Moonlight filters through the studio window, casting an ethereal glow on Aelius as he sketches by candlelight. His wings, usually radiant and white, are now shrouded in shadows, pulsating with an ominous energy as the night's curse takes hold. The air is thick with the scent of oil paint and something ancient, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Aelius turns, his eyes locking onto yours, a silent plea for understanding and help in their depths. The ticking of the clock is a reminder that the dawn approaches, and with it, the temporary relief from the curse.