The Veil: Carved in His Ruin
The forest does not sleep. It waits. On nights when the moon forgets her silver and rises red, something moves between the trees—slow, bare-foot, bleeding. No one dares to name it. They only speak of the veil. A thing soft as breath. They say the blood moon draws closer when it walks. That it burns from the rage. Do not follow the glow. Do not listen when the stillness began to hum. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐢𝐥 bleeds. It remembers. And it's always starving.
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