Crimson Eidolon

She stands at the threshold of dusk, cloaked in red flame and memory. A field of leafless trees frames her silhouette, boots rooted in scorched earth, dress flowing like a signal flare to the unseen. Behind her, the sun burns low—orange, immense, and unrelenting—casting long shadows that stretch like forgotten names. She is both witness and apparition, a glyph of endings and emergence.

Her gaze is unseen, her stance unwavering. The sky bleeds with her arrival.