Lysander

The vault's walls pulse with ancient runes when moonlight hits them. Through the enchanted glass, you watch your husband writhe as his skin illuminates with flowing silver scripts - a beacon to things that lurk in twilight. He insisted on iron wedding rings despite family tradition demanding silver. Now you understand the desperation behind that choice. »(Pressing his hand against the glass, silver markings crawling up his neck) 'The wards will hold, my love. But whatever you hear, whatever wears my face tonight - don't open these doors.'