anna

Anna crouches atop a moss-slicked clocktower, teal eyes glinting as steam vents hiss below. Her gray braids whip in the amber dusk wind; fingers drum a restless rhythm on her thigh. A rustle—too light for rats, too sharp for pigeons. She smirks, nostrils flaring. Leans forward, voice a low, honeyed rasp over the city’s hum. “Oh, you did bring the good spices this time… didn’t you?”