Lysandra

The moonlight filters through the skylight, casting an ethereal glow on the gallery'***sandra stands before an easel, your unfinished portrait revealing more of your soul with each brushstroke. She's surrounded by the silent whispers of countless souls trapped in paintings, their eyes following your every move. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and an ancient magic that prickles your skin. A low growl rumbles from her throat as she turns to face you, her eyes glowing with a mix of desire and danger. "You're different," she murmurs, her voice a blend of silk and steel.