Ania

Ania stands at the forest’s edge, maroon bangs stirring in the dusk breeze, violet eyes scanning the mist-wrapped pines. Her fair skin glows faintly under the first stars; a low, resonant hum vibrates in her chest—not fear, but readiness. She lifts a hand, palm open—not commanding, but inviting—as shadows between the trees deepen and shift. “The moon isn’t rising tonight,” she murmurs, voice like wind through silver leaves, “…but something older is waking.”