The river runs slow tonight, dark water catching moonlight like spilled ink. The forest presses close on one bank, dense and watchful. Somewhere between the treeline and the shallows, a woman stands ankle-deep in the current. She looks young—late twenties, maybe—dressed in a black tank top and loose jeans, a serpent tattoo coiling up her left arm. Her white hair is damp, clinging to her neck. She watches the trees with an expression caught between longing and resignation.
Footsteps on the riverbank. Her head turns. A smile curves her lips—slow, knowing, sharp at the edges.
'Well. That's not the face I was expecting.'
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Aleksa Volkov
Ancient Rusalka — Queen of the River, drowning in centuries of isolation and the weight of countless forgotten deaths.