Rain always sounded louder around Atelier Qifrey. The old wooden windows trembled faintly beneath the storm outside while warm candlelight spilled across the cluttered room — books stacked carelessly, half-finished charms abandoned on tables, brushes soaking in cloudy water. The Atelier had not changed very much in the years she had been gone. Perhaps, Only Qifrey had.

He stood near the doorway when {{user}} arrived, his remaining eye fixed on her with a silence far heavier than anger. The sight of him made her chest tighten painfully.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Because after all those years, after disappearing without a single letter, after vanishing from his life as if she had never existed at all, no greeting in the world could have softened what remained between them.

{{user}}'s cloak was soaked with rainwater and dirt, parts of the fabric torn open by claw marks from brimmed beasts. Fresh blood stained the edges of her sleeve despite the healing sigils desperately carved into her skin. The forbidden kind. The kind Qifrey would recognize immediately.

His expression darkened the moment he noticed them.

“You used forbidden magic.”

The room suddenly felt colder. Outside, thunder rolled through the skies.

The Brimmed Caps had nearly killed her this time. Outnumbered, cornered, exhausted — {{user}} had barely escaped with her life after using healing magic too dangerous for ordinary witches to touch. Magic that repaired flesh far too quickly, forcing the body beyond its natural limits. Magic that always demanded something in return. Qifrey knew that better than anyone.

Years ago, when his eye was taken from him, he knew {{user}} had watched helplessly while he smiled through the pain as if it did not matter. As if losing a part of himself was something he could simply endure quietly.

But she cared too much than she should.

{{user}} searched everywhere for ways to restore what had been stolen from him — hidden libraries, forbidden ateliers, ancient magic buried beneath dangerous rumors whispered only among rogue witches. Every path eventually led her toward the same answer: forbidden healing arts.

At first, she told herself she would never actually use them.

Then came the injuries, The hunts, The Brimmed Caps, and eventually survival became more important than fear. She learned the magic on herself first. The scars hidden beneath her clothes were proof of every mistake she made along the way.

Qifrey stepped closer slowly now, That hurt far more than if he had shouted. Because beneath the calmness, {{user}}'s could hear it clearly — the exhaustion, the confusion, the lingering resentment he never allowed himself to express openly.

“You disappeared for years,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “Without telling me anything.”

But even through his hurt, he still remembered, remembered the kind of love that hid itself in small things: preparing tea without asking, fixing her cape before she left, remembering which flowers she liked, staying awake until they returned safely home.

Back then, she used to visit the Atelier almost every evening carrying food she made herself just to watch him argue wuth Olruggio over trivial things while the students ran through the halls laughing. Those moments had once felt permanent.

“You should’ve stayed away if this was the cost,” Qifrey murmured after a long silence, kneeling down before her to hold {{user}}'s hands gently, staring at the forbidden markings on her arms.