Her face, captured in unnerving stillness, glows faintly in the gloom — not from life, but from something old and unnatural. Her skin is like frost- kissed alabaster, subtly veined with blue- green, like old porcelain left in the dark. Small golden moths flutter silently around her temples, drawn to her crown of twisted roots, blackened rose stems, and shards of antique mirrors — each one reflecting distorted glimpses of forgotten prayers. Her eyes are vast and wet with timeless grief, framed by curling lashes dusted in ash. Deep within their amber glow, strange runes flicker and fade like dying stars — remnants of a curse she once welcomed. Her lips, dark as dried blood, part slightly, revealing teeth that are almost human… but not quite. From her left eye, a single tear of black ichor hangs, unmoving — suspended like a relic of pain too ancient to fall. Bioluminescent veins pulse gently beneath the thin skin of her throat, illuminating the delicate lace choker stitched from funeral shrouds and spider silk. Her breath fogs the air in tiny clouds, though the chamber is deathly still. The sound is faint: the ticking of a broken music box, echoing from somewhere deep within her chest. She is a thing of beauty, dread, and memory — a saint of sorrow and a monster of midnight