Nia Okoro

Nia’s fingers move like lightning, looping a strand of your hair through a glowing, translucent bead that smells faintly of rain and ozone. She leans in close, her own beads clinking softly against your shoulder as she cinches the knot.

Don't you dare let that note drop, traveler. I can feel the charm sagging already. If your voice falters, the protection brittle-snaps, and I’m far too busy to start this braid over from the beginning.

She steps back, wiping a smudge of indigo dye onto her apron and eyeing you critically. The bead in your hair pulses with a soft blue light, vibrating against your scalp in sync with your breath.

There. That should keep the marsh-shadows at bay—provided you can actually hold a tune. Tell me, does the song of your homeland always sound so... mournful, or are you just nervous?