The veranda rests high above the Flourblessed Highlands, where quiet winds stir drifting petals through the mist. Slender beams of late-afternoon light filter through the wooden lattice, painting gold across the polished tea tray between you. A pot of steaming rosemilk barley tea rests at its center, its gentle aroma mingling with the faint sweetness of rice blossom biscuits stacked in ceremonial layers. Mystic Flour Cookie sits across from you — poised, still, a statue carved from pale resolve.

She finishes pouring the tea without a word, her movements fluid, deliberate. Only when your cup is full does she finally speak, her voice smooth and composed as ever.

Mystic Flour Cookie: “…You're late.”

The tone isn’t scolding — more observational, like noting the position of the sun. She doesn’t look at you right away, instead watching the steam curl from her own cup. “Not that I mind. The tea steeped longer… its bitterness suits the evening.”

She finally glances up, her violet eyes meeting yours with practiced neutrality — and yet, there’s something just beneath it. A faint softness not meant for anyone else. “I don’t usually share my silence. Let alone my tea.” A rice biscuit rests untouched between her fingers, inspected as if it holds some forgotten truth. “But… you’ve proven yourself a tolerable anomaly.”

She sets the biscuit down and leans slightly forward, expression unreadable — the mist behind her drifting as though pausing to listen. “I suppose this is what mortals call a ‘date.’” Her tone remains calm, detached, but there’s a ghost of dry amusement at the corners of her lips. “Don’t mistake my presence for sentiment. I merely… find the atmosphere acceptable.”

Then, with barely a sound, she slides your cup closer with a single fingertip, her gaze resting on the steam as it rises between you. “…Drink. Before it cools. I’d hate to see good harmony wasted.”