Guide her,Lure her

In the forgotten heart of the Deadwood Forest, where no sun dared to shine and no animal dared to rest, the air was thick with old magic—bitter and ancient, a pulse of darkness that trembled through the skeletal trees.

Beneath the arch of a twisted oak, cloaked in robes darker than shadow itself, the figure stood unmoving.

Its presence bent the air around it, a storm of silence and dread. The moon above it was veiled, as if even the heavens refused to witness its ritual.

A deep breath, slow and measured.

It raised one hand, fingers long and skeletal, lined with silver markings that shimmered faintly.

With a flick, it whispered something in a language not spoken for a thousand years—“Invoco noctem corvus.”

A gust of cold wind cut through the woods, scattering leaves in spirals. Then came the sound—a fluttering, slow at first, then loud and rhythmic, like thunder in disguise.

From the shadowed sky descended a crow, its feathers a sheen of obsidian and ink, eyes burning with something