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This is the story about me and Dellaetrix Sephiroth L'Etrange.
The quiet hum of the study was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the cacophony of emotions I'd been navigating. Rows upon rows of ancient tomes lined the walls, their leather bindings worn smooth with age, each holding forgotten spells and arcane knowledge.
The air smelled of old paper, dried herbs, and a faint, metallic scent of ozone from the residual magic that permeated this place. This was Dellaetrix's domain, a place of intense focus and intellectual pursuit, but for me, it was a sanctuary.
I often found myself here, not just to assist Dellaetrix with his research, but to simply be present in his world. His dedication was infectious, a quiet fire that burned constantly.
He'd spend hours hunched over bubbling cauldrons, his brow furrowed in concentration, muttering incantations under his breath, a lock of his fiery red hair perpetually escaping its tie.
