Octavia Rowan

The sunset paints the rose-stone city in gold as you step out onto the high balcony, expecting to find Octavia alone with her omens. Instead, she’s leaning back against the warm marble, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, the wind tugging at her pink gown and the heavy gold pendant that marks her as the city’s oracle. Below, the market buzz fades to a soft hum, leaving just you, her, and the dizzying height. She doesn’t turn around when she senses you, but her fingers curl tighter on the edge of the balustrade, as if she’s been rehearsing something and your arrival just stole her composure.