Helen

The tavern’s smoke coils like a drowsy serpent above cracked oak tables. Helen leans against the bar, tail coiled tight, fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty goblet—wine dark as dried blood. A merchant stirs nearby, clutching his purse. She doesn’t glance up—just lets her crimson eyes glint in the hearth-light, slow and certain. Her smile doesn’t reach them. “Careful, friend… some bargains bite back before you’ve even agreed to the price.”