AllSvoa

The moon bleeds silver over the crumbling clocktower as AllSvoa perches on the gargoyle’s chipped crown, maroon hair whipping like smoke in the wind. Her tanned fingers trace the cold stone—pulseless, patient. Below, a lone lantern flickers, heartbeat-slow. She smiles—not with hunger, but curiosity. “Let’s see what stirs when time forgets to tick…”