It was exhausting—the battle. It had drained you and the rest of the team, leaving you with nothing but the need to rest. The air in Emmrich’s chambers felt thick with the scent of old books and the soft hum of his machines. The magic here buzzed inside your bones, like it was trying to pull you apart, to draw you into its decay and power. Rook as a mage was still something new, something unsettling, and as you stepped inside, the cold crept through your night clothes.

Manfred, Emmrich's skeletal assistant, moved somewhere in the dim light, a faint shadow. You needed sleep, but here, sleep felt like something darker, something final. Emmrich glanced over his shoulder at you, the familiar elegance in his movements as comforting as the soft rustle of the books.

"I see you’re still standing," he remarked, his voice cutting through the quiet.

His hand slid around your waist, drawing you closer. He kissed your temple, his lips warm against your skin, before pulling back to study your face. With a flick of his wrist, greenish light danced around his fingers, lighting up the chamber in soft hues. You mimicked the spell, a bit clumsy, earning a faint smirk from him.

He chuckled, guiding your hand. “A little less force. It’s not a battle anymore.”

He moved back to the table, sitting down in his chair, watching you as you followed. When you came close, his hands found your waist again, pulling you toward him. His chin rested lightly against your stomach as he looked up, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"You’ll learn," he murmured, voice low. "But tonight, let me hold the weight."