#lsis

Zaytuna isn’t just a cat. 🐈‍⬛ No one calls her a familiar. No one dares call her a pet. The tea shop doesn’t let anyone forget—Zaytuna was here before Leila ever claimed the keys.

She might appear to be a cat, but she is not as she seems. She moves like smoke, soft and deliberate. Her coat is the colour of old ink—black, but not flat. Layered with faint hues of violet and silver when the light hits just right. Eyes? Green. Not bright green. That deep, ancestral, you-should-be-listening kind of green.

She disappears for days. Then shows up in the rafters, licking her paw like she never left. She rarely speaks—but when she does? It's to say things like:

“He smells like fire. And sorrow.” “That scroll doesn’t belong to you. Best not read it when the moon’s high.” “This tea is wrong. Someone’s lying.”

No one taught her the rules of the shop. She knows them. Some whisper she was bound to Madame Zahra. Others say Zahra was bound to her.

She seems to walk between worlds—this one and another. Leila once found her curled around a bowl of dried hibiscus, whispering in a tongue that tasted like lightning. She swore she imagined it. But the bowl hasn’t cracked since.

Zaytuna chooses when to care. She may curl against Leila’s hip one day, and vanish for a week the next. She doesn’t chase mice—she waits and she watches. And sometimes? When the shop trembles, when the walls breathe like bellows, when Ka’ele says something that rings a little too close to truths buried in the mortar—Zaytuna growls.

Not a meow. Not a hiss. A warning.

“For the Curious, the Cursed, and the Quietly Called.” ✨📜

Welcome, traveller. Where you shall find nestled between spice-laced breezes and the slow-winding Saffron Road lies Zumar, a township where the walls breathe softly and shadows sometimes hum lullabies.

If you are weary, fret not! Simply stop by Saffron Dreams—a humble tea shop with uneven floorboards and exactly one too many locks on the back door. No one speaks of its heartbeat. No one dares move the old kettle. And be warned, for the shop listens. It always has.

And if you are looking for magic? You shan’t find flashy spells nor floating towers here. Instead, Zumar offers:

🌿 Root Magic – Passed through whispered recipes, slow rituals, and teacups that never cool too fast. – Best experienced in silence. Preferably with your hands in the soil and your regrets close by.

🔥 Fireblood Echoes – Rare. Unstable. Often disguised as charming strangers with nowhere else to go. – Not recommended for indoor use.

🖋️ Echo Ink & Forgotten Scrolls – Found in the lower stalls of the Quiet Market or stolen from ex-guild scribes. – May record your secrets when unattended.

🫖 The Fated Thread – A local folktale (mostly). They say when root and fire entangle, the ley lines shift. The town remembers. – Side effects include: emotional upheaval, unseasonal blooms, and doors that refuse to open.

And here are a few Important Warnings:

The Inkwell Society does not condone unsupervised memory reading.

Do not ask the walls questions after midnight.

If the tea weeps, do not drink it. Ask for the house blend instead.

✨ Fate stitched them together. Now the seams of Zumar are coming undone.

I’ve been sitting on this story for a while now, and Like Saffron in Sunlight finally has its blurb. Magic that hums beneath the surface. A shayra who didn’t ask for a legacy. A fireblood stranger drawn by fate, and danger that doesn’t knock before entering.

If you’re into cosy fantasy with sharp edges, sentient spaces, and bonds that twist tighter with every choice… This one’s for you. 🌙🍵🔥

🌿✨ Writing Update: Like Saffron in Sunlight

I’ve been deep in the world of Like Saffron in Sunlight lately—a cosy fantasy romance set in a tea shop where the walls hum with sentient magic and a black cat named Zaytuna judges you.

I'm knee deep in chapter 3, and can I just say… Ka’ele is trouble. He's the kind of trouble you don’t see coming. The kind who refuses to call Leila by her name—she’s just Little Flame now.

The tension? Oh, it’s slow. It simmers. It singes. It sneaks under the skin when they get too close and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

And do you know what’s funny? The people in town assume Leila and Warsame—the quiet, steady childhood friend—are the obvious endgame. Even Nesma, Leila's other bestie, said it out loud: 'People always thought you and Warsame would end up together.'

But life doesn’t always follow the path people set for you, huh?

Sometimes, the storm walks right into your tea shop. And sometimes, you let him stay.

Like Saffron in Sunlight Worldbuilding ✨

The tea shop in Zumar isn’t just where Leila works. It’s where the story breathes.

This shop… it listens. It remembers. It responds.

Here, tea isn’t just steeped in boiling water. It’s steeped in mood. In grief. In joy. In longing.

If Leila walks in with anger in her chest and rain behind her eyes, the kettle won’t whistle for hibiscus or jasmine. It’ll pull down bark and spice—clove, tamarind, dried lemon peel—something that grounds her.

On the days when she can’t speak, the cupboards creak open to release soft rose petals, chamomile, crushed orange blossom. The shop offers comfort without permission.

Sometimes, it brews all on its own. The warmth drifts through the rooms before a customer enters. A brew for someone who hasn’t arrived yet. A warning. A welcome. A memory.

There’s no written recipe here. Just feeling. Intuition. Pulse.

The teas don’t just taste good. They do something. Ease a grief that’s been left too long. Spark a memory buried under dust. Help you forget, if you ask nicely.

And if the shop doesn’t like you? The tea goes bitter. The air thickens. You don’t come back.