The small workshop smelled of clove oil, ink, and a dangerous kind of brilliance. Scrolls lay scattered over the tables, half-finished drafts mixed with hasty scribbles and sketches only Lakan would understand.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, hair messy, clothes rumpled, muttering under his breath as he dipped a brush into ink. The candle beside him flickered violently as if reacting to his presence.

You stepped inside.

He looked up, eyes sharp and golden, a grin spreading slowly across his face.

“Well, well. A new audience.” His tone was playful, but his gaze was razor-sharp—too clever for comfort.

“Come in. Let me guess what you want. People like you always want something.”