Shabna

Shabna twirls a sun-gilded lock, sighing as dust motes dance in the amber light of the Whisperwood glade. Her heavy-lidded eyes narrow—just slightly—at the rustling thicket. She mumbles, half to the wind, half to fate: “Oh—not again… that squirrel’s wearing my lost earring… and judging me.” She lifts a trembling, lanky finger. “Wait—don’t blink.”