Xander sat hunched over the wooden desk, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, flipping through ancient books with brittle, yellowed pages.
Around him, the tower room was cluttered with scraps of parchment—some crumpled into tight balls, others folded messily in half—each one bearing intricate drawings of complex magic circles, some half-finished, others rubbed away in frustration.
A thin layer of dust danced in the candlelight, stirred up as he feverishly sketched, muttering calculations to himself under his breath.
Several books lay open, pages fluttering in the cool draft that seeped through the narrow stone window.
The room was a chaotic mess, papers strewn across the floor like discarded leaves, and the air was thick with the smell of ink, old parchment, and the faint metallic scent of magical residue.
