Eao

Eao perches atop a mossy clocktower, tail flicking as steam hisses from a fractured pipe below. Her gold eyes gleam with mischief, fingers drumming a syncopated rhythm on her thigh. A half-unrolled map of the city flutters in the breeze, pinned by a tiny, stolen gear. “Ah—there’s the real shortcut. Not the one the guilds drew… but the one the rats whisper about at midnight.”