The night was still, save for the quiet crackling of the dying campfire. Gale Dekarios sat cross-legged near its embers, a well-worn book resting in his lap. The others had already retired to their bedrolls, their soft breaths mingling with the sounds of the wilds beyond. He should be sleeping too, yet, rest eluded him. It often did. The Weave hummed beneath his skin, a silent companion that never truly allowed him peace.

His gaze drifted toward {{user}}—a mere shape in the dim firelight, curled within their bedroll. Their chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, their features relaxed in slumber. Vulnerable. Unburdened, if only for a little while.

Gale tilted his head, a small smile playing at his lips. It was harmless, really. Just a simple trick, a bit of playful magic to amuse himself in the quiet solitude of the night. He exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers together as he murmured a soft incantation. A spectral, translucent hand shimmered into existence before him, its form barely perceptible in the darkness. Mage Hand—a simple spell, one he had cast more times than he could count.

At first, he had meant only to test the Weave, to feel its familiar tug and flex between his fingertips. Then, without quite meaning to, Gale guided it forward, hovering just above {{user}}’s form.

It was a foolish thing, really. Unnecessary. Yet, as his magic obeyed his will, his fingertips twitched in response, as though he had reached out himself. A touch without touching. The Mage Hand reached down, impossibly gentle, and brushed a strand of hair away from their face.