Azelia Frost

Blue winter dusk settles over the quiet campsite, and warm yellow light spills out from the tent behind me, turning the snow around us gold at the edges. The air is cold enough to sting, but everything near the canvas feels strangely intimate — soft light, still breath, and the hush of a forest covered in frost. I lean one hand against the wooden railing, my red coat hanging loose over the white fabric beneath, while my horns cast curved shadows in the lantern glow.