Kael's gaze moves across the shifting crowd, searching for the source of the voice that called his name.
Then he sees him.
A short distance away, just beyond the flow of passing people, stands Finn Vortemillien.
He is positioned beneath a broad winter tree that leans slightly over the edge of the market road, its bare branches stretching outward like dark veins against the pale sky. The ground beneath it is scattered with dry leaves, pressed flat by the constant movement of boots and carriage wheels.
Finn stands there with an easy, familiar posture, one shoulder resting lightly against the rough bark of the trunk as if he has been waiting for a while.
The moment their eyes meet, he pushes himself off the tree and begins walking toward Kael.
His steps are unhurried, weaving naturally through the crowd as though the chaos of the market bends around him rather than obstructs him.
Kael remains where he is.
The paper bag with the white lotus rests in one hand, the book held in the other. The noise of the market continues to move around him, but his focus narrows entirely to the approaching figure.
Finn closes the distance and stops just in front of him.
For a brief moment, neither of them speaks.
The air between them carries the weight of familiarity, the kind that does not require immediate words to confirm its presence.
His eyes move quickly, first to Kael's face, then to the items in his hands.
The paper bag.
The book.
Then back to Kael again.
"What are you doing here?" Finn asks, his tone casual but carrying a hint of curiosity.
Kael answers without hesitation, his voice calm as ever.
"I came to buy some flowers and a lens."
Finn's brows lift slightly.
He glances again at the bag in Kael's hand, then at the book, then back at him with a more narrowed look this time.
"Flowers… and lenses?" he repeats slowly, as if testing the logic of the sentence.
A brief pause follows.
Then Finn tilts his head a little, eyes sharpening with interest.
"But why do you need flowers and lenses?" he asks.
The question hangs between them, simple on the surface, yet carrying a quiet insistence beneath it.
Around them, the market continues to move without pause, voices rising and falling, footsteps passing, carriages rolling by.
But for that moment, it feels like the noise has stepped aside, leaving only the question waiting for its answer.
Finn's eyes drift once more toward Kael's hand.
This time, they stop.
Right on the book.
His gaze lingers on the title for a second… then another.
"How To Understand A Woman."
A slow, knowing smile begins to form on his face.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But unmistakably dangerous.
He looks back up at Kael.
"Ah…" Finn says softly, as if a complicated puzzle has just solved itself without effort. "Now I understand."
Kael's brows knit slightly.
"Understand what?" he asks.
Finn waves his hand lightly, as though brushing the question aside.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
But the smile does not leave his face.
In fact, it deepens.
His eyes flick once more toward the paper bag holding the white lotus, then back to the book… and then finally settle on Kael again with a quiet glint of amusement.
He leans in just a fraction.
"Tell me something," Finn says, his tone dropping into something far more playful.
"Why exactly do you want to understand a woman?" 😏
A brief pause.
Then, unable to resist, he adds with a short laugh slipping through,
"And flowers too? That is quite a… coordinated effort." 😏🤣
The market continues roaring around them, but Finn stands there like he has just uncovered the most entertaining secret of the day, waiting for Kael's answer with barely concealed amusement.
Kael's expression tightens just slightly, more from mild irritation than embarrassment.
"The flowers are just for my use," he says plainly. "And the book… I still do not understand why I bought it."
For a moment, Finn simply looks at him.
Then he nods.
Slowly.
With far too much agreement.
"I know, I know," he says, lifting both hands in mock surrender. "This happens."
His lips twitch, barely holding back another smile.
"I completely understand."
The tone suggests the exact opposite.
His gaze drifts once more between the white lotus wrapped carefully in paper… and the book resting in Kael's hand.
Then he leans a little closer, lowering his voice as if about to uncover something important.
"By the way," Finn adds casually, "who is the lucky girl?"
Kael's eyes narrow immediately.
"There is no one," he replies, his voice firm. "Do not mock me like that."
Finn pauses.
Then exhales through his nose, nodding again as though accepting the answer with complete seriousness.
"Of course," he says.
A beat.
"Absolutely no one."
Another beat.
His eyes flick down once more to the book title.
Then back to Kael.
The corner of his mouth lifts again, just slightly, as if the conclusion in his mind refuses to change no matter what Kael says.
Around them, the market continues its restless motion, but between the two of them, the air carries a quiet, playful tension that refuses to settle.
Kael lets the silence stretch for just a moment longer, watching the faint, suspicious smile still lingering on Finn's face.
Then, without warning, he shifts the direction of the conversation.
"What are you doing here?" Kael asks, his tone calm, almost casual. "In a flower market of all places."
Finn blinks.
Just once.
The question lands.
And for the first time since they met under the tree, his composure slips ever so slightly.
Kael's gaze drops—not to Finn's face this time, but to his hands.
There it is.
A bouquet.
Carefully arranged roses, their petals deep red and fresh, bound together neatly with a ribbon that has been tied with more care than necessary for something "casual."
Kael's eyes narrow just a fraction.
"And why," he continues, lifting his gaze back to Finn, "did you buy a bouquet?"
Finn straightens almost immediately.
Too quickly.
"It's nothing," he replies, a bit too fast. "Just a bouquet for a friend."
A pause.
Kael looks at him.
Really looks at him.
Then, without changing his expression, he speaks again.
"I do not think this is for a friend."
Finn freezes.
Kael's eyes flick down once more toward the bouquet, observing it with quiet precision.
"There are twenty-one roses," he adds calmly. "And a birthday card."
Another pause.
His gaze lifts back to Finn's face.
"With a red heart on it."
Silence.
The market noise continues around them, loud and alive, but between the two of them, everything seems to stop.
Finn's ears begin to redden.
Just slightly.
His grip on the bouquet tightens almost imperceptibly, as if suddenly aware of every detail Kael has just pointed out.
For once, the roles have reversed.
And now, it is Kael who waits.
Finn stands there for a few seconds longer, clearly searching for a response that might restore at least a fragment of his dignity.
None comes.
Kael simply continues looking at him with that calm expression that somehow makes the situation even worse.
Finn clears his throat lightly.
"Right…" he says, adjusting the bouquet awkwardly in his arms. "Maybe I should leave now."
He gives a short nod, avoiding direct eye contact for the first time since the conversation began.
"You probably have a lot of important work to do," he adds quickly. "So… yes. Alright. Goodbye."
Before Kael can respond, Finn turns almost immediately and begins walking away through the crowd.
A little too quickly.
The bouquet of roses remains clutched carefully against his chest as he disappears between passing shoppers and moving carriages, trying his best to look unaffected despite the obvious embarrassment still lingering across his face.
Kael watches him go.
Then the corner of his mouth finally lifts.
A quiet laugh escapes him.
"Finn," he calls out.
Finn does not stop walking.
"Finn."
Still nothing.
Kael's amusement grows slightly.
"Finn Vortemillien."
This time Finn lifts one hand into the air without turning around, waving dismissively as if refusing to acknowledge whatever expression Kael currently has on his face.
Which only makes Kael laugh more.
A faint mocking smile settles across his features as he watches his friend disappear deeper into the crowded market, carrying twenty-one roses and a very obvious "friendship" bouquet.
Kael's laughter fades gradually as Finn disappears completely into the moving sea of people.
For a few lingering seconds, the image remains in his mind anyway.
Twenty one roses.
A red heart on the card.
And the very unconvincing explanation of "just a friend."
The thought almost threatens another smile from him.
Almost.
But it fades quickly as his attention returns to the things still in his hands.
The wrapped white lotus.
The book.
The convex lens secured carefully in its paper covering.
The mood around him shifts quietly after that.
The warmth of the playful exchange dissolves beneath the colder weight resting at the back of his thoughts, like sunlight slowly disappearing behind clouds.
He begins walking back toward where he left his motorcar.
The deeper parts of the market gradually thin behind him as he moves through the crowded lanes, passing flower stalls, restaurants, and cloth merchants once more. The constant voices of trade continue rising through the winter air, but Kael barely notices them now.
His mind is elsewhere.
On the ritual.
On the final requirement still missing.
Ash from wood struck by lightning.
The memory of the old book surfaces clearly in his thoughts, every line preserved with uncomfortable precision.
The Boundary.
Salt mixed with ash from a wood that was struck by lightning.
His grip tightens faintly around the paper bag.
At last, he reaches the roadside where his motorcar waits beside a tall iron streetlamp. The polished black surface reflects fragments of the busy street around it, distorted slightly beneath the pale afternoon light.
Kael opens the door and places the items carefully inside.
First the lotus.
Then the lens.
Then the book.
For a moment, his hand rests briefly atop the worn cover again before he withdraws it.
He steps into the driver's seat.
The engine rumbles to life with a low mechanical growl, vibrating softly through the metal frame of the vehicle. Ahead of him, the crowded market road stretches outward beneath rows of Edwardian buildings and hanging shop signs swaying gently in the cold breeze.
Without hesitation, Kael pulls the motorcar forward into the street.
And soon, he leaves the busy market behind, heading toward another place in search of ash from wood struck by lightning.
The motorcar moves steadily through the narrowing streets of the city, its engine humming beneath the cold afternoon air as Kael drives farther away from the crowded market district.
The surroundings gradually change.
The elegant storefronts and decorated windows of the central market begin disappearing behind him, replaced instead by older trade streets where the buildings stand closer together, their stone walls darkened by years of smoke and weather. Here, the shops feel less refined and more practical. Ironworkers, herbal suppliers, coal merchants, and strange specialty traders line the roads in uneven rows beneath faded wooden signboards.
Eventually, Kael slows the motorcar before a particularly unusual shop.
A weathered sign hangs above the entrance.
Various Ashes and Powdered Materials.
For a brief second, Kael simply stares at it.
Then he exhales quietly through his nose.
So there truly are shops that sell ash.
The thought almost feels absurd enough to make him question reality itself.
Yet here it is.
He steps out of the motorcar and walks toward the entrance.
The small bell above the door rattles faintly as he enters.
Inside, the air feels dry and heavy with the scent of burnt wood, charcoal, herbs, and powdered minerals. Shelves crowd the walls from end to end, holding countless glass jars labeled with faded handwriting. Some contain gray ash. Others black. Some almost silver in color.
Behind the counter stands the shopkeeper.
A man likely in his forties with short blonde hair brushed neatly backward. He wears a plain brown shirt with rolled sleeves, beige trousers slightly darkened near the hems from soot and dust, and thick leather boots that thud heavily against the wooden floor whenever he moves.
The man looks up from the ledger he has been writing in.
"Yes?" he asks.
Kael approaches the counter calmly.
"I need ash from wood struck by lightning."
The shopkeeper pauses.
His expression changes slightly.
Not confusion.
More like mild surprise.
He leans back a little, crossing his arms as though replaying the request in his head to make sure he heard correctly.
"Lightning struck wood?" he repeats.
Kael nods once.
The man scratches lightly near his jaw before shaking his head.
"No," he says at last. "I do not have that kind of ash."
Silence settles briefly between them.
Around them, rows upon rows of bottled ashes remain still beneath the dim hanging lamps, as though mocking the very specific thing Kael actually came for.