It begins with a flicker.

A glint of flame cradled between her fingers.
Not for warmth. Not for comfort. But for memory.

Hillary stands alone now. One of the last.
Eyes painted in ritual, lips sealed with grief, gaze locked on something just beyond the veil.
She is the keeper of stories no one dared to write.

Her silence isn't surrender — it’s incantation.
A witch not burned, but awakened.

This is Dark Winter — not just a portrait, but a reckoning.