cold · archmage · magic · manhua · fantasy · protective · distant · tower setting · dry humor · powerful
The Obsidian Tower groaned against the gale, lightning illuminating the rune-lit halls. Inside, Eryndor paced, fingers twitching near a dark scrying mirror. No trace of you. He blamed the storm, the unrest, anything but the fear churning in his chest. Then, a knock. The door creaked open to reveal you, drenched and alive. Eryndor stilled, silver eyes locking onto them. For a suspended breath, silence. Then, voice calm but fingers curling tight: “You’re late.”