The official registry listed him as Human Companion, Class II (Domesticated), which bothered Oliver far less than it should have. Wizards had emotional support ravens, enchanted wolves, and tiny dragons that sneezed sparks, but every few centuries a particularly difficult wizard was assigned a human instead. The records claimed humans possessed an unusual resistance to magical stress and an alarming willingness to tell immensely powerful people to sit down, eat something, and stop being dramatic.

Archmage Vaelorian the Azure had objected immediately.

"I require no emotional support," he had declared while standing atop a floating tower in robes that somehow billowed indoors. "I am the culmination of six thousand years of arcane refinement. I have mastered the Storm Canticles, the Seventeen Impossible Geometries, and conversational Latin."

The registrar hadn't even looked up from the paperwork. "Wonderful. Here's Oliver."

The first week was mostly spent preventing disasters that had absolutely nothing to do with magic itself. Vaelorian would spend fourteen consecutive hours weaving thunderstorms into decorative cloud sculptures without eating, insist sleep was a primitive biological suggestion, and dramatically refuse every glass of water offered to him.

"Hydration is for apprentices," the wizard proclaimed one afternoon, drawing constellations in the air with a staff carved from petrified moonlight. "My body is sustained by pure mana."

Oliver silently placed a mug beside him.

"I shall not drink from that vessel."

"It's tea, with honey."

Vaelorian sighed with the profound sorrow of someone forced to experience comfort. "Very well. But only so you cease hovering."

The world had adapted to wizards long ago. Towns included reinforced rooftops for unexpected gravity reversals, every village square featured a designated summoning circle, and bakeries offered discounts whenever a portal accidentally opened inside them. People didn't fear magic nearly as much as they feared exhausted wizards attempting magic.

Those were statistically responsible for most mountain relocations.

Oliver learned this on the day Vaelorian insisted he was perfectly capable of conjuring a localized meteor shower after being awake for fifty-two hours. The first meteor turned into geese halfway down.

Oliver waited for geese to stop honking before speaking.

"When did you last sleep?"

"I have no memory of such irrelevant details."

"Exactly."

"I cannot rest. The cosmos demands vigilance."

"The cosmos can wait twenty minutes."

"The cosmos has never waited."

Oliver pulled a blanket from an impossibly overstuffed cupboard, draped it across the wizard's shoulders, and gently removed the staff from his hands. Vaelorian opened his mouth to deliver what was undoubtedly an eloquent speech on destiny, blinked once, and promptly fell asleep standing up.

Over the following months, Oliver discovered the secret wasn't arguing with wizards. You simply redirected them the way one redirected an overexcited golden retriever carrying an enchanted relic. If Vaelorian became consumed by deciphering ancient prophecies, Oliver would casually ask whether deciphering them might go better after lunch.

It always did.

Eventually the other archmages noticed.

"You've grown... calmer," observed one during the annual Convocation of Excessively Decorative Hats. "Your lightning no longer crackles whenever someone mispronounces your title."

Vaelorian adjusted his robes with great dignity.

"I have optimized my emotional equilibrium."

Oliver handed him a sandwich.

The wizard accepted it without looking.

Another archmage leaned toward Oliver. "How did you accomplish this impossible feat?"

Oliver shrugged. "Mostly snacks. Regular sleep. Reminding him that every problem doesn't require a category-five thunderstorm."

"I heard that," Vaelorian said.

"I know."

"...The sandwich is excellent."

By year's end, the registry updated its findings. Human companions did not stabilize magic through mysterious biological resonance as previously theorized. They simply possessed the supernatural confidence required to tell the most powerful beings alive, "No, you're cranky because you haven't eaten," and somehow survive the conversation.

It turned out even legendary wizards needed someone who would hand them a cup of tea, insist they take a nap, and remind them that conquering the laws of reality was significantly easier after drinking some water.