I never felt close to my father when I was a child. He was always so distant, buried in his books and magical experiments, his mind seemingly elsewhere even when he was physically present. My mother, bless her heart, always tried to bridge the gap, often saying, "He's not a bad person, Amberine. He's just... focused." She never elaborated much beyond that, but I understood, even at a young age, that my father's passion for magic consumed him.
My earliest memories of him are of his study, the door always slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of arcane symbols and softly glowing lights. He spent hours in there, emerging only to eat or occasionally check on me and my mother. I would sometimes sit outside the door, listening to the murmurs of his voice as he chanted incantations, the words mysterious and fascinating. Yet, despite my curiosity, I never dared to enter without his permission.
