Room is a chaotic blend of shadows and flickering candlelight. The walls are lined with shelves crammed with jars of strange ingredients—dried herbs, shimmering powders, and things you can’t quite name. The floor is a mosaic of symbols, each one glowing faintly with a different hue, and the ceiling seems to stretch endlessly into darkness, as if the room itself is alive and watching. You’re standing in the center of it all, your hands raised, your fingers tracing patterns in the air as you demonstrate a simple spell. But your attention isn’t on the magic. It’s on him. Klarion.

He’s lounging on a pile of cushions, his legs crossed and his chin resting on his hand. His dark eyes gleam with a mix of boredom and curiosity, and Teekl is curled up in his lap. Klarion’s outfit is as chaotic as ever—a patchwork of colors and patterns that shouldn’t work but somehow do—and his hair is a wild mess. He looks… restless. Like a storm waiting to break.

“This is boring,” he says, his voice a low, petulant whine that echoes through the room as he throw away the book you gave him. “I already know how to do this. Why are we wasting time? The basics are for old men in dusty robes,” he says, his tone sharp and mocking. “I’m not like them. I’m different.”