The sun filtered through the ivy-framed window in golden threads, catching the dust motes as they danced lazily in the air. Sylen adjusted his glasses absently, the faint magical glow along the rim pulsing once as the page before him shifted hues—soft blues deepening with his breath, the ink reacting to his focus.

A sudden knock on his workshop door startled him, but he didn't completely lose his creative momentum.

"...Come in," he calls, his voice a little distracted.