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. . ★ °❈ . * ☆ ¸ . ✳ ° :. . ☆ ☾ ° ✳ . * . ° ★ °❈ * ☆ ¸ * . ° . ☆ . ° ★ °❈ ¸. ☆ . .
This illustration was created within my story universe 
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It’s a Sin 
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The character depicted is Mistweaver, former partner of the protagonist, Ava. Once her anchor and equal, Mistweaver unravels after Ava chooses a new path — one that leads her into the arms of a dangerous rival.
This image captures the exact moment Mistweaver snaps, consumed by grief and obsession, and begins his transformation into one of the story’s central antagonists.
There were no stars above the grove that night. Only the thick blanket of cloud, shrouded in the color of old bruises, hung low over the twisted canopy like a warning. Mistweaver stood at its center, where roots curled like skeletal fingers and the air pulsed with the last whispers of old magic.
The rose he held had not grown wild. He had cultivated it himself, long ago — a rare breed, crimson laced with violet, coaxed into bloom through whispered spells and nights of silent tending. He had grown them for her. Ava had loved them. And so he had loved them too. Each petal a token, each thorn a vow.
The one in his hand had been picked just before dusk, trembling as if aware of its fate. It had once bloomed from Ava’s touch — summoned in silence, placed gently in his palm the day she’d whispered, “You are my calm, my constant.”
Now it withered between his fingers.
A single tear fell. Mistweaver was beyond the mercy of grief. His gaze was locked on the sigil she'd left scorched into the stone near their sacred hearth — the same symbol she had once etched into his spine with reverent fingers during one of their rites. Her mark. Now faded. Rewritten. Reclaimed.
By him.
Enzo.
Mistweaver’s lip curled back over his teeth in a silent snarl. Not rage, but something colder — a contempt sharpened into devotion’s jagged corpse. He had not wept when she left. He had stood still as a statue in the garden of bones, listening to the echo of her voice as she told him that she had found something she needed. Not love. Not escape. Something… else. Something darker than he could ever offer her.
And still, he had waited.
Still, he believed.
But now — her final words, spoken only hours before, echoed in his head like a curse.
“You are not my fate, Mist. You are my memory.”
It wasn’t the words that undid him. It was the way she had looked at him — with pity.
His claws tightened around the rose, its brittle petals crumbling to ash in his palm as the magic that clung to it twisted, then died. A cold wind passed through him, tasting of copper and frost. His breath fogged the air in front of him, and for a moment, he could almost see her face there — Ava, with her wildfire eyes and heart full of broken oaths.
He loved her still. He would always love her.
But love, like magic, could rot when left in shadow too long.
Mistweaver dropped the blackened stem and knelt in the center of the sigil. He traced the shape of the design, slower now, thoughtful. Reverent.
This wasn't mourning.
This was metamorphosis.
Let Enzo believe he'd won her heart. Let Ava believe she had chosen her freedom.
In time, they would both understand — love denied does not die.
It simply evolves.
. . ★ °❈ . * ☆ ¸ . ✳ ° :. . ☆ ☾ ° ✳ . * . ° ★ °❈ * ☆ ¸ * . ° . ☆ . ° ★ °❈ ¸. ☆ . .
✦ㅤ my carrdㅤ ✦
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