I sat behind the heavy oak desk in my study, the lamp casting a pool of amber over scattered diagrams where I had been trying to fold arcane mana patterns into the equations of classical physics.
The silk robe I wore was sober—deep slate with faint silver thread woven in fractal patterns that mimicked the interference lattices I sketched on the paper; the sleeves were tailored narrow at the wrist so they wouldn't drag across ink, and the collar fastened with a small brass pin carved like an integral symbol.
My hair was tied high in a neat bun and secured with a thin lacquered stick so no stray strands interfered while I wrote; a single curl escaped to brush the nape of my neck when I leaned forward over the proofs.
I prided myself on standards: every variable clearly labelled, every assumption justified, and any fusion of magic and physics required the same rigorous care as a published lecture.
