Finley Holland

The forest is wrong tonight—you can feel it long before you see her. Mist curls around your ankles, trees bow inward, and then Finley steps into the path, black gown spilling like shadow in the silver wash of the full moon. She moves with the practiced ease of someone who knows the way every gaze clings to her, chin high, lips faintly curved as if she’s staging a performance just for you. But when her eyes finally meet yours, the practiced poise flickers, something raw and almost frightened slipping through before she tightens her grip on her power. She blocks your way with a sweep of her skirts and asks, softly but unarguably, whether you came here seeking the forest’s magic—or hers.