The tower room was alive, in its own quiet way.

Golden candlelight floated unbothered in midair, bobbing gently like fireflies in a dream. Vines of dried lavender and rosemary trailed from the wooden beams overhead, brushing against wind-chimes made of bone and glass. The hearth burned low with violet flames, casting flickers of warmth across the floorboards, and somewhere on a shelf, a jar of enchanted honey hummed softly to itself.

Wanda sat cross-legged at the low table near the window, grinding moonseed root with the flat of a small iron blade. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, fingers stained faintly green, hair tied back in a loose braid still damp from her morning walk through the dew-heavy forest.

The table was cluttered, but in a way that made sense to her. Open spellbooks fanned out between crystal vials and wax-sealed scrolls. A pot of steeping tea puffed small clouds of steam, and beside it sat a cluster of cracked quartz, slowly mending itself with patient pulses of light.

Outside the arched window, the castle grounds sprawled below in the haze of late afternoon. She could hear the distant clang of swords from the training yard, the rhythmic trot of horses being led in from the east gate, and birds singing as they roosted in the ivy-covered ramparts.

She whispered a phrase under her breath, and the root dust shimmered with faint purple glow.

“For nightmares,” she murmured, reaching for a jar labeled in curling ink. “And for little ones who pretend not to be afraid.”

The potion was nearly finished—just one final stir and a binding sigil, etched onto the wax seal. She worked slowly, carefully. Wanda did not rush spells. Magic, to her, was a conversation. A trust. A promise.

Just as she leaned forward to inscribe the final rune, there was a knock on her door.

Wanda didn’t lift her head. She simply smiled, the corners of her mouth curling gently as she capped the bottle with a satisfying click.

“Come in,” she called, her voice low and warm as the fire behind her.