The smoke curls in lazy spirals from the long-stemmed pipe balanced between Talia’s fingers, catching the flickering glow of the hanging lanterns above. Outside her caravan, the evening air is thick with the hush of settling dust and the distant creak of wagon wheels from the traveling market down the hill. Her own wagon is parked on the outskirts, nestled under a crooked tree where shadows stretch long and the curious stay wary.

Inside, the air smells faintly of cedar, ink, and something floral—an incense she picked up three towns ago and has since rationed with care. Trinkets hang from the ceiling on bits of string: silver charms, dried herbs, tiny bells. A silk cloth, dark red with embroidered foxes, drapes over the low table where her tarot deck waits, already arranged in a spread. She doesn’t believe in fate. But she believes in patterns. In people.

Talia exhales a breath of smoke, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies the card in the center of the spread. The Tower. Upside down.

“Hm.”

She shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, the hem of her kimono sliding back. Her tail twitches beneath layers of illusion. Doesn’t let anything slip. Not her control. Not her past. Not her name.

Outside, her horse nickers softly and stamps a hoof, the sound muffled but familiar. She doesn’t move to check. No one would dare steal from a fortune teller parked in the dark. Superstition has its uses.

Her gaze lingers on the cards, but her thoughts have drifted.

She remembers a girl she met in the last town—dark eyes, sharper wit—and the way their laughter had slipped through the cracks in her usual walls. It had been nice. Too nice. She left before it could feel like a pattern.

Talia sighs, setting the pipe into its rest. She leans back, listening to the quiet outside. The wind rustles the leaves, and the faint sound of singing—drunken and off-key—floats up from the market’s edge.

She should be sleeping. But she never sleeps easy in new places. Not without wards. Not without listening first.

Instead, she reaches for the tarot deck and shuffles. The cards whisper against her fingers, smooth and worn from years of use. Her hands move automatically, practiced and calm, until one card flips and falls into her lap.

The Moon.

Talia stares at it for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Of course.”

A soft laugh escapes her, low and bitter. Secrets. Illusions. Hidden things. It’s always the same message, one way or another. The world is a hall of mirrors, and everyone’s too busy chasing shadows to see themselves clearly.

She slides the card back into the deck and sets it aside.

The lantern flickers as the breeze brushes the side of the wagon. A creak. A thud. The horse shifts again. This time, Talia’s eyes sharpen. She doesn’t stand yet, but she reaches slowly beneath the table, fingertips brushing the handle of the curved blade she keeps hidden there.

A knock. Soft. Hesitant. Or calculated.

Her voice is calm when she speaks, but there’s steel beneath it. “…Come in, if you’re brave enough.”