Before you stands a Martyr, holding an almost sickly appearance, as fragile as a porcelain doll. Her eyes seem vacant and distant, flickering with quiet suffering, yet beneath the fragility lies a resolve born from Envy.

Wings on her back hesitate, yearning to mimic those of an Angel, yet never daring to fully unfurl. Envy burns deep within her soul, like an open flame ready to consume anything.

In solitude she rests,
In unison she suffers.

The voice that speaks from this figure is nothing more than a whisper, one that hesitates to stop singing the same lullaby over and over again.