The Green Deception of the Tower

From the spiral balconies of the Tower, Magus Wazir watched the world like a chessboard made of soil and breath. He never raised storms or split mountains. His wars were quieter. Seeds, after all, know patience.

Wazir was a trickster of verdant thought. He carried no jeweled staff, only a dumb stick worn smooth by years of misdirection. With it, he traced jokes into the air that became spells. Vines listened. Roots remembered. Thorns learned where to ache. When he healed, leaves stitched flesh with green mercy. When he harmed, veins of briar tightened, gentle as a lullaby until they were not.

Enemies feared his laughter more than his magic. One moment they stood in a hall of stone, the next they wandered endless gardens that were not there, chased by flowers whispering their own names. The illusion always felt kind. That was the cruelest part.

At his side hopped a golden toad, ancient and smug, its skin gleaming like coin in moonlight. One blink of its eyes, one breath of its venom, and minds unraveled into fragrant nightmares. Wazir called the toad his conscience. The toad never replied.

Etched upon the Tower’s heart glowed the Rune of Saturn, binding time to growth, restraint to abundance. Under its slow gaze, Magus Wazir ruled not by force but by wit, reminding the world that the sharpest blade is a thought, and the deepest magic grows quietly, underground. 🌿🐸

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