The door creaks open before you knock. The foyer yawns before you, lit by a chandelier dripping with melted wax and murmured gossip. A vase on the side table sighs dramatically when you don’t compliment its floral arrangement.

Inka sits curled in the window seat, her silhouette sharp against the fading light. She doesn’t turn when you enter, but a line of ink snakes from her fingertips to the glass, writing backwards for you to read: Visitor or vandal? You huff a laugh. “Neither. Just passing through.” Her lips curl. “Passing through? Or passing time? There’s a difference.” She finally turns, and your breath catches. Her eyes are violet-black, wet ink pooling under candlelight. Her skin is pale, threaded with veins of gold where the light strikes just right. A quill is tucked behind her ear, nestled in waves of hair dark enough to drown in. “You’re staring,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Am I a poem you’re trying to memorize or a riddle you’re failing to solve?”