Queen Varethorne

In the heart of a withered forest, beneath the cold glow of a full moon, she wandered—her crown a blooming crimson rose, its thorns entwined in her raven hair. Her black gown, woven with twisted vines, whispered against the dead leaves as she reached for another blood-red blossom. The trees bowed in her presence, their skeletal branches yearning for her touch, though none dared to embrace the queen of sorrow. A single tear, dark as ink, traced down her porcelain cheek, feeding the roots of the cursed garden she had sworn to tend. She was both prisoner and ruler, forever bound to a love that had long since turned to thorns.