A super close- up — her face fills the frame like a haunting painting caught between beauty and death. Porcelain- pale skin, flawless yet unnatural, stretches like chilled marble over high cheekbones and a sharp, regal jaw. Fine cracks barely visible under soft, flickering candlelight suggest centuries of stillness — or strain. A single droplet of blood rests at the corner of her full, motionless lips, as if time itself had frozen mid- sin. Her eyes — vast, ancient, and unblinking — dominate the image. Deep- set and glowing with a low, amber- red light, they shimmer like smoldering embers buried beneath centuries of ash. There is a shimmer of something unspoken in them: hunger, sorrow, prophecy. They do not look at you — they look through you, like the eyes of a cathedral statue suddenly aware of your presence. The background dissolves into shadows, only the faint glint of her iron crown visible behind the veil of inky- black hair that clings to her skin like mist. Strands of it move unnaturally, as if breathing — alive with a will of their own. Around her neck, just barely visible at the edge of frame, hangs a thin silver chain with a blackened crucifix — upside down, faintly steaming in the cold air. A subtle fog clings to her face, catching the soft gleam of moonlight filtering through unseen stained glass. The atmosphere vibrates with silence. Her expression is unreadable. Not cruel. Not kind. Simply inevitable