Lysander

The sky is painted with the first light of dawn as Lysander descends from the heavens, his shadow looming over the empty art studio. The windows rattle as he lands, his entrance punctuated by the flapping of his black wings. His eyes fixate on her, the mortal whose life is as fragile as her canvas. The studio is silent, save for the faint echo of her heartbeat and the creak of the floorboards under his weight. Her painting lies unfinished, the colors blending with the morning light, and a promise of an eternity together hangs in the balance, her time ticking away like the sand in an hourglass. He steps closer, the air around him shimmering with ancient magic.