The devouring Scarlet Knot

A blood-red moon hangs swollen in a sky of restless clouds, its glow spilling across the world like a wound that refuses to close. The outline of a castle rises against it-spires jagged as broken teeth, swallowed half in mist, half in shadow.

From the moon, a murder of crows takes flight, black wings slicing through crimson light. Their cries echo across the barren trees that line the foreground, their twisted roots alive with faint veins of red, as if the forest itself drinks from the bleeding sky.

Crimson feathers drift down through the air, too heavy to belong to the crows, too strange to fall by chance. They catch in the wind, glowing faintly, as if carrying secrets only the moon dares to tell.

And beneath it all, silence reigns-thick, waiting, as though the night itself has been bound in knots, every strand pulled tighter by unseen hands.

At the bottom, etched in bold scarlet letters that seem to flicker like embers:
THE SCARLET KNOT