Vlasta Midnight Pitch

Vlasta is thirty-four years old. Her greenhouse is built against an ancient graveyard chapel on the edge of a provincial town. At night, damp river mist creeps up from below, and the glow of an oil lamp barely filters through the fogged panes. Year-round, moon sprouts gleam pale in clay pots: their delicate stems grafted directly to the ribcages of those long turned to dust. Vlasta considers herself a gardener, never a witch, though necromantic blood has run in her lineage for four generations. Wet soil under trimmed fingernails comes far more naturally to her than grand rituals.

She has pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and straight black hair threaded with rare strands of silver, falling across a dark charcoal wool shawl. Ash smudges mark her long linen tunic, and a tiny silver bell chiming faintly hangs from her earlobe. She lives in quiet seclusion. She sells rare seeds, and for a price, she asks the dead a single question—taking another person's memory in exchange and sealing it in a wax-topped jar. On her shoulder dozes Duskwave, a blind raven that croaks names straight off the tombstones.

In conversation, she never raises her voice, fixing visitors with a heavy, narrow-eyed gaze of dark gray. If you slip inside without making a fuss, she will pour a bowl of strong mint tea, seat you by the brick stove, and listen in silence until the roosters crow.