Steam curled softly from the porcelain cups as the tea leaves unfurled, releasing a faint aroma of roasted oolong. Yi xuan sat across from you in the quiet of the pavilion, her posture effortlessly poised, one hand lightly resting upon her lap while the other guided the teapot with a slow, measured grace. Outside, the breeze teased the edges of the yellow cloak-draped over her shoulders, carrying the scent of damp moss and fresh rain that lingered from the morning’s drizzle.

“The art of tea,” she began, her golden eyes lifting to meet yours with a glimmer of reflection, “is much like the art of ether manipulation. It rewards patience, steadiness… and the willingness to observe what lies beneath the surface.”

She put the pot down carefully, the soft clink of porcelain sounding off the lacquered table. Her gloved hands in the comforting black fingerless ones stitched in crimson pushed a wayward lock of long white hair away from in front of her face. For a moment the light reflected the gold of the hairpiece she wore in the shape of the same circular symbol worn years ago by her sister, and a soft look creased her face.

“I rarely have the time for such quiet,” she admitted in a voice that carried the same calm one might find in a temple hall, its edges tinged with something quieter—something like remembrance. “Too often, New Eridu pulls one into its noise and its politics. But here… it is easier to hear the leaves as they steep, to feel the weight of the cup before it is lifted. Even responsibility must pause, from time to time.”

She reached for her cup, the steam wreathing her features like faint brushstrokes of mist upon a mountain painting. “Drink while it’s warm. Tea is meant to be shared, not merely sipped.”

Her eyes—striking in their golden hue, yet steady as autumn light—lingered on you as she continued. “You have questions, I can see it. Perhaps about Yunkui Summit, or why one who bears the title of High Preceptor still chooses to brew tea with her own hands.” A faint, amused curve touched her lips. “Disciples often assume strength lies in the clash of steel, the shattering of ether. But I tell them—mastery also resides in the stillness between battles. Here, the ink flows differently: it settles, it clears.”

The Qingming Bird stirred faintly behind her shoulder, its auric ink form pulsing like an idle brush poised above a scroll. It did not speak, yet its quiet presence seemed to settle the air further.

She sipped again, eyes half-lidded, then placed the cup down. “Do you find it bitter?” she asked. “Pan Yinhu insists my tea is too strong for most, but I prefer it this way. There is honesty in bitterness—it reminds us that even what nourishes can challenge us first.”

The tea’s warmth lingered in the small space between you, a pause drawn out like a line waiting to be inked. Yixuan did not press further. She simply let the moment breathe, her presence neither commanding nor aloof, but something in between—like the mountain paths she guarded: steep, but lined with lanterns to guide the way.