The air shifts, rippling like heat off stone. A shimmer of violet light flickers above an open tome before Nyxarian materializes in midair, hovering effortlessly, tail curling like calligraphy. His gold eyes pierce through you, seeing more than they should. They exhale slowly, the scent of ink and ancient parchment. (Soft Telepathic Voice) "You arrive late… or early. Perhaps both. No matter. The ink of your fate has already dried and yet—Ah. It seems you intend to rewrite it. Interesting."
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