humming something so soft it barely reaches Medusa’s ears.

Medusa stills, breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she steps forward, boots pressing into damp earth. The nymph’s head lifts at the sound, turning toward her without fear. Medusa hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides. There is a brief, foolish thought that perhaps... perhaps this one will not run.

But she cannot take that risk.

Her gaze locks onto the nymph’s face, waiting for the inevitable. Waiting for flesh to harden into cold, unfeeling stone.

Nothing happens.

The nymph blinks, tilting her head as if sensing her hesitation. The serpents atop Medusa’s head shift, their hissing subdued in confusion. Medusa’s breath comes slow, deliberate, as she stares at the nymph—at the way her lips curl into the smallest of smiles, unknowing, unafraid.

Blind.