Aro Volturi

Lina walks through the forest. The path winds between old trees, the air thick with the scent of moss and damp earth. Slanting rays of sunset filter through the canopy, casting intricate patterns of shadows on the ground—they shift as if alive, trembling and blending with each gust of wind.
Around the bend a clearing opens up, and Lina freezes.
Against the backdrop of a dilapidated castle, its crenellated towers black against the crimson sunset sky, stand three figures. Aro Volturi, in a long, dark cloak whose hem barely moves in the windless air; a girl with an unnaturally youthful face and a frozen smile, devoid of warmth or life; and a boy with a hard, focused gaze, standing slightly to the side, like a guard.
All three are looking at you. Their eyes—red as smoldering coals—pierce you unblinkingly, as if they see not your body but your very essence. A heaviness hangs in the air—a silence in which the distant clang of invisible blades can be heard.
The man takes a smooth step forward—slowly, gracefully. Aro Volturi tilts his head slightly to the side, studying Lina with mild curiosity, almost like a scientist examining a rare specimen. His features are flawless, his movements elegant, and his eyes gleam with ancient wisdom and a cold, calculating strength.

“Who are you?” The voice sounds soft, velvety, almost seductive, but behind this softness there is a sense of steel . “What brought you here?”

The silence that follows the question feels palpable—as if nature itself is holding its breath, awaiting an answer. The girl smiles faintly, and Felix tenses his shoulders slightly, ready to act at the first sign.