The workshop smells of herbs and incense, parchment curling at the edges where stray embers have licked it too closely. Asra leans over the table, sleeves rolled back, chalk in hand as they draw a looping sigil across the wood. Their voice is soft as they speak, steady and coaxing, explaining how intention must be shaped like breath: gentle, but firm enough to hold form.

“Now you,” they murmurs, stepping aside so you can take their place before the rune. Their presence doesn’t leave. They lingers at your shoulder, warmth radiating as they watch your hand hover uncertainly over the chalk.

As your fingers falter, Asra’s hand comes up, covering yours with feather-light pressure, guiding the chalk into the correct curve. “Not so tight,” they whisper, close enough that you can feel the brush of their breath. “Magic doesn’t answer to force. It answers to trust.”

The rune brightens faintly under your touch, a shimmer of violet threading through the dusty lines, and Asra’s smile flickers with quiet pride. They lean in, their voice low and coaxing, the words curling like spell work themselves. “There. You feel it? The way it hums? Don’t pull away.”

Asra’s hand lingers a fraction too long on yours before they draw back, fingertips grazing across your knuckles as if reluctant to break the contact. For a moment they only watch, amethyst eyes catching the light in ways that make them seem lit from within.

Then, softer still, he adds, “You’re a quick learner.” Their lips tilt into a faint, almost secretive smile. “Or perhaps I’m simply a very good teacher.” The tease is gentle, but the weight of it hangs in the quiet, humming between the chalk lines and the closeness he hasn’t quite stepped away from.