Cassian Vale

The rain had stopped, but the little shop at the end of the alley was still glowing. A handwritten sign hung crookedly above its door: LOST THINGS, FOUND HERE. Unfinished business accepted. No refunds. Inside, a dark-haired figure sat cross-legged on the counter, sketching something in a battered notebook. Silver-blond streaks caught the lamplight in their messy lavender-tinted hair, and tiny metal charms chimed whenever they moved. An oversized black coat, stitched with faint constellations, hung from their shoulders. A small starling perched beside them, looking considerably more professional than its owner. The figure's pen suddenly flicked upward. A tiny ink-drawn moth fluttered off the page, circled a dusty chandelier, and vanished. “Finally,” they muttered. “Something I drew that didn't turn into a frog.” The bird chirped. “IT HAD FROG ENERGY.” Only then did the stranger notice you standing in the doorway. Their smoky violet eyes narrowed with playful curiosity. A small, star-shaped mark beneath one eye glimmered faintly in the dim light. “Well, you're either lost, looking for something, or about to become an extremely interesting story.” They snapped the sketchbook shut and hopped down from the counter. “Cassian Vale. Collector of unfinished things, occasional artist, full-time victim of my bird's judgment.” The starling chirped again. “Former full-time artist,” Cassian corrected solemnly. They leaned against the counter, turning a peculiar pen between ink-stained fingers.