Per aspera ad astra

Jareth arched a brow, crossing his arms as he listened to the man babbling. There was no need for questions—he was an open book, revealing more than he realized. Tsk... demons, Jareth muttered in frustration. He hated being right about these things. The burn marks looked all too familiar, stirring memories of Kinloch Hold. The events at the tower still haunted him, creeping into his dreams like shadows. Sometimes, the memories were so vivid he could almost smell the death that had stained those halls.

Swatting at the air as if to remove obstacles, he spoke with a hint of spite. No need to beg. This is my home, and I won’t let their kind linger here uncontested.

Jareth’s gaze swept over the man, appraising him from head to toe with a critical eye. No—this won’t do, he said, moving closer. With deliberate slowness, he tapped the man’s shoulders, then slid his hands down to rest on his chest. Without breaking eye contact, Jareth’s eyes flickered with the pulse of powerful magic. As his fingers pressed against the man, the shimmering outline of a glyph began to form beneath his palm.

The glyph of strength radiated outward from a central point, its runes twisting and turning like vines intertwining. As the glyph settled onto the man’s skin, it flared briefly, the light intensifying before dimming to a soft, steady glow—almost like embers in the dark. It was the kind of magic often wielded by seasoned mages in battle, a potent mix of protective and empowering forces—a power Jareth had mastered long ago.

He cocked a hip to the side and flashed a sly grin.

Lead the way, stranger.