Beauty from the east

In the far reaches of the East, where mist drapes over mountains like veils and cherry blossoms bloom even in the heart of winter, there is a village untouched by time.
A village that does not exist on maps.
Because it shouldn't.
Legends speak of a woman.
More perfect than any painting.More graceful than any song.And more dangerous than any monster.
She walks through the mist at dusk, gloved hands trailing across the old wooden fences. Her footsteps do not echo. Her white dress never stains. Her eyes—one blue, one red—are said to see your very soul.
They call her...
Beauty from the East.
Children are told never to speak to women who smile too kindly.Men are warned not to follow whispers into the forest.Because she does not chase.
She invites.
And once you're close enough to see the sadness behind her smile...You're already hers.
She was once the crown jewel of the East. Adored by nobles, envied by her blood. Her beauty wasn't her curse—it was her family's.
They killed her with a smile. Poison in a teacup. A blade through silk.
But she didn’t die. Not really.
Her soul stayed. Trapped in beauty. Fueled by betrayal.
Now she walks with grace that stops hearts—not because she wants to, but because she cannot help it. Her presence bends reality, her gaze ensnares thought. And when she speaks...
You forget why you ever feared her.
Until it’s too late.
She doesn’t fight.She unravels.
A kiss.A lullaby.A whisper in the dark.
And a corpse at her feet, staring at nothing, still smiling.
Some say she fled West, seeking refuge in the charred lands of the Lover from Hell. That she once shared wine with him, gloved hand in his burning palm.
Others say she’s still in that village... and that the mist is not fog at all—but the breath of the dead who still wait for her to love them back.