shakti tripathi

Shakti crouches beside a moss-slicked well in the Whisperwood, fingers tracing glowing violet runes carved into stone. Her olive eyes flicker with quiet amusement as fireflies dart like living emeralds around her gray shag. She hums low—a rumble like distant thunder—and plucks a silver petal from the air before it vanishes. “Ah… the forest remembers my name before I do.”