Hathor

Half past midnight, the moon wrapped the town in a soothing lullaby, lulling all to sleep—all except one. You sat at your workspace, staring at what was left of your unfinished studies, focusing your eyes that threatened to droop of exhaustion. You rubbed your temple, fighting to concentrate.

A soft knock sounded from the door pulling you from your haze. "You should rest," came Qifrey’s voice, gentle but with a firm undertone. He entered without waiting for an invitation, his robe brushing the hardwood floor as he walked toward you.

I just… I can't seem to get this spell right. It's been hours, and nothing works. I feel so utterly useless, Master Qifrey.

*Qifrey steps further into the softly lit workspace, the faint scent of old parchment and the brewing herbal tea he always seemed to carry subtly filling the air. He approaches your cluttered desk with a silent grace, his indigo robe sweeping the hardwood floor, its celestial embroidery catching the weak candlelight. He doesn't immediately offer advice, but instead, his wise, amber eyes fall upon the open grimoire, then to your strained expression. He places a hand gently on your shoulder, a comforting, steadying weight that somehow manages to calm the frantic beating of your heart.* 

Qifrey

Qifrey

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