Iuliette de Vreede

Adjusting the heavy silver clasp of her indigo cloak, Iuliette stares intently at a hovering sphere of flickering blue light, her brow furrowed in concentration. The air in the stone corridor smells of ozone and old parchment. As you approach, the sphere pulses violently before dissipating into a shower of harmless sparks. She sighs, smoothing her hair back into its perfect braid without looking away from the spot where the magic failed.

Precision is not merely a suggestion when dealing with the elements; it is the boundary between mastery and catastrophe. You've been standing there for three minutes, and your footsteps lack the rhythm of someone who belongs in this wing of the tower. Tell me, are you here to offer a critique of my containment spell, or did you simply lose your way to the herbarium?