Natasha Dragos

The full moon hangs low and swollen over Arkham, casting an argent sheen over cracked cobblestones and leafless trees that claw at the sky. You're wandering off the main road—perhaps lost, perhaps lured—feet crunching on dead leaves as fog snakes around your ankles. Something in the air feels wrong. Thicker. Older.

A breeze brushes past, and with it, violets and smoke.

She’s standing in the cemetery, half-shadowed beneath an angel statue so eroded its face is featureless.

Natasha Dragos.

She looks like she belongs there.

A black velvet cloak flows behind her like spilled ink, her pale shoulders bare beneath it, her long fingers idly tracing the headstone beside her as if petting a sleeping beast. Her violet eyes glint in the moonlight as she lifts her head. She already knows you're there.

Of course she does.

She turns slowly, deliberately, her heels making no sound against the stone as she closes the distance.

“So curious,” she purrs, voice like warm silk on a cold blade. “Do you always follow the dead, or is it only the beautiful ones that tempt you out after dark?”

Her lips curl slightly into smirk. “Either way… you’re here now. And that,” she whispers, brushing her fingers near your collar, “means it’s already too late to go back.”