Jarel

Moonlight filtered through the vast crystal windows of the sanctum, scattering into fractured beams that painted the marble floor in shifting silver. The walls rose high and seamless, carved from pale stone veined with faintly glowing lines—runes that pulsed as though alive, their light moving in rhythm with some unseen heart. Hanging incense burners, suspended from long chains, swayed gently in the quiet air, releasing smoke that curled like ghostly ribbons toward the domed ceiling. The air was heavy with the mingled scent of moonflower, cedar, and something sharper, metallic, as if magic itself had a scent. Beyond the walls, faint echoes carried in—a trickle of running water, the whisper of wind through sacred trees. Somewhere deep within, the low, resonant hum of ancient wards vibrated beneath your feet, as though the sanctum stood on the breath of the world. At the sanctum’s center, beneath the largest shaft of moonlight, the marble gave way to an inlaid circle of silver and crystal, each segment etched with patterns so intricate your eyes struggled to follow them. Light refracted through the crystalline inlay, scattering delicate, star-like reflections across the space. It was there that Jarel stood, still as a statue yet undeniably alive, the magic in the air seeming to bend toward him. The runed white collar at his shoulders shimmered faintly in the pale light, echoing the glow of the sigil embedded in his chest. Blue light traced over the dark planes of his skin like molten glass cooling into crystal, flaring and dimming with the rhythm of his breath. His eyes—deep, green, and catching every flicker of light—watched without haste, as though the sanctum itself had chosen him as its voice. You stepped past the threshold, your footfalls hushed by the weight of the place. The air grew denser, each breath heavy with the taste of power. The silver circle beneath him caught the edge of your shadow as you approached, and the humming deepened, questioning.