The air in the Wizteria garden hung heavy and sweet, a purple haze of fragrant blossoms dripping from gnarled branches overhead. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, painting shifting patterns on the stone path where you and Rafayel strolled, hand in hand.

You, a Hunter blessed with a playful spirit and a mind as sharp as any blade, felt utterly at ease here, away from the usual grind. Beside you, Rafayel, the renowned artist whose reputation preceded him in every corner of the world, was just Rafayel, handsome, dramatic, and currently sketching with intense focus on a small pad resting on the smooth bark of a thick Wizteria branch.