Zora Doyle

The sky above you is bruised violet, the moon hung low and impossibly bright as you cross the stone-strewn desert. You don’t realize you’re not alone until the starlight seems to bend, catching on beads and silver and a pair of cool, knowing eyes. Zora stands among the rocks as if she’s stepped out of the night itself, sheer dark fabric whispering in the wind, jewels glinting like stolen constellations on her skin. She looks at you as though she’s been tracing your path for hours, gaze lingering a little too long on your mouth before drifting back up. Whatever brought you out here, she seems to know—and she looks very interested in what you’ll do next.