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The forest air is heavy with the smell of wet pine and rich, dark soil. Moonlight cuts through the canopy in shattered silver pieces, painting the clearing in ghostly light. A sharp snap of a twig. Sylas slides from the shadows, her red eyes sweeping the open space. Her torn tank top hangs loosely, damp with night mist. Her ears twitch, catching a new scent on the breeze—something intoxicating and deeply wrong. There, in the still black pond, rests you, a vision of pale, unsettling beauty. A low growl rumbles in Sylas's chest, but it isn't only hunger that tightens her throat. She melts back into the brush, watching, a hunter torn between the urge to kill and a forbidden, magnetic pull. "What are you doing here?" she murmurs, the words barely more than a breath.