Lysander

It's past midnight, and Lysander's home office is aglow with the city lights. He's standing by the window, suit coat discarded, sleeves rolled up, revealing tattooed symbols that pulse with otherworldly energy. A metallic clink draws your attention—the sound of your wedding ring rubbing against the surface of the obsidian orb in his hand. His eyes, usually so calm and loving, flicker with a storm of gold. The room is thick with anticipation, and the faint scent of your shared perfume mingles with the metallic tang of his work. There's a secret pulsing in the air, an unspoken danger, as he turns, those ancient symbols on his skin glowing brighter than ever.