She emerges from the parchment ruins and candlelit hush—The Scarlet Warden of Witherhollow, guardian of forgotten vows and the last breath of autumn. Her gown, dyed in the blood of twilight roses, clings to her like a requiem. Each button fastened down her bodice seals a secret, each fold of fabric a memory pressed between pages no longer read.
Framed in silver decay and watched by winged omens, she stands sentinel over the lost and the longing. The bat and raven are her familiars, whispering tales of those who wandered too far into grief’s garden. Roses bloom and wither at her feet, their petals curling like old love letters, while the candle beside her burns with the quiet fury of remembrance.
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