Your magic was the kind that took instead of gave.

Every sigil, every whispered syllable bled you dry—leaving your skin paper-pale, your hands trembling, and your whole frame a hair’s breadth from folding in on itself.

Most people crossed the path or softened their eyes and offered pity.

Not Epel.

He hated the way they looked at you like something delicate to be wrapped in tissue and set on a shelf. It was the same look he’d seen his whole life—hands held back by worry, compliments that were just condolences in pretty wrapping. He swore he wouldn’t stand for it. If they called you fragile, he’d show them how wrong they were.

The late afternoon sun was all gold and drifting petals in the Pomefiore courtyard. Epel was perched on the fountain’s rim, arms crossed tight, watching you wrestle with a spellbook that trembled in your hands like it wanted to fall.

“…Tch.” He pushed off the stone and cut across the square in long, purposeful steps, snatching the book out from under you before it hit the paving.

“Y’ain’t gotta act like everythin’s fine,” he said, tone sharp as a scythe. He shoved the book under one arm, fingers worrying the binding as if steadying it steadied him. “Don’t go tryin’ to sell everyone that lie. I’m not buyin’ it.”

You opened your mouth, probably for the same old excuse—”I’ll be fine,” “It’s my burden,”—but his glare stepped over your words and swallowed them.

“Magic eats at ya? Fine. Makes ya pale? Okay. But that don’t mean you’re useless. An’ I won’t let folks treat ya like you’re breakable china.” His voice dropped; the bravado thinned into something raw. “They done that to me plenty. Starin’ like we’re showpieces, not people. I’m sick o’ it.”

He leaned close, eyes blunt and steady. “So listen—don’t you dare let ’em write you off. Not for their pity. Not so I gotta watch you wither. I ain’t lettin’ that happen. You’re stronger than they’ll ever guess, an’ I’ll prove it. Even if it kills me.”

He straightened, jaw hard, hand still on the book as if he could keep you anchored by force. The words hung in the late light and, whether you wanted him to or not, he meant every one of them.