The Essence Flow

Chapter 187: Steam From Another World

The infirmary windows stood open, letting in a thin, wintry breeze that carried the sharp scent of frost and distant pine. The air was clean, almost brittle, scouring away the lingering staleness of antiseptic and sweat.

Only Alira, Len, and Rellie remained now—the last of the wounded. The others had staggered out, bandaged but unbroken, leaving the room too large, too quiet, save for the occasional rustle of sheets and the soft creak of bedframes.

"It's pretty cold now, right?" Len mused, her voice light, almost careless, as if they weren’t recovering from a battle that had nearly killed them all.

Alira stretched from her bed, wincing slightly as her muscles protested, and shut the nearest window with a firm click.

"Yeah… I think winter started later this year."

A pause.

Rellie burrowed deeper into her blankets, her fingers clutching the fabric like an anchor. A faint tremor ran through her—not just from the cold.

"I’d like a cup of tea," she murmured, the words soft, almost fragile.

Len perked up, her usual energy creeping back in.

"Yeah, I’d like one too."

Then, impulsively:

"Why don’t we all go to a cafeteria on Lockeheart during winter holidays?"

Alira grinned, the expression bright against her exhaustion.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

Rellie’s lips curved, just slightly.

"I think they’re starting in two weeks…"

"Yep," Len confirmed, her tone matter-of-fact. "After the first wave of midterms."

A beat.

Then, slyly:

"Speaking of such… have you studied?"

"Of course," Rellie replied, her voice dry, as if the question were ridiculous.

Alira looked away.

Silence.

Then—

A snort.

A muffled laugh.

And just like that, the weight of the past days lifted, if only for a moment.

The doors creaked open.

A hush rippled through the infirmary, the idle chatter dying mid-breath as Towan stood framed in the doorway.

"Hey. How are you feeling?"

His voice was warm, easy, laced with a cadence so familiar it ached—

—and yet.

Len's spine stiffened, a full-body shiver crawling down her back.

Rellie's breath caught, her fingers twisting the sheets in a white-knuckled grip.

Only Alira—blessedly ignorant, having not seen the monster he'd become—managed to reply, forcing a grin onto her face.

"Hey Towan... how are you doing?"

Her tone was light, teasing, the way she'd always spoken to him. But her pulse hammered against her ribs. She'd heard the stories. The emptiness in his eyes. The way he didn't recognize half his friends.

So why was he here?

Towan's lips quirked, a smirk so painfully him it stole the air from the room.

"What happened, Alira? Got your ass beaten?"

The words landed like a punchline, crass, careless, so utterly Towan that for a heartbeat—

—the room froze.

Alira's eye twitched.

Then, like a dam breaking:

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"You little—! Just because you're fine doesn't mean your ass wasn't kicked either!"

The retort exploded out of her, loud, indignant, normal—

—and for the first time since the battle, the infirmary felt alive again.

But beneath the laughter, beneath the relief, the unspoken question hung heavy:

Is this really you?

Or just another ghost wearing your smile?

Len’s breath hitched.

Her eyes widened, her pulse thundering in her ears as she took in Towan’s casual smirk, his loose-limbed stance, the familiar rasp of his voice—

—too familiar.

Too perfect.

Her gaze darted to his posture—flawless balance, effortless control, every muscle aligned like a blade sheathed in skin.

(What…? It’s like he’s back but—)

The thought stuttered, unfinished.

Because he wasn’t.

Not really.

Beside her, Rellie didn’t blink.

Her stare burned into him, her empathic senses reaching, probing, scraping against the void where his intent should be.

(He’s changed.)

The realization settled like ice in her veins.

(He’s still empty but—)

A hitch. A fracture.

(—why does he emit so much… nostalgia?)

It clung to him, thick as smoke, a scent only she could smell. Not regret. Not sorrow.

Just the phantom ache of something lost.

Something he’d mourned so long, he’d forgotten its name.

"What about you? Len, Rellie?"

Towan’s gaze pinned them, his voice light, almost conversational—as if he hadn’t already shattered their world with the truth.

That he wasn’t theirs.

That in his timeline, Len should be dead.

That Rellie never existed at all.

The question hung in the air, sharp as a knife balanced on its edge.

Len’s throat tightened.

"Huh?"

The sound stuttered out, small, uncharacteristically hesitant. She fumbled for composure, her fingers twisting the sheets.

"We are... recovering just fine," she managed, the words stiff, overly formal, as if speaking to a stranger wearing her friend’s face.

(Which he was.)

Rellie nodded, her mind racing. Then—

A spark. A gamble.

"Would you bring us some tea?"

No hidden agenda. No probing questions.

Just tea.

Because none of them could stand yet, and the infirmary’s silence was too heavy, and maybe—

—maybe if he brought it, if he played along, it would feel normal, just for a moment.

Towan blinked.

The request threw him—something so mundane, so domestic, so utterly unlike the war-torn world he knew.

A beat.

Then, almost amused:

"Sure."

He turned, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Only then did Len and Rellie exhale, the breath rushing out of them in a shared, shuddering release.

The room felt lighter.

Or maybe that was just the ghost of hope.

"He seems normal to me," Alira said, shrugging.

Her voice carried none of the weight the others felt—just casual indifference, the kind she’d use to dismiss a bad sparring match or a boring lecture.

Len’s fingers dug into her blanket.

"There’s no way that’s normal," she countered, her voice low, edged with something brittle.

Rellie didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the door Towan had just exited.

"He acts friendly because he knows we’re supposed to be his friends," she murmured.

A pause.

"He seems to know you, though."

The words hung in the air, pointed.

Alira blinked.

"Well…" She rolled her shoulders, feigning nonchalance, but her jaw tightened just slightly. "He looked Towan enough to me."

(Looked.)

(Sounded.)

(Moved.)

But was he?

The question lingered, unspoken, as the infirmary settled back into uneasy silence.

An hour passed.

Sixty minutes that stretched like taffy, each second thick with unspoken tension.

"I guess he just went away," Len muttered, her voice flat, her hope for tea—for normalcy—flickering out.

The others didn’t respond. What was there to say?

Then—

The door creaked open.

Towan stood there, a tray balanced precariously in his hands, four teacups steaming gently, their aroma rich, spiced, unfamiliar.

"Sorry… I got lost," he admitted, the words sheepish, almost boyish, as he handed out the cups.

Rellie took a sip—

—and froze.

He’d gotten the sugar perfect.

Not just right.

Perfect.

"I apologize if it’s too sweet—or not sweet enough," Towan added, grabbing his own cup and settling into a chair. "Tried to get it just right."

Alira raised hers, the liquid dark as ink, the scent winding through her senses like a spell.

One taste.

And—

Her world narrowed.

It was otherworldly.

Not just good.

Not just perfect.

But something beyond. A blend of spices she couldn’t name, a depth that shouldn’t exist in mere tea, a warmth that settled in her chest like a long-forgotten memory.

"Where did you get this?" she breathed, genuine awe cracking her voice.

Len sipped, her eyes blowing wide.

(Holy shit, it’s good—)

The thought scorched through her mind, unfiltered, undignified—words she’d never say aloud, not with First-Class decorum choking her tongue.

But the tea demanded honesty.

And for the first time since he’d returned—

Towan smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not a ghost of one.

A real, quiet, contented smile.

Like he’d brought back more than just tea.

Like he’d remembered something precious.

"It’s not the usual tea you brew," Towan admitted, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup with absent reverence.

"I did it with Essentia."

Rellie’s cup froze halfway to her lips.

Tea.

Infused with Essentia?

Her mind stuttered, a devotee of tea culture confronted with heresy—or revelation. How had she never heard of this?

Towan caught her shock, his gaze sharpening—as if he could read her thoughts, even without Intent Essentia.

"It’s a technique my master taught me," he explained, voice soft with memory. "He called it the ‘Perfect Tea Technique.’"

A wry shrug.

"Not really original, right?"

Alira snorted, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh, as she nursed her cup, savoring each sip like it might vanish on her tongue.

"Nope," she agreed, but her tone was warm, teasing, almost fond.

Rellie leaned forward, her curiosity overriding caution.

"Could you teach it to us?"

The question hung between them, delicate as the steam curling from their cups. Not just a request—an offering. A thread to pull him closer.

Towan’s smile deepened, genuine, achingly familiar.

"Of course."

And for a heartbeat—

A memory flickered behind his eyes:

Elliot, grumbling about the heat.

Sylra, blowing on her cup with exaggerated care.

Alira, already reaching for seconds.

And his master—a silhouette wreathed in steam, laughter woven into the very leaves.

Gone.

All gone.

But the tea remained.

And for now—

That was enough.