The office remained quiet.
Sunlight filtered through the tall arched windows behind Arna's desk, casting long golden lines across scattered parchments and half-dried ink stains. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, illuminated briefly before dissolving back into invisibility.
Kel reached forward calmly.
Without asking.
Without hesitation.
He picked up a blank sheet of parchment from the edge of Arna's cluttered desk. The paper was slightly rough, expensive stock meant for official drafts and sealed correspondence—not for casual scribbling.
Arna's amber eyes followed the motion carefully.
Kel dipped a quill into the nearest ink bottle.
The sound of the nib scratching against parchment filled the room.
Reina sat quietly on the sofa, hands folded neatly over her lap, her silver eyes shifting subtly between the two boys. She did not interrupt. She did not blink unnecessarily.
Kel wrote with steady strokes.
No pauses.
No corrections.
No hesitation.
Line after line.
Ingredient names.
Ratios.
Heat levels.
Sequence of infusion.
Stabilization timing.
Within less than a minute, he set the quill down.
He lifted the parchment and placed it directly before Arna.
"This," Kel said evenly, "is the formula of the potion."
Silence fell heavily.
Arna did not immediately reach for the paper.
Instead, he stared at Kel.
Then at the parchment.
Then back at Kel again.
His brows furrowed slowly.
"…Do you think I am a child?"
His voice was not loud.
But it was sharp.
Reina's gaze narrowed slightly.
Kel did not react outwardly.
Arna leaned forward slightly, palms pressing against the desk.
"You walk into my office," he continued, "pick up a sheet of paper, write something down, and call it a potion formula?"
His eyes hardened faintly.
"Do you take me for a fool?"
Kel's expression did not change.
Arna's fingers tightened subtly against the wood.
"There is no way you are the kind of alchemy master who has memorized every formula to the extent of casually writing one from memory."
A faint tremor touched his voice—not from anger.
From strain.
"Even seasoned alchemists cross-reference texts before drafting formulations."
His gaze sharpened further.
"And you expect me to believe that what you wrote just now is legitimate?"
The words were not merely doubt.
They carried exhaustion.
Three years of disappointment.
Three years of false promises.
Kel understood immediately.
This was not arrogance.
This was defense.
Arna had been approached before.
Likely by merchants promising miraculous inventions.
By opportunists offering empty agreements.
Hope given.
Hope shattered.
Kel did not respond defensively.
He did not argue.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly.
"Arna."
The use of his name shifted the air subtly.
"I understand you."
Arna blinked faintly.
Kel's voice remained calm.
"If someone in your position—"
He paused briefly.
"—who has endured decline for years—"
Arna's fingers tightened faintly again.
"—is suddenly offered salvation by a stranger…"
Kel's gaze did not waver.
"Doubt is natural."
Silence.
Reina observed Arna's expression carefully.
The anger did not flare.
It receded slightly.
Kel continued.
"But I can prove it."
Arna's jaw tightened faintly.
"How?"
"I brought the ingredients."
Kel reached calmly into the inner pocket of his coat.
He placed three small wrapped bundles upon the cleared section of the desk.
Arna's gaze flicked downward.
Then upward.
"Read the formula first," Kel said quietly.
After a moment, Arna picked up the parchment.
His eyes moved quickly across the lines.
Then—
They slowed.
His brows knit tighter.
"…Only three ingredients?"
He read again.
Yes.
Three.
And not rare ones.
Not exotic materials harvested from mythical beasts.
Common market herbs.
Cheap.
Easily obtainable.
Arna's eyes widened slightly.
"These are… widely available," he murmured.
Kel nodded.
"Yes."
Arna continued scanning the ratios.
The heating durations.
The infusion sequence.
His breathing slowed.
"The proportions are… precise," he muttered faintly.
Kel rose from the sofa.
"If you permit."
Arna looked up, still holding the parchment.
Kel unwrapped the three ingredients.
A bundle of dried pale-green leaves.
A dark crimson root.
And a small vial of translucent mineral powder.
All common.
All inexpensive.
Kel extended one hand.
A faint current of wind gathered around his fingers.
Not wild.
Not dramatic.
Controlled.
The leaves lifted slightly into the air.
He flicked his fingers.
The wind sharpened, slicing through the herbs with surgical precision.
Even.
Uniform.
No waste.
Arna's eyes sharpened immediately.
Kel placed the cut leaves into a small metal container taken from his coat.
He then applied a controlled flame from his opposite hand—blue-orange and steady.
No flicker.
No smoke.
The root was sliced cleanly with wind magic.
Added at precise intervals.
The mineral powder followed.
Reina watched quietly.
Arna stood slowly from his chair without realizing it.
He stepped around the desk, drawn closer by instinct.
Kel adjusted the flame temperature without looking at his hand.
The mixture simmered.
The scent began to rise.
Not harsh.
Not bitter.
Fresh.
Clean.
Sharp with faint sweetness.
Arna's eyes widened faintly as he inhaled.
"That aroma…"
Kel reduced the flame.
Then extended his hand again.
This time—
Cold.
Ice magic formed rapidly around his palm.
Not jagged frost.
But smooth crystalline structure.
He shaped it deliberately—molding an elongated container from pure ice.
Transparent.
Thick enough to hold liquid.
Stable.
When the mixture reached its final stage, Kel extinguished the flame instantly.
He lifted the container and poured the liquid into the ice bottle.
The potion glowed faintly within the crystalline casing.
Soft amber light.
Gentle.
Yet vibrant.
The scent intensified briefly.
Clean.
Herbal.
Invigorating.
Kel turned.
And held it toward Arna.
"It is complete."
The room was silent except for the faint drip of condensation from the ice bottle.
Arna stared at it.
Then at Kel.
Then back at the potion.
"This…"
He stepped closer.
The aroma alone was enough to confirm proper infusion.
There was no burnt bitterness.
No destabilized mana residue.
The liquid shimmered with internal coherence.
Arna's voice lowered.
"What is this potion for?"
Kel answered calmly.
"To restore wounds and injuries."
A beat.
"It is a healing potion."
The word hung in the air like a bell struck in silence.
Healing.
Not enhancement.
Not cosmetic elixir.
Healing.
Arna's breathing grew faintly uneven.
"You claim this… uses only those three materials?"
"Yes."
"And it can heal injuries?"
"Yes."
"How effective?"
Kel met his gaze evenly.
"Test it."
Reina's silver eyes shifted to Arna.
He looked down at his own hands.
Ink stains.
Minor cuts along his fingers from parchment edges.
His sleeve brushed against a small scratch along his wrist.
Without hesitation—
He reached for a letter opener resting on the desk.
Reina's eyes sharpened.
But she did not move.
Arna dragged the blade lightly across his own palm.
Not deep.
But enough to draw blood.
The red line welled immediately.
Kel did not intervene.
Arna uncorked the ice bottle.
The scent intensified again.
He poured a small amount over the cut.
The liquid spread across his skin.
For a fraction of a second—
Nothing.
Then—
A faint glow.
The blood slowed.
The flesh knit visibly.
The cut sealed.
Not instantly disappearing.
But healing cleanly.
Without scarring.
Arna froze.
His amber eyes widened.
He stared at his palm.
Then at the bottle.
Then at Kel.
"…This is not low-grade healing," he whispered.
Kel said nothing.
Arna inhaled slowly.
"If mass-produced…"
He stopped himself.
He looked around his office—at the scattered rejection letters.
The dwindling staff.
The fading prestige.
Then at the glowing potion in his hand.
"…This could stabilize our finances."
His voice was no longer defensive.
It was focused.
Hope—carefully restrained—flickered beneath it.
He lifted his gaze to Kel.
"You memorized this."
"Yes."
"You brought ingredients to prove it."
"Yes."
"And you are asking only royalty."
"Yes."
Arna's shoulders lowered slightly.
The boy at the summit of a declining tower stood in silence.
Then he spoke quietly.
"…State your percentage."
Kel's spiral rotated calmly beneath his spine.
Balanced.
Unwavering.
And in the quiet office of the Twin Magic Tower—
Hope no longer felt like a trick of light.
It felt… real.