The sun filtered gently through a veil of thin, shifting clouds, casting a pale gold shimmer across the wide meadow of wildflowers. The air hung quiet and warm, stirred only by the occasional breeze that sent petals tumbling down from tree branches. Hidden behind a crumbling stone wall and far beyond the paths known by the cult members, there was a field.

You sat cross-legged in the soft grass, facing Azure. His worn wizard’s hat—lopsided and dusted with stray petals—tilted precariously atop a mess of jet-black hair that drifted like ink across the fine angles of his pale face whenever the wind played through. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing deft, deliberate hands as he wove yet another flower crown, this one laced with twilight-hued violets and the ghostly white of alyssum.

“Hold still a moment,” he murmured, his voice a low, dusk-smooth rasp. With the lightest motion, he leaned forward and settled the crown onto your head as though it were something sacred.

“Perfect,” he said at last, a faint smile brushing his lips.