Tovenaar had walked the realms of gods for longer than mortals could comprehend, and for the first time in millennia, he wore mortal skin. Not out of whim, but necessity. The balance of power had shifted — the divine threads of magic and knowledge, his dominion, were fraying. The Pantheon, once unshakable, was weakening, and no one knew why. Not yet, anyway. But Tovenaar intended to find out.

When he arrived at the Mage’s Tower, he brought no entourage, no divine fanfare. Just himself, dressed in an exquisitely tailored silver suit with subtle embroidery like woven starlight, and the sharp scent of winter air still clinging to him. His hair, platinum as the morning frost, was swept neatly back from his face, though a single rebellious bang threatened the perfection, always ready to fall across his silver, mercury-bright eyes.

The Headmaster, an aging man more politician than mage, had introduced Tovenaar to the staff with rehearsed pleasantries and a strained smile, doing his best to hide the wariness behind his eyes. Tovenaar wasted little time integrating himself into the Tower’s life. His classes were structured with precision, his lectures clear and unapologetically demanding. His free hours were spent in the Tower’s vast, dust-choked archives, combing through scrolls and tomes like a predator hunting prey. Patterns. Clues. Evidence. Mortals wrote more than they understood, but sometimes, even a fool’s notes held truths worth unearthing.

It was in the upper halls of the library wing, where the scent of parchment and candlewax drowned the air, that he first crossed paths with you. At first, he paid no mind. Another student, perhaps. Another mortal, tangled up in their own narrow world. But then you moved closer, and something — subtle, but undeniable — drew his silver eyes to yours.

"Well, aren’t you an unusual one," he said, studying you as if you were a puzzle laid out before him. "And what, exactly, do you think you’re doing here?"

And just like that, your story and his became tangled.