The mushrooms were... not bad, nor were great. Just there. An effortless dish to eat. As if to cleanse a palate, but what was there to reset? Cymir who finished the plate, look at Clair. Her eyes strayed from his direction. With no effort to receive compensation for the lackluster dish he picked at the bread and chewed. It had a tasteful flavor at least.

  An hour passed with several cups of tea emptied. Every so often the barista left to attend the occasional customer. Within those moments Menor quickly turned to youngster's direction. Asking for thoughts to various subjects. To each only half-full answers dyed with hesitation were given.

  Luckily, or not, despite being bound to her duties, the barista always found the time to interrupt. Preventing anymore bumbling words from spilling. Even when she stepped out of the room such added distances were nothing more than excuses to yell. Becoming the victim of constant interjections, Menor frowned. Till to the point where his first cup of tea had long gone cold. The games at play were simply obnoxious, yet commendable in persistence.

  Sighing, the man stood up and paid for the meal. Today's annoyance crowned a victor. As such the winner collected the silverware. Eyeing Cymir, Clair whispered to him while refilling his cup. The last serving should be enjoyed with leisure.

  The youth titled his head while looking at the drink. Its scent seemed diluted and the liquid more clear. Wait, it was plain water. While pondering the reasoning he saw Menor bid farewell and left. Not even half a breath after, the black-haired barista slid into the now empty chair.

  Speaking words of inquiry she found her words neglected. The attention she sought was stolen by the cup of water. Only after several coughs, each louder than the last, would the youth's attention be drawn. Finding an blank stare.

  Clearing her voice Clair watched out the window, asking, "By what faulty concoction got you involved with him?"

  "...Faulty concoction?" Cymir replied, "He, uh, helped me find food?"

  "By walking past the entire Dinning street?"

  The youngster slowly nodded. Unsure if such an answer qualified towards unknown intentions. In contrast to expectations the one before him slid down the chair with exasperation. She muttered about the colorful cast of the new cohort. Quickly bouncing back from annoyance the next inquiry was shot. What were he and Menor talking about? Stuttering a bit the youngster gave a simple reply. Just normal things as interests and the day's activates. To such Clair leaned back with closed eyes. Fingers tapped the wooden table in a rhythmic pattern.

  Holding distain towards the impeding silence, Cymir asked, "Who is... he? Er, Who is Menor? You seem... interested?"

  "Hm? Whatever you're thinking is wrong," Clair replied, with a chuckle "Just a good friend. It's just- You really don't know? You're attending Eastline right?"

  "I do... But is that related? I've been there for, uh, a day."

  "Haaaa... That'll explain it. Let's just say our charitable friend is considered the current best of our generation."

  Huh? Cymir tilted his head with a raised eyebrow. The title drew forth a trivial memory, but something felt... off? A name bestowed to those who stood mountains beyond their peers. Such description, while unofficial, held weight, but intuition tilted the picture. That crown should of be- Oh.

  Noticing an expression of realization, Clair smiled and shrugged. It was what it was. Catching the eye of such a person meant no little matter. Others would be on the trail soon after. If her guesses were right. The entrance bell rang and beckoned her responsibility. Standing up she asked to youngster about the plans for the future. He would need to. However those subtle concerns failed to reach.

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  Cymir paused. Those words felt foreign. To think of the following day and then the road after. Such thoughts brought nothing but unease, yet the mind was akin to a wick meeting embers. Slowly the fibers began to burn with anticipation while pondering the possibilities. He recalled those lines.

  Wishing for the far, all those desires were glimmers of a dreamed starry sky. To see the northern continent bathed in gentle, crystal lights. Or the home of classical magical arts where they stood proudly above all. Perhaps facing the near endless frost to witness the vibrant, isolated nation. Even towards the warring lineages seeking to claim legacies. All were a few of many written in the books of the Magus. Thus were the start.

  A modest and quiet laugh came from him. Then as habits goes his eyes wandered. Out the window, down the stone street, and off in the distance silhouettes would pass by. Some would gather. Some would leave. Going on with their lives as always. To such a sight he held his arms, watching. Gentle flakes began to fall. Not too many but enough the show the cold still remained.

  Letting out the deep sigh he leaned back into his chair. Raising a hand he looked at its charred fingers. Although burnt, no pain strangled them. As if they were simply dyed with ink. How odd? Could this be fixed? Such questions zipped through the mind. Each never stayed more than a moment, yet a single one grew more notable than others.

  The girl with the pearl heart.

  Yes, that would be it. The goal. To mend sorrow. To right wrongs. A tasked that could be done. So one day he could repay what he received. Yet could- maybe if- no- yes-

  The youngster jumped to his feet. Such an action surprised the sparse individuals of the cafe. Even more so when he sprinted out the door. Clair, with an expression of guilt, muttered a worried laugh. The tea might of been too strong.

  With history in mind, Cymir delved into the street populated with evening festivities. He sought after the so called best. Jumping from the closet person to the next for directions described his pursuit. Lost and unfocused. Oddly enough, the man's name was sufficient. Such results only came after a miserable attempt in verbal description. Multiple times.

  There he was. Menor stood with peers eating a kebab. With haggard breaths the youth stepped forward. His mind raced as knowledge and intents tied themselves together. A feeling of dread held his foot. Although such thoughts suffocated from unease, that instinctual emotion was fleeting under a rush of adrenaline. Bold as the boundless sky he called out.

  "Annabella Sol!" Cymir asked, "Do you know her?!"

  "...Yes." Menor replied, showing a look of concern to his peers.

  Then silence. It happened again. The sudden urge of emotions smothered without a word.

  "Sour gal?" asked one of the peers, "Isn't she that one narcissist who keeps bothering you?"

  A long sigh escaped Menor as he nodded. That single name brought forth a discussion of anecdotes and complaints. Prideful arrogance, golden spoon dunce, and many descriptors were let loose. The woman's infamy seemed to know no bounds.

  Hearing such words assured the youth. Pulled by giddy emotions he made a request. An offer for- Immediate denial. No one wanted part in whatever revenge or history between the two.

  Cymir shook his head, such plans were not the goal. Instead a pretense. Although his intentions held no malice, his tongue never completed a sentence despite spewing an entire novella. As if his mind stuttered, unable to fully finish a coherent thought. Yet a conclusion was reached. The mixture of magical arts for assistance.

  The offer perked an ear, but the deal-maker before them devolved into a hyperactive mess...

  "I feel like Clair is involved," someone said.

  "An experimental mix," Menor confirmed, "A lot more caffeine than last time. He had a few cups."

  "Wait. Wasn't the last mix enough for an entire day?"

  "Let me show one!" Cymir said, oblivious to his surroundings.

  Carried by the a bottomless drive the caffeinated youth skipped a few steps back. Raising his hands, in mere seconds, akin to the morning's actions. This moment he recalled the smell of petrichor and sugar-filled air. Tied together with a melancholic memory of lost winters

  "Summer's Flurry."

  Before anyone could understand, energy swirled through and around the user's body once more. From his skyward arms a glob of magical energy flew. The mass streaked into the sky and bloomed. Lighting the night. Not a moment after the sudden daylight shattered into flakes of ivory and gently snowed over the district. As the spectacle unfolded the world stood still. The night's atmosphere chatter fell to silence. All sights aimed skywards at the unusually snow. And then...

  Nothing else. The glistening flakes floated down to earth and dissipated. Disappearing in fading flickers. Never lasting more than a second.