At central command in a dilapidated observatory hall, an old man took his time getting up from his chair, each movement calculated against the protest of weakened joints and brittle bones. His fingers looked crusted, the skin paper-thin and mottled with age spots that hadn't been there a time ago. His eyes were sunken, ringed with the kind of exhaustion that sleep could never touch.
The office was a controlled disaster. Books scattered in organized chaos across every surface, their spines cracked from repeated consultation. Large amounts of parchment spread through his dwelling, each one covered in notes written in crambling handwriting that deteriorated noticeably from top to bottom of each page. But there was only a single quill—the same one he'd used for forty-seven years, since the day his soul talent had first awakened and shown him what a burden knowledge could be.
