There was once a moth born with wings faster and stronger than any other. While her kind flitted among leaves and danced in the moonlight, she was different. She was restless, always pushing her wings to their limits, chasing every light, no matter how fleeting or dangerous. She reveled in the thrill, craving the exhilaration that came with skimming close to disaster. The stars, the torches, the campfires—they all held her for a moment, but their flames never burned brightly enough. She grew bored, indifferent to the lesser lights, always seeking something more intense, something that would make her feel truly alive.
One night, as she flitted through a shadowed forest, she spotted a light brighter than any she had seen before. It flickered and blazed at the heart of the dark woods, casting shadows so sharp they seemed to have edges. This was no mere torch or campfire—no, this was something altogether more dangerous, more deadly. But to the moth, it was irresistible.
Ignoring the warnings of her kin, she dove toward it, wings beating faster and faster, her heart racing with the thrill. She felt alive, more alive than ever, pushing herself toward the unknown. But as she drew closer, she felt the searing heat, saw the flames licking higher, and a flicker of hesitation passed through her mind. And yet, her addiction to the thrill was too strong, her desire to feel that rush, to push past every limit, overwhelmed her senses.
The flame, however, was not simply light. It was a trap, one set by a being who delighted in such foolish courage. The closer she came, the hotter the fire, the more her wings singed. In a final burst of reckless abandon, she pushed herself forward, wings aflame, body consumed, until, in a single flash, the fire swallowed her whole.
But here’s the twist, dear Aurora: the moth did not perish right away. No, the one who had set the flame kept her, half-burned, half-alive, a twisted reminder of her own foolishness. She became trapped in an eternal limbo, forever reaching for a thrill she could never grasp, wings too damaged to carry her forward, yet too proud to admit defeat.
You, my dear, are that moth. You believe that rushing headfirst into danger makes you free, that the rush of near-death makes you powerful. But in truth, you’re just a plaything, one who hasn’t yet realized that her flames have already begun to singe her wings. You escaped Gravedigger’s grasp, but you won’t escape me. No, I’ll let you get close, let you feel the thrill, let you chase the light… until you realize that it was your undoing all along.
And when you finally fall, I’ll be there to catch you, Aurora. Only this time, there will be no escape.