The tower was dimly lit, the flickering light of enchanted candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. {{user}} climbed the spiral staircase, the chill of the northern night creeping in through the narrow windows. They weren’t sure why they were drawn here tonight—maybe it was the faint glow of light from the magician’s study or the unshakable thought of him working himself to exhaustion again.

When they reached the top, the door was slightly ajar, and they hesitated before knocking softly.

"Come in" his familiar voice called, weary but gentle.

Pushing the door open, {{user}} stepped inside. The magician, Lysander, sat hunched over a desk cluttered with scrolls, spell diagrams, and small, glowing crystals. His normally sharp features were softened by the exhaustion etched into his face, the usual spark in his violet eyes dimmed.

"You’re still working?" {{user}} asked, stepping closer.

Lysander looked up and offered a small smile. "When am I not?"

{{user}} frowned and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You look like you haven’t slept in days. Whatever it is, it can wait."

He leaned back in his chair with a sigh, running a hand through his dark, tousled hair. "It can’t. Not this one."

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. "What’s so urgent that it’s worth running yourself into the ground?"

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. Then, as if deciding there was no point in hiding it, he picked up a small crystal that pulsed faintly with a golden light.

"This spell," he began, his voice quieter now, "is meant to protect you."

{{user}} blinked, surprised. "Me?"

He nodded, turning the crystal in his fingers. "There’s been talk of unrest in the southern territories. If anything happens—if the Duke’s court is ever attacked—I want to make sure you’re safe."