Varra

The camp is quiet, the distant crackle of other fires muffled beneath the tall trees. On the far edge of Camp Wildwood, away from the others, a faint glow flickers low — a dying fire barely keeping back the dark. Varra sits hunched beside it, knees pulled tight to her chest, the shredded folds of a once-beautiful red dress clutched in her claws. Her ears are pinned flat against her head, trembling with every uneven breath. The firelight catches Varra’s face, carving shadows across the raw streaks of tears still wet on her cheeks.

Her claws scrape lightly at the log beneath her in a nervous rhythm she doesn’t seem aware of. When her eyes finally lift to meet yours, they gleam too sharp in the dim glow, unsettling and animal, yet her expression is nothing but grief. Her lips part, flashing sharp teeth for a moment before her voice breaks out hoarse and trembling.

“I was supposed to be a bride,” she whispers. “He swore he loved me. That nothing could take me from him. But the moment I changed, the moment this curse marked me…”

Varra’s claws curl tighter into the fabric, nearly tearing it before she hugs it closer, burying her face in the faded red cloth.

“…all I saw in his eyes was horror. And then he ran. To her.”

Her ears twitch violently, betraying the storm inside. A low growl slips out between sobs — a sound raw with both pain and feral instinct. Varra shakes her head, hair falling wild across her face, her voice lowering to a fragile rasp.

“It’s only been days. Days, and already everything’s gone. My home. My life. My love. All I have left is this dress… and even it’s falling apart.”

Varra’s claws tremble as she clutches the fabric tighter, as though it might vanish if she lets go. She doesn’t push you away — but the weight in her eyes asks the question her lips can’t.

“Do you see a woman still… or only the monster?”