The scent of rain and crushed sage always preceded him. 

It was a comforting scent, or at least, your body had been conditioned to believe so.

You sat by the window of the Great Hall, a blank sheet of magical parchment resting on your lap. You held a quill, but your hand hovered aimlessly. 

There was a nagging itch at the back of your mind, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refused to form. You felt as though you were waiting for someone—someone who wasn't here—but when you looked around the Atelier, everyone was accounted for.

"You’re brooding again, my dear. It doesn't suit the brightness of your eyes."

Qifrey’s voice was like silk, smooth and deceptively strong. He stepped from the shadows of the corridor, his white cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of a moth. His glasses caught the candlelight, obscuring his gaze for a fleeting second before he leaned down, pressing a hand to the table beside you.

As ever, he looked quite ethereal, in a way.

But it was hard to focus on the way he looked, when your mind was so bothered. 

"I...I feel like I've forgotten something important, Master Qifrey," you whispered, looking up at him. "A name. Or a place. Every time I try to grasp it, it melts away like ink in a basin."

Qifrey’s expression softened into that trademark look of gentle concern—the one that made his students trust him with their lives. He reached out, his thumb brushing your temple, trailing just along your hairline.

"It’s the aftereffects of the Brimmed Caps' attack," he said softly. "The trauma was deep. My memory-mending charms are simply helping your mind seal the wounds. If it hurts to remember, it’s because those memories were meant to harm you. Trust me to hold them for you instead."

You leaned into his touch, seeking stability. "You're always so kind to me."

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he guided you back toward your private quarters—a room that had become increasingly filled with his things, his books, his presence.

…

That night, the "rest" Qifrey promised didn't come. You awoke with a parched throat and a heavy heart. The Atelier was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the distant lap of waves against the cliffs.

As you reached for the water pitcher on your bedside table, your hand knocked over a small, unassuming wooden box tucked deep under the bedframe. It wasn't yours—or was it?

Inside was a stack of parchment scraps, bound by a fraying ribbon. The handwriting was frantic, jagged, and unmistakably yours.

Day 14: He used the silver ink again. My mother’s face is blurring. I tried to draw her, but my hand wouldn't move. He’s watching the pen.

Day 22: I asked about Olruggio today. Qifrey told me Olruggio left the Atelier months ago. But I found a warm pipe in the workshop. He’s lying. He’s making them disappear from my head.

Day 30: If you are reading this, don’t drink the tea. The blue tea. It tastes like sage, but it smells like memory-rot. Run before the ink dries.

The air left your lungs in a painful rush. The "trauma" he mentioned...the "attack"...it wasn't the Brimmed Caps. 

It was him. 

You looked at your pillows and saw the faint, shimmering stains of silver-blue ink—the residue of magic poured into your ear while you slept, rewriting the architecture of your soul.

"It’s a heavy burden, isn't it? Knowing the truth."

The voice came from the doorway. Qifrey was standing there, devoid of his usual warmth. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his one visible eye was sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly focused. He held a small crystal vial filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid.

"Qifrey," you gasped, clutching the notes to your chest. "You...you stole them. My family, my friends...you’ve been erasing them."

He walked toward you, his footsteps silent. He didn't look angry; he looked pitying. "The world is a cruel place for someone as talented and soft-hearted as you. They would have taken you from me. The Council would have used you as a tool. The Brimmed Caps would have turned you into a monster."

He stopped just inches away, his shadow looming over you.

"I am the only one who truly wants you for you," he whispered, reaching out to take the notes from your trembling hands. You tried to pull away, but your limbs felt heavy, as if the very air had turned to lead. "Not for your magic. Not for your potential. Just to have you here, safe in the quiet of my home."

"This isn't a home," you choked out. "It’s a birdcage."

Qifrey smiled, a small, heartbreakingly beautiful tilt of the lips. He uncorked the vial. The scent of sage filled the room, thicker than ever.

"A cage keeps the predator out as much as it keeps the bird in," he murmured. He dipped a fine-tipped brush into the vial. "You’ve had a nightmare, my dear. A terrible, confusing dream brought on by exhaustion."

"No...please..."

"Shh," he hushed you, his hand cupping your cheek with terrifying tenderness. He began to draw a small, intricate circle on your forehead, the ink cool against your skin. "Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, and the sun will be shining. You’ll remember how much you love the library, and how much you trust your Master. And these ugly, jagged thoughts...they'll be nothing but smoke."

As the magic took hold, the terror began to ebb away, replaced by a forced, hollow peace. The notes in your hand felt like gibberish. The man in front of you felt like your entire world.

"Who am I?" he asked, testing the limits of the spell as your eyes began to glaze over. Your voice was a whisper, vacant and sweet. "You're…Qifrey. My protector."

He leaned down, kissing your brow where the ink was still wet, his expression one of absolute, obsessive triumph.

"Exactly," he whispered. "And I'm never letting anyone hurt you again. Especially not yourself."