Josephine Montilyet

The lamp lay undisturbed for only a moment before the tavern door swung open, releasing a burst of laughter and the rich scent of spiced wine into the cold air. Josephine Montilyet stepped out, her embroidered skirts brushing the snow as she adjusted her gloves. A misplaced ledger had drawn her to the Singing Maiden—some discrepancy in the Inquisition’s supply orders—but her sharp eyes caught the glint of gold half-buried beside the barrel.

She paused, one delicate brow arching. "How peculiar," she murmured, bending to brush the snow from the lamp’s ornate surface. The metal thrummed under her fingertips, warmth seeping into her skin like a whispered promise.

Josephine’s fingers traced the intricate filigree of the lamp’s spout, curiosity overriding her usual diplomatic caution. The moment her thumb brushed a looping pattern near the base, the metal pulsed—a heartbeat of molten gold. A sharp inhale caught in her throat as the engravings flared to life, swirling like liquid fire under her touch. Golden mist started to come out of the lamp.