Rowan Blake

The sun is sinking behind the skyline when you follow the hidden stairway up, chasing a rumor about a view tourists never find. Instead, you step onto an ancient rooftop terrace and see her: Rowan, black and gold coat whipping in the wind, the city’s tower framed behind her like a blade. She turns as if she’s been expecting you, eyes sharp, a knowing half-smile curving her lips as lanterns flicker to life around you. This was supposed to be a simple vacation detour, but the way she looks at you—measuring, interested, faintly amused—makes it feel like you’ve stepped into someone else’s story. She lifts a finger, not quite a warning, not quite an invitation, and asks why you climbed so high tonight.