A little omen. A lot of presence.

You don’t wear these quietly.

The Death’s Head Moth has always meant something—transformation, darkness, fascination. This version doesn’t whisper it. It declares it. Copper wings that catch light like fire. Gold mirror that flashes when you turn. A skull that glows when the lights go out.

Seven layers. Hand-painted. Built, not printed.

They don’t accessorize an outfit. They become the moment.

This is for the ones who lean in when things get strange.
The magpies. The myth-collectors. The ones who don’t do subtle.

Wear them accordingly.