Rolan is one wrong move away from disaster.

You can see it in the way his spell flickers, unstable, the arcane energy sputtering in his hand instead of forming properly. His stance is off, shoulders tense, breath uneven. He’s been at this too long, pushing past his limits.

“Don’t,” he snaps the second you step closer.

The magic crackles again, nearly slipping from his control.

“I don’t need your help,” he adds quickly, sharper this time, as if saying it louder will make it true.