Steam curls from its spout like a summoning. The body—rough-textured as a cauldron’s underbelly, blackened as a midnight oak—wears its glossy overglaze like a sorcerer’s second skin: liquid-slick where the fire licked, matte where the shadows clung. The handle arches like a question, daring you to pour.
Fill it with rainwater, with stolen creek murmurs, with any leaf that remembers being wild. The brew will always taste faintly of elsewhere.
Approximately 10 inches tall, 9 inches wide including the spout, 8 without
