The arbitrator's interference marked the duel's end. As such murmurs of fascination began to spread. Under the fading light the stormy cyclone dissipated while ice fell. Water splashed; throwing the audience into in avoidance. Within it all Annabella stared skywards. All the while Roy interrogated Menor for that sass.

  A simple sigh became the result of fruitless questioning. Giving a displeased stare Roy turned to the other participant. Who held a intense glare and still glowed sapphire with a frozen staff still in hand. Only after several minutes of careful persuasion that such pride released the enhanced form. The shimmering azure faded along with the evanescent glow of that final magic.

  Feeling the melting ice in her hand Annabella gave it a weak twirl. Shortly tossing the staff to the side. Distraught hung. In silence girl walked away. The only words that came were in regards to the bargain. Her end would be kept.

  Having recovered from nausea Cymir jogged over. The field was filled with salted scents different from what he knew prior, yet something smelt off. Regardless he could not help but glance at the leave lass. Never expecting her character to hold such a face. Wasn't one of her defining traits an unflattering will rooted in egoism? Especially during a bout as small as this. Those words escaped his mouth.

  Menor sighed at the youth's head tilt. Unfortunately the moment called for a brisk pace. Turning his companion around he pushed them towards the exit. Despite the boon the coming nuisance almost made it unworthwhile. Private examinations existed for a reason. Those recruiting hounds were tenacious.

  Raising her voice Roy drew the crowd's attention. With a delighted expression, she gave a knowing glace at the feeling pair. Despite dreading event management the trade was worthwhile. The day's moments were enough gossip for weeks to come. But... she did have to explain why the duel did not follow the prior promise. With confidence- she diverted the problems to another and fled.

  As the pair moved through the hallway Menor continued to push Cymir forward. The latter complained that Summer's Flurry should have not been used in such a manner. A magic to remember the times long past. One that held a special meaning. To be used as prior was made unfit for its purpose. Inconceivable. An insult to symbolism!

  "It worked," Menor said in a voice monotone.

  "Worked!?" Cymir repeated, "The magic mimics the blooming of solar moss during spring! It has cultural significance for Orcer!"

  "I guess it's bright,"

  "It represents the harmony of the life. Acting as a signifier that all aren't different! Have some respect!"

  "Says the one who used it to bargain."

  "That's- that's something different!"

  Menor frowned with narrowed eyes. On the other hand, the youth quickly changed the topic's focus. Pointing out how the dual felt one-sided in a sense. Annabella showed her heritage's full might. Overwhelming and incandescent. Yet his companion fought in a contrary nature. The number off magics he used could have been counted in a single hand. A disappointing showcase of magic.

  A laugh came in response. How else would the Peninsula fight off Orcer's magical arts? Gicma existed well before the creation of magi. To fight an art with such an overwhelming reputation needed more than direct confrontations. Especially when the lass brought forth her enhanced form. A shown measure to the heights of where she stood. Those words puzzled the youngster; recalling many moments where Magus and Giciama went magic for magic.

  "Still you could of done a lot more," Cymir pondered.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "For the thaws to sprout the snow must melt," Menor replied.

  "What does that mean-"

  Cymir crashed into a tower of boxes. Stumbling a few steps before stacks of papers pelted the unfortunate soul to the floor. A single swear noted his tumble. Wordlessly standing there, with his arms still out stretched, Menor turned to the man who carried the boxes. A sense of awkward concern arose and led to apologetic words. Only to be met with an arguably record-breaking groan. The fellow had eyes of sorrow. With a face full of studs showing apparent signs of drowsiness.

  Hearing the single-tone sound the two perpetrators stared at each other. One scratched their head as the other sighed. The prior argument quickly faded as they helped collect the scattered mess. Scanning through the documents several papers caught Menor’s eyes. When asked the sleep-deprived man explained, with a yawn, those papers were the latest submitted research. Freshly transcribed from the press system.

  "Oh?" Cymir spoke, "These are like blueprints. This one is an arm?"

  "Yes..." the man yawned, "From the... Hachure folks. They've been messing with those. Something about desk space I heard. The Tacheo Association seemed interested."

  Displeased, Menor tossed several papers into an empty box. Calling them obsolete once the city of Hachure became involved. The exhausted man gave a melancholic laugh. Speaking in woes he cried that no matter what new discoveries arrived at his desk he could not help but question what fantastical breakthroughs already antiquated it. In contrast Cymir felt a sense sense of deja vu when peaking at the papers. He swore the words came from the common tongue but somehow their arrangements looked foreign.

  Collecting the pages, the man wholeheartedly thanked the two. Before walking off he joked that they should also help sort the papers. Retorting, Cymir said to let the mechanical arms do it instead. Chuckling, the man repeated those words before falling silently. Soon sprinting off as if chased by spirits. Such a speed caught the youngster by surprise. When was paperwork so exhilarating?

  Returning to the front counters the pair bantered about such. Roy, who resumed her duties, complained about uneaten lunch. To think the entire midday had became consumed by curiosity. Flipping through the paperwork she read off the risks and conditions in monotone. All the warnings flew over Cymir's head. Only hearing sparse words. Regulations, zones, limits, and bla bla bla. Perhaps his companion noted everything? Menor seemed the type. Either way the pair signed their names.

  Organizing the papers, the receptionist rolled away with a spin. Once again sliding her chair to the wooden door she knocked and leaned in. Waiting, Cymir tapped on the wooden counter in anticipation. After all, once the day passes everything would start. In comparison Menor displayed patience. Quietly playing with a loose string tied to his wrist.

  It seemed the receptionist would not return quickly. Even here bureaucracy was boring, Cymir thought. With not but time the youth's eyes darted around searching for something to sate his attention. To such wanderlust eyes a bundle of shimmering flowers caught them. Recalling a floral field. Somewhere not far from Estuary a town of flowers swayed in the breeze. Perhaps one day he would walk among those blossoms. Where those old promises held the scent of pollen and sweetness.

  A sneeze ruined the delusion. Roy had returned with several folders and metallic cards. She rubbed her nose and handed the cards to the pair. A plethora of symbols were embedded into them. Opening a few folders the receptionist showed the types of general labor requests available. Akin to a lit fuse Cymir pounced at the hunting requests. Especially for ones in the Northern Greatwoods and the Forest of Dolls. To such desires two pairs of eyes stared in silence.

  Walking out of the building Cymir could not help but utter frustration. They received their combat authorizations, or would be, but instead of hunting its herb foraging. A drastic and immensely disappointing turn of events. He complained that the former would net greater benefits and advantages in the future. Even the opportunity to claim bounties and treasures unseen to the world. Those words brought forth concern from Menor.

  As Cymir whined, a person ran past carrying a pure, floral scent. Stopping, he turned. That's…

  Tanned hair that shone red in sunlight. With a braid akin to a tail dragged behind a figure of deceptive fragility. Such thoughts brought back to days afar. Bored curiosity within innocent and cold memories. How did it go again?

  A young girl who sought for dreams. Always extending a hand with a smile. Through misfortune and blessings she stood steadfast. Would her face hold that boundless optimism he knew? That kindness? Perhaps. Yet...

  Menor called out, “Someone you know?”

  “Hm?” Cymir replied, “Ah, maybe. She… looked familiar.”

  “To think simple herbs would dishearten you so much you fall for buds.”

  “Shut up.”

  Pushing Menor away Cymir took one last glimpse back. A single odd thought lingered.

  She shouldn't be here yet.