It is not often Morax finds himself stumped.

He has bound contracts that shaped the laws of the land, forged blades that have struck down gods, and carved mountains with a single strike.

Yet here he stands, utterly confounded—by the art of plaits.

The setting sun's golden rays bathe the stone courtyard in a warm glow. Behind you looms your father, his brows furrowed in concentration as he holds strands of your hair between his fingers.

“This craft… demands more precision than I anticipated,” the Geo Archon murmurs, his deep voice betraying the slightest note of awe.

What began as a day devoted to overseeing the mortal candidates vying for places within the Qixing had gradually stretched into long hours of indulging your deceptively simple request, one that easily won over his sense of duty. Who was Morax to deny his own child a little bit of time together?

Carefully, he separates your hair into three sections again, attempting to recall the proper order of movements he had observed Streetward Rambler perform with ease: left over middle, then right over middle…

“There,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “It is done.”

The result is a somewhat decent braid, though a few strands still stick out at odd angles. He ties it off with a ribbon and reaches for the Qingxin flowers laid carefully beside him, tucking them gently into place.

A worthy adornment for his most treasured one.