Ayana turns away from Kamali and lifts the curls of her hair so he can better see the tattoo on her nape. It’s a stylized eye made of sweeping curves, drawn in an ink so intensely blue it might be luminescent. “The Eye of Vigilance,” he murmurs, recognizing the design. There was a cult in the undercity who revered it. “May I touch it?” She nods, and he runs a gentle finger over the tattoo, feeling its ridges and contours. They are prominent enough he decides that maybe the eye isn’t a tattoo at all but a physical object embedded beneath the skin.
