With thanks to @IggyStarflare for the below tale

By night, when honest folk shuttered their windows and prayers drifted heavenward, Iggy Starflare ran her kingdom of rooftops. The emerald-eyed thief lived for this hour, the spaces between lamp and moon, slate and gutter, the thrill of running just beyond sight.

She moved tonight with particular ease, the weight of a silver-banded satchel tapping softly at her hip. A successful lift from a merchant’s strongbox had left her mood sharp and electric. She might have continued her customary circuit until dawn, but then…

A sound.

Not the expected racket of drunks or mutter of beggars. This was low, shivering, drawn out like the bow of a violin playing aged strings. A chant. A prayer twisted inside out.

Iggy froze, crouching at the edge of a crumbling eave. Her keen eyes sought the alley below.

A woman emerged. Blonde, pale , her lips moving ceaselessly though no words carried clearly upward. She did not look left or right, only onward, as though compelled by a secret force. Step by step she climbed the narrow stair set into the townhouse. The door opened with a groan, swallowing her whole.

Iggy’s breath quickened. She should move on. Curiosity meant trouble, always. Yet the lure of the strange was stronger than her good sense. She lingered, watching.

Moments later, a light sparked from an upper chamber. Curtains drawn back. An open window yawning wide. The blonde appeared again, gazing into the dark, into her. For a heartbeat, Iggy thought the woman saw her. But then she turned inward, moving with a grace too deliberate, too ritualistic.

One garment slipped away. Then another.

The air seemed to thicken, charged.

The chamber light flickered, faltered, then surged into a violent violet radiance. Shadows bent and twisted like tortured silhouettes. The blonde’s figure quivered, her skin blurring, her outline stuttering as though she existed in two worlds at once. Iggy blinked hard, but the vision persisted.

And then: transformation.

The blonde melted away like wax before flame, reforming into something larger, more terrible, more beautiful. Her hair spilled down her shoulders in a shimmering torrent of deep amethyst, cascading to the small of her back. Her eyes burned with unnatural light.

Iggy sank deeper into shadow, unable to flee, unable to look away.

The figure,no longer merely woman, stepped naked to the window’s frame. She flung her arms wide, head tilted skyward, and began to sing.

The sound was not of this world. It slipped into the bones, into the marrow, into thought itself. Iggy could not understand the words, yet she felt them. A song of summoning, of unveiling. An invocation not meant for human ears.

She should have left.

But her emerald eyes drank the scene like a curse.

The woman’s head turned. Her burning gaze found her through stone and shadow alike. Iggy’s throat locked. Her foot shifted, tile cracking beneath her weight. She nearly tumbled from the roof.

The song ceased.

Silence swallowed the night.

Then the voice came, clearer than bells, colder than grave soil.

"My name is Hanavari," it said. "What are you searching for, little thief?"

The words slithered through her chest, coaxing, demanding. A terrible hunger rose in Iggy, an aching urge to confess, to speak aloud the things she hid even from herself: her secrets, her fears, her longings.

But instinct roared louder.

This was danger, pure and thrumming.

She bit her tongue, tasting copper, and forced herself into motion. Backward into shadow, slipping from sight, vanishing into the safety of the rooftops.

The city swallowed her once more.

Yet as she darted across her kingdom, the echoes lingered. The violet glow burned behind her eyelids. The name, Hanavari, carried a weight she could not shrug off.

And though she swore she would never return to that cursed townhouse, Iggy knew the truth the moment she fled:

Curiosity was her ruin.

And ruin had already called her name.