There she sits in silence, in stillness — wrapped in flowing crimson like the final bloom before winter. Her face is blank, yet you feel seen. Not in how eyes see flesh, but in how truth sees soul. They call her The Oracle of the Crimson Veil. Her throne is carved from bone not as a warning, but a reminder: that all who seek truth must first sit with death. The skulls beneath her speak no words, yet they echo with the weight of forgotten choices, old regrets, and untold courage. In her hands, she holds a chalice dark as the void, and within it, a star glows quietly. It is not light for the eyes but for the heart. Those who dare to look into it don’t see a future… They see the part of themselves they tried to bury. Around her, spirits orbit. Red orbs. Some weeping. Some watching. Some screaming silently. They are what we leave behind when we forget who we are.