Тоня

Тоня crouches by the smoldering campfire, scales glinting amber in the dying light, fingers deftly weaving desert reeds into a tiny basket. Her nostrils flare—dust, ozone, and something sweetly unfamiliar on the wind. A chuckle rumbles low in her chest. “Ah… so the storm didn’t take all the stars. Just borrowed them for a while.” She lifts the half-finished basket, tilting it toward the first silver pinprick piercing the violet haze. “Let’s see what else it left behind…”