The sun had climbed a little higher by the time Cael dressed and slipped out of the bed, his body still tingling from the echoes of last night. His mind, however, felt like a battlefield—Anna's soul still adjusting to Cael's form. The air smelled of sweetbread and ash as the city of Ardora slowly shook off its slumber.
He moved like a stranger wearing his own face.
Mira hadn't stirred. He left a few coins beside the bed without a word and descended the rickety stairs.
The system hadn't spoken since the earlier message, but a strange awareness lingered—a sense that he was being watched from within. Not judged. Merely observed. Encouraged.
He took the side streets to avoid the main square, not out of fear, but shame. Bits of Cael's past returned in shards. A drunken punch. A woman's tears. A thrown cup of tea. And always laughter—the cruel kind.
The tea house sat at the edge of the artisan quarter, a two-story structure wedged between a dyeseller and an old shrine. Once, it had been bright and warm, full of song and scent. Now, dust clung to the sign, and the windows were shuttered like eyes refusing to open.
He pushed the door open. A creak like an old man's sigh greeted him.
Inside, decay.
Chairs stacked poorly. Tables warped. The counter covered in cloth stained with age. But beneath the grime, bones remained. Strong beams. A hearth for boiling. Shelves for scrolls and art.
It could be more than a tea house.
It could be a place of culture. Of women. Of conversation and secrets.
Anna—no, Cael—smiled slowly.
There was silver left in a lockbox hidden under a floorboard. Enough for a trip to the market.
The market burst with color and life. Carpets of silks stretched in waves. The smell of jasmine, ink, oil, and sweat blended into a familiar chaos.
Cael bartered for fresh cushions, replaced incense sticks, and bought a used but beautiful tea set painted with crimson phoenixes. Scrolls, brushes, handmade paper—he loaded a cart with things his soul ached for.
Then he saw her.
The crowd parted like wind around flame. She stood tall, wrapped in indigo and silver robes, her black hair tied high with ivory pins. Eyes that could turn ink to poetry scanned a set of paintings with the cool detachment of royalty.
Lady Aurelia Faelwyn.
Widowed. Rich. Known for her sharp tongue and sharper taste.
And the system whispered: Make an impression through shared appreciation.
Cael inhaled.
He activated the Silver-Tongued Token. A warmth tickled his tongue.
"The balance in this piece is off," he murmured, stepping beside her. "The mountain drags the eye down. But the brushstroke on the river—that's divine. Reminds me of the temple murals of Xiling."
Aurelia's head turned slowly. Surprise flickered across her face. Then curiosity.
"You know Xiling art?"
"I know what breathes and what doesn't," Cael said. "Even if it's trapped in ink."
Aurelia studied him anew. "And who are you to speak such judgment?"
He bowed slightly. "Just a ruined tea master"
She moved to the next painting. He followed.
They spoke of line, shadow, intent. She tested him. He parried. She smiled. He smiled back.
Then:
"Join me at my tea house," Cael said. "It reopens in two days. But for you, I'll open it now."
She hesitated.
"You play games?"
"Only ones worth losing."
---
Back at the tea house, Cael lit incense and poured golden oolong. Aurelia wandered the dusty shelves, brushing her gloved fingers across the scrolls he'd hung.
"You read Tang verse?"
"I memorize Li Bai in my sleep."
He unfolded a chessboard. A simple one, but lovingly carved.
"You play?"
"Of course. I don't lose."
"Good. Neither do I."
They played. She won. Then again. He adapted. Their conversation wove through painting and poetry, calligraphy and memory.
He shared stories half-true, wrapped in humor. She laughed once. Only once. But it felt like summer.
Finally, as the shadows lengthened, Cael stood.
"Time to close."
"But we haven't finished the match."
"We haven't started the real one."
Aurelia's brows lifted.
That night, as Cael scrubbed the floor clean of old sins.