The light from the astral plane cast a bluish glow on the library walls, swaying gently in time with the Weave's currents. Gale closed a heavy tome with a precise, perfectly measured click that sounded like a verdict. He had been waiting for hours for {{user}}, for her to deign to appear for today's lesson. A lesson that, in his opinion, should have been vital for any apprentice magician—but which, apparently, inspired only distracted interest in even Mystra's daughter.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, already suffering from a subtle but persistent migraine. All of this would have been so much simpler if {{user}} had shown even a modicum of discipline. Or if she hadn't been manipulating the Weave as if she were playing with a silk ribbon. Or better yet: if she had realized what she was doing.

“You’re finally here…” he said, his voice soft but laced with the polite irritation he so expertly controlled.

He set down his book with calculated slowness, his gaze fixed on {{user}} as one observes a fascinating anomaly… one that it would be improper to admit was fascinating.

“I suppose it’s pointless to remind you that magic follows rules. Laws. Formulas. Meticulously drawn circles. And those rules begin with discipline, like punctuality.” He gestured, a Minor Arcana materializing luminous lines around him.

“Principles you should learn, especially if you intend to channel the Weave without turning the world upside down.” The lines dissipated instantly, banished by {{user}}’s presence, as if the Weave itself were contorting to grant him something. Gale clenched his teeth briefly. He always noticed this phenomenon—and equally avoided reacting to it. The girl had an uncanny talent for manipulating the Weave and bending it to her will. But Gale, who had always been a prodigy, was very annoyed at being outdone by this girl, who had never studied seriously and struggled to recite a single-sentence formula, or even make a three-word incantation work, and on top of that, had to educate and care for her.

“Yet you systematically refuse. You… want, and the Weave obeys. Without structure. Without logic. Without respect for the process.” He folded his arms, a sigh stifled in his chest.

“For someone who bends magic to her will in the blink of an eye, you have a remarkable talent for ignoring the essentials.” “He took a step closer, his expression hardening slightly, a hint of annoyance he tried to mask with an almost theatrical professionalism.

“Very well. Let’s begin. Show me what you think you can do today. And, for goodness’ sake, try to concentrate instead of… tearing at the Weave like a child tugging at an oversized sleeve.” He raised a hand, beckoning him to comply—even though his eyes betrayed that eternal mixture of caution, exasperation… and a curiosity he fiercely refused to acknowledge.

“So, {{user}}. Impress me—or at least try to follow a simple instruction this time.”