I should quit the stupid Potion Masters Institute, with its godawful elixir recipes and that ornate, bloated legacy of snobby alumni who think they're Siam’s gift to the brewing world. Liira’s thoughts shattered through her as she crossed the threshold out of Noctidia, emerging into her favourite hidden world. She adored this realm with all its soft pink tapestries and cotton-candy kittens. A ridiculous realm by most standards, but here, logic bent just enough to let her breathe. Here, no one corrected her elixir ratios or scoffed when she said the word intuition.

The tea shop she loved on Stenhouse Street had nothing going for it. Though it did have excellent lavender scones, robust Earl Grey and, unbeknownst to most, a door that didn’t exist until you needed it. The tea shop, nestled between a veil of two dimensions, was precisely the sort of place one only discovered when desperately seeking solace, or perhaps a particularly potent blend of wolfsbane.

Liira wasn’t supposed to be here. Not just in the “you’re late for your apprenticeship at the Potion Master’s Institute” sense. She wasn’t supposed to be on this side of the veil at all, but she’d run out of starroot. Her spell work was sputtering, and The Institute wouldn’t let her brew with substitutes again, not after the incident with the skeletal amphibian.

So here she was, sitting in the sun-drenched corner of Aurora’s Teas, pretending to be ordinary. A chipped teacup warmed her hands, its floral pattern a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside her head. The clinking of china and murmured conversations faded into a soothing hum, a deceptive calm masking the urgent pulse of her existential dread.

“You’re stirring that tea like it’s plotting treason,” said a voice beside her.

She glanced up, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.

He was tall, with russet hair. He had the kind of posture that made it seem like the world arranged itself around him. Silver flecks, like starlight, dusted his long, dark coat. Perhaps it was just crushed mirror powder. Was he an elixir brewer like her? His eyes were the kind of grey that looked like leashed lightning. So handsomely grey.

“I’m pondering,” she said, her foot tapping an impatient beat beneath the table.

“Are you from The Institute?”

“No,” he smirked. “I’m from the other side of the veil. Which is precisely where you’re supposed to be, little apprentice.”

Her pulse jumped. She hadn’t dropped her glamour; she was sure of it.

He looked at her as if reading her thoughts. “Relax, your disguise is decent. If one were drunk, half-asleep, and actively looking away.”

“That’s rude!” She rolled her eyes in grievance.

“I guess I kind of like the red hair. It makes those violet eyes pop.” He murmured, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek, a feather-light touch. The scent of him caught Liira’s nose, enticing her with waves of bergamot.

She gulped. “I’d thank you, but sarcasm is a low form of flattery.”

“Then you’ll love me by the end of this cup.”

He took a bite of her half-eaten scone and smirked at her like they were old friends. He then took her teacup and sipped from it. Liira, caught between indignation and curiosity, let him. She was both outraged and curious. Who was this handsome stranger playing games with her? A slow burn of anger simmered beneath her intrigue; his audacity was matched only by his undeniable charm. She'd play along for now.

“Are you here to take me back through the veil?”

“No, I’m here to offer you a job. I hail from an ancient society that actively seeks individuals with extraordinary abilities, a society where unique talents are highly valued and actively sought after."

“That’s not what I was expecting. You know, I’m terrible at brewing, right?”

“Are you? Or do they just want you to think you are?”

She rolled her eyes again. A wisp of a smile didn’t quite reach her lips. “What exactly does this job entail?”

“Spying, making more of those substitute elixirs you’re so good at brewing, a bit of stealing. Potential assassination of minor demigods, and some light administrative duties.”

“You’re making this up.”

“About the paperwork? Tragically, no.”

Outside of the tea shop, the sunlight shone, casting rays of ruby and gold through the shop’s stained-glass window. Liira breathed in the eddy of colours, contemplating the stranger's offer. A kaleidoscope of possibilities swirled before her, each facet shimmering with risk and reward. The tea shop hummed with unspoken bargains, a symphony only she could hear.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“You can call me Thorne.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Of course not, but it sounds sharp, doesn’t it?”

Liira scoffed. She couldn’t sit here playing games any longer. She had to get the starroot and return to Noctidia to avoid being fired. If she didn’t return in time, she’d lose her post, a position people waited half their lives to be considered for. Her mother would be furious. Not for the loss of prestige itself, but for the shame it would reflect back on their family name.

Then again, was it really a position if she spent most of her days foraging volatile roots, enduring passive-aggressive lectures from Senior Botanists, and filing magical inventory reports that no one actually read? Most days, she was more dirt than dignity. The only recognition she’d received in months was a scrawled “re-measure next time” in red ink on a report that took her six hours to complete. She pressed her lips into a line, jaw twitching. Maybe Thorne finding her was a blessing in disguise?

Thorne interrupted her thoughts by standing and dropping something onto the table between them with a soft clink. A ring, iron, old, and still warm. Her breath caught. She knew that ring. She’d buried it with her brother three years ago. An icy dread, sharp as winter’s bite, settled in her stomach. How could it be here, gleaming under the ruby tea shop’s light?

Thorne smiled, soft and strange. A tremor ran through the air, barely perceptible, like the sigh of a sleeping giant.

“Tell The Institute,” He said, “that death doesn’t work the way they think it does.”