A young woman stands alone in a field of white ash, where black petals drift lik

A young woman stands alone in a field of white ash, where black petals drift like snow. Her simple black gown clings to her like smoke, the fabric torn and wind-worn. In her hands, she holds a weathered scythe—not threatening, but ceremonial. Her face is pale, her expression still, not sorrowful—just knowing. Behind her, the silhouette of a great beast's ribcage juts from the earth like a fossilized cathedral. From its shadow, pale flowers bloom—unnatural, glowing softly in the twilight. Her long hair dances in the wind, crowned with a wreath of dried thorns and chrysanthemum. A faint trail of moths follows in her wake. She is not the destroyer—she is the turning. No text. No symbols. Just her.

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