POV - Morgana
Time, for me, is not a straight line, but a tapestry. Most threads run parallel, representing lives that begin, unfold, and end in a predictable order. But every now and then, a thread deviates, crosses over the others, intertwines in unexpected ways and creates a new, beautiful, and complex pattern. And 'The Last Cup', with its small and unlikely family, had become the most intricate and beautiful knot I had seen in centuries.
There was a time, which now feels like it belongs to another life, another age, when this salon was just a clumsy duet between my patience and Azra'il's meticulously orchestrated chaos. We were two solitary notes, one low, resonant, and constant, the other high, sharp, and unpredictable, trying to find a harmony amidst the ceaseless noise of the bridge that joined two worlds in conflict.
Now, two years later, the place was no longer a duet. It was a full orchestra, surprisingly in tune. Each of our four employees, four souls who had come to us like broken instruments with snapped strings, cracked wood, and notes soured by pain and distrusthad found their melody, their rhythm. And together, without even realising the music they were creating, they composed a symphony of competence and care that filled the air along with the aroma of tea, spices, and the sweet, comforting scent of baking croissants.
On that late afternoon, as the golden Piltovan light flooded the salon through the large windows, turning the dancing dust motes in the air into particles of liquid gold, I allowed myself a rare moment of pure, silent observation a luxury the initial chaos had rarely afforded us. It was the peak of the rush, a whirlwind of orders, overlapping conversations, and the constant clinking of porcelain against saucers, but there was no panic, none of the frenetic tension from before. There was flow. A choreographed dance, born not of fear, but of repetition and mutual trust.
At the pulsating heart of it all, the silent engine near the kettles that hissed like benevolent steam-serpents, was Lucien. The man who had come to us a statue of fear, his shoulders perpetually tense and his gaze ever-watchful, scanning the room for the shadow of a mage hunter in every customer, now moved with the contained, efficient grace of a ballroom dancer.
His magic, once a curse to be hidden under layers of sweat and dread, now flowed from him effortlessly, an almost invisible shimmer of heat around his hands that seemed to distort the air. He didn't boil the water; he persuaded it to the perfect temperature. Six porcelain teapots, each destined for a different type of leaf, each at a different note on the scale of heat, were maintained by him in an impeccable balance for hours on end. He was no longer a mage hiding in a tea house. He was, in every sense of the word, a tea master, whose art was born of his own once-feared essence.
At the counter, Kaeli was in the midst of a delicate, almost diplomatic negotiation with a Piltovan noblewoman, a member of House Ferros, known for her sharp tongue and disdain for anything less than absolute perfection. The old Kaeli, the volcano of artistic arrogance we had hired, would have scorned the woman's request for something "sweet, but not too exotic, and please, without that damp earth smell." She would have, likely, caused a miniature international incident.
But the Kaeli of today… she had mastered the art of translation, of palate diplomacy. "I understand perfectly, madam," she said, her voice smooth but with a confidence that brooked no argument. "The astringency of the Eastern leaves can be challenging for an unaccustomed palate. If I may suggest, instead of sugar, which would mask the infusion's floral notes, might I suggest a thread of Shuriman fire-flower honey? It complements the citrus notes with its own spicy sweetness, rather than simply overpowering them, creating a more complex experience." The noblewoman, surprised by the expertise and the respectful audacity, agreed. Kaeli was no longer just judging taste; she was educating, guiding. She had turned her gift into a bridge, not a weapon of snobbery.
In the kitchen, visible through the wide opening that connected it to the salon, Eddie was a blur of calm, efficient movement. That young man who had arrived trembling, on the verge of apologising for his own shadow, and whose first batches were culinary catastrophes, now commanded his domain of flour and sugar with a confidence that warmed my heart.
His cakes, tarts, and of course, the famous madeleines, were no longer just pastries; they were the shop's main attraction. They were small, edible works of art, and with every perfect batch, every whispered compliment from a satisfied customer, I saw him stand a little taller, his passion finally overcoming the self-doubt that had haunted him for so long.
And patrolling the salon, the silent conductress of the whole orchestra, was Rixa. Her armour of Zaunite cynicism was still there, intact, but it had been polished by service and trust until it had acquired a protective sheen. She was no longer just tough; she was steady.
I watched her resolve an impending dispute over a table between two arrogant merchants with a single glance, an arched eyebrow, and the low, dangerous question, "Do we have a problem here?" The problem dissolved instantly. I observed her guide a lost Ionian traveller who barely spoke the common tongue with a series of patient and surprisingly gentle gestures. And then I witnessed the greatest miracle of all: I saw a rare, small smile touch her lips when a Zaunite child, no older than Powder, offered her a drawing of a steaming teacup.
She had transformed her hardness, born of the need to survive in a cruel world, into a steady and fierce form of protection for the haven she now, unquestionably, called her own.
They no longer needed us, not for the day-to-day. They had found their own roles. And most importantly, they had found each other, forming a web of support that was stronger than any one of them alone. Azra'il and I, without intending to, had done more than hire staff. We had, against all odds and better judgment, forged a family.
That night, after the last customer had gone and Rixa had locked the door with a final, satisfying click, the air was filled with that pleasant exhaustion that comes after good and purposeful work. It was Azra'il who initiated the ceremony. With an unusual calm that always preceded her most significant moments, she once again gathered Kaeli and Eddie in the kitchen. I watched from the threshold, feeling the importance of the moment.
On the clean, shining metal countertop, Azra'il placed two heavy leather-bound notebooks, tied with leather straps. They looked like an ancient mage's grimoires, and in a way, they were.
"This," Azra'il began, her voice devoid of its usual sarcasm, flat and serious, "is not a simple recipe book. It is a grimoire. It is an instruction manual for the soul of this place. It contains everything. The ratios for every tea, the exact temperatures, the infusion techniques I've stolen from three different regions, and the recipes for every pastry we've ever made, including the failures. Especially the failures."
She pushed one of the books towards Eddie, who took it with trembling hands. "Eddie, yours contains more than just measurements. It has notes on the chemistry of confectionery. The science behind the art. Why cold butter reacts one way and warm another. How the acidity of a fruit can cut through the richness of cream to create balance. I want you to stop following the recipes like a frightened believer following scripture. I want you to start understanding them. To challenge them. Break the rules, but know exactly why you are breaking them."
Eddie's eyes, from behind his spectacles, shone with unshed tears. He hugged the book to his chest.
Then Azra'il turned to Kaeli. "Kaeli, yours has notes on the herbs. Their origins, their legends, their synergies, and most importantly, their dangerous combinations. Your nose tells you 'what'. This book will tell you 'why'. And," she stared at her with a deadly seriousness, "there is an entire chapter, fifteen pages long with several diagrams, titled 'How Not to Insult Customers with Dreadful Taste Who, Unfortunately, Pay Our Wages and Allow Us to Buy Expensive Ingredients'. It is required reading for you. Read it twice."
Kaeli huffed, but I saw the deep gratitude and respect in her eyes. She took her own 'grimoire' with a nod. Finally, Azra'il led them to a small, locked cabinet at the back of the pantry, a place even I rarely saw open. It was her private sanctuary. Inside, in dark glass vials labelled in her precise script, were her rarest, most potent, and most dangerous herbs. She explained the property of each, not as a boss, but as a master passing on her knowledge. It wasn't just a lesson; it was the handing over of the keys to the kingdom, the final, absolute act of trust from a queen abdicating her throne.
Later, I gathered them all in the empty, silent salon. The chairs were upturned on the tables, the hearth crackled softly. The atmosphere was intimate, almost sacred. They sat at one of the round tables, confused. Azra'il was in her armchair in the corner, apparently absorbed in a book, but I knew her stillness was that of one listening to every word, every breath.
"Do you remember when you arrived?" I began, my voice low. I looked at Lucien, whose posture was now relaxed, no longer that of a soldier on alert. "You came with so much fear, Lucien, that you looked as though you might shatter at the sound of your own breathing. Your discipline was an armour built on dread. Now, your magic flows from you like music. It brings comfort and warmth."
My eyes moved to Kaeli. "You arrived with the gift of a goddess and the patience of a volcano about to erupt. Your palate could identify the poetry in a tea leaf, but your heart had no room for the prose of a common customer. Now, you teach. You guide."
To Eddie. "And you, Eddie… you came with a heart so large and a confidence so small. Every cake you burned was, in your mind, proof that you weren't good enough. Now, every day, your art proves the opposite. You have found your voice in sweetness."
And finally, to Rixa. "You arrived here as a fortress, Rixa. High walls, locked gates. You saw the world as it was: cruel and unforgiving. And you weren't wrong. But you forgot that even in the darkest ruins, in the deepest cracks of the concrete, stubborn, impossible flowers insist on growing."
They listened, the silence thick with shared memories.
"We have spoken of this before," I continued, my voice soft but laden with finality. "About the fleeting nature of our stay. Azra'il and I… we are travellers. And our season here, in this small, wonderful haven, is ending. I know this is not an easy truth to hear again, and it pains me in a deep place to have to say it. But it is the truth."
I saw the sad acceptance on their faces. The confirmation of a truth they had been bravely trying to ignore. "But today, when I look at you, I no longer see frightened apprentices. I see masters, each in your own way. I see a team. I see the four-legged table, strong and steady, that I always said and believed you could become. Alone, you have gifts. Brilliant, but flawed. But together…" I paused, "together, you are a haven. And a haven is the most powerful and necessary thing that can exist in this divided world."
From a fold in my robes, I took out a single, heavy bronze key, with the design of a teacup at its head. I placed it solemnly in the centre of the table. The sound of the metal on the wood echoed in the quiet room like the striking of a gong, a sound of finality.
"This is the original key," I said, my voice steady. "The one that first opened this door, when all within was just dust, darkness, and a dream. It no longer belongs to us. It belongs to you. This house… with all its soul and all its secrets, is yours."
The weight of that gesture, of that responsibility, settled upon them. No one spoke. Eddie took off his glasses to wipe at the eyes that were now streaming freely. Kaeli swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the key. Lucien bowed his head in a deep, solemn gesture of acceptance. And Rixa the pragmatist, the wall, the survivorwas the first to move. Her hand reached out and closed over the key with a firmness that was a silent promise, an oath.
The solemnity of the moment was, of course, brutally shattered by Azra'il's theatrical, drawn-out voice from the corner.
"Beautiful. Marvellous. We are all deeply moved." She stood, marking the page of her book with a finger. "But listen here, you sentimental lot." She pointed a finger at them, her gaze as sharp as a blade. "This is still the 'Chef's Tea House'. My name is, metaphorically, on the door. If the quality of the tea drops, if I hear a single rumour in Ionia or even in Shurima that you are serving watery infusions or, worse," her voice dropped to a dangerous growl, "using granulated sugar where you shouldn't… I will not haunt you. I will come back. And I will fire you all again, just on principle."
The tension snapped. A wave of relieved laughter went through the room. Eddie let out a laugh that was half a sob. Kaeli truly smiled for the first time that night. Even Rixa let out a small huff of amusement. It was Azra'il's way of saying she cared, that she was proud, that she loved them, in the only way she knew how.
That night, we left our little garden in the hands of four unlikely gardeners. A mage who had learned to improvise, a connoisseur who had learned patience, a pastry-chef who had learned to trust himself, and a survivor who had, perhaps, come to believe in something beyond mere, weary survival.
Our season here was ending. But I knew, with a certainty that warmed my ancient, mended heart, that their spring was just beginning.