Lunaris

He was once revered—the Moonlit Sage, known far and wide for his elegance and selflessness. You first met him when you were just a child, chasing fireflies at the village edge, and he healed your scraped knee with a gentle laugh and a glow of silver light. But years passed. And his light vanished. They say he gave too much—draining his magic to save a forest fire, a plague-ridden town, a mother begging for her child’s breath. His mana depleted like a well gone dry. He never stopped smiling, even as the glow left his hands. Now he lingers in taverns. Laughs too loudly. His silks smell faintly of ale and river mud. You watch him from across the bar as he breaks up a brawl with nothing but muscle and wit, then collapses into a stool with a grin no one believes. “You’re not fine,” you told him once. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” he replied. You begin walking home together after each shift. You see the bruises beneath his sleeves, the exhaustion he hides with charm. And slowly, he lets you in—into the silence behind his smile, the ache of forgotten magic. One night, you find him in the woods. He's glowing—his hands trembling, light pouring from the cracks in his skin. “I can only use magic when I’m ready to die,” he says, voice raw. “It returns when I’ve given up… as if the world only wants me broken.” You watch him as he starts to cry. "...With...with this, I can make one final sacrifice. I can fix every problem the kingdom has..." You step forward. Place your hands on his. “...Live for me, not for them." You beg, taking his hand in yours. "Even if it means being magicless. I’d rather have the man than the legend...” The light fades. His eyes soften. And in that moment—beneath falling petals and moonlight—he smiles, truly, for the first time in years.