They called her a Moonwraith, though no one alive could say what she truly was.

By night, when the crescent hung low and the air smelled of damp earth, she would appear. Always with a candle in hand, though its flame was long dead. Always with her eyes burning like captured stars. Those who looked into them swore they saw not reflections, but memories, their own darkest secrets laid bare, illuminated in pale fire.

The legend said she had once been mortal, a keeper of lamps in the old monastery that guarded the valley. But when invaders came, torching the abbey and slaughtering its kin, she had chosen not to flee. She carried the last flame of the sanctuary, vowing it would never be snuffed out. But the wind was cruel, and when it took her candle, it took her life as well.

The moon pitied her. It poured its light into her vacant eyes, giving her a new sight: not of the living world, but of souls. Now she wanders between forest and ruin, candle useless in her grip, guided instead by the ghost-flame burning in her gaze.

Some say she hunts liars, pulling them into the dark with nothing but a stare. Others whisper she searches still, moving through centuries, for someone worthy to carry her lost fire.

If you meet her under the crescent sky, beware the glow of her eyes. For once they fall upon you, she will know what you hide in your heart, and the Moonwraith is merciless to those who have snuffed out their own light.

Hand drawn on iPad