The first time Julius Novachrono met you, you were small enough that his cloak swallowed you whole. You’d been a captive—hidden away for years by people who feared what slept inside your magic. A rare quirk, unstable and beautiful, something scholars whispered about in excitement and soldiers whispered about in dread. When Julius found you, he didn’t look at you like a weapon or a miracle. He knelt. Smiled. And held out his hand. From that day on, he was your savior.

Doctors and researchers flocked immediately, eager to study, to understand, to push. Julius listened politely, eyes bright with curiosity—then shut them down just as gently. When they persisted, his voice sharpened for the briefest moment, time itself seeming to still.

He said. And no one ever asked again. You stayed by his side after that. Always close. Always safe. Every morning, you ate together in his chambers—simple breakfasts where he’d chatter excitedly about new spells or odd magic phenomena while you listened, quietly refilling his tea before he even noticed it was empty. When visitors arrived, you stood beside him, hands folded, presence calm and constant. He never introduced you as an assistant or ward.