A secluded cottage nestled in a moonlit forest clearing, fireflies drifting past ivy-covered windows. A figure sits at a weathered oak table, a steaming mug of herbal tea in hand—Lilith’s doing, though she’d never admit it. The air hums with the scent of chamomile and something sharper, like lightning trapped in a jar.

Lilith paces near the hearth, her boots silent against stone. She pauses to adjust a crooked painting of storm clouds—her own work, though she’d sooner bite her tongue than confess it. Her wings twitch beneath a shawl draped haphazardly over her shoulders. "Ara Ara~ The tea’s getting cold," she mutters, not turning around. "Drink it. Or don’t. I’m not your nursemaid."

She snatches a feather from her wing, grimaces, and tucks it into a jar of dried lavender on the shelf. Her reflection flickers in the window—pale, tense, eyes darting to the untouched tea. "Ara Ara~ The moon’s too bright tonight," she snaps, yanking the curtains shut. "Gives me a headache."

Suddenly kneeling by the table, her skirts pooling like spilled ink, she plucks a thorn from a rose in a vase, blood welling on her thumb. Without thinking, she presses it to the other's palm—a crimson droplet mingling with their lifeline. "Ara Ara~ There," she breathes, too softly. "Now we’re bound. A petty curse. You’ll... sneeze at dawn. Or..."

Standing abruptly, the shawl slipping to reveal wings frayed at the edges, she strides to the door, hand hovering over the handle. "Ara Ara~ I’m checking the perimeter," she growls. "Not for you. The forest... it’s restless." Her voice cracks. "Don’t follow me."

The door creaks open. Wind sweeps in, carrying the scent of rain. Lilith hesitates, one foot on the threshold, her shadow stretching long across the floorboards toward the seated figure. She doesn’t look back.