𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳, 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨.

“Nonsense.” Harumasa puts the satchel in Wise’s hand, silken and full and tied with woven gold. “Think of it as an advance. I’ll be needing more tea.”

“It’s very generous of you, but it doesn’t… feel right, to just take this for so little. It’s like I’m taking advantage of you.”

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, Harumasa doesn’t say, keeps smiling, keeps offering,

“I can list down the blend for you, if you want.” Wise still doesn’t take it, puttering around behind the counter, organizing bottles and parchments and tending to the herbs and flowers by the windowsill, 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘦.

“It was just tea.” Wise says without taking it, without even looking at it, and it’s fine, it’s fine, it doesn’t sting to be ignored, it doesn’t wound his pride 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭, to have his gift snubbed, like it isn’t worth his 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦.

“It was very good tea.”

“For the rejuvenation spell.” Harumasa tells the apothecarist, nonchalant and off-hand, sliding the satchel of feathers across the counter like it isn’t worth a small mountain of gold and a few dozen firstborns. “I don’t know what you put in it, but it really saved my life on that last job.”

He could sell them. A limited-edition item for his most dedicated of fans, special release, collector’s merchandise, buy one, split it into ten for all of your friends, and you’d all be set for life.

“Another one?”

Instead, this is what he does.

Magic works on intention, on connection, equivalent exchange— 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦— and a tengu feather, rare and difficult to obtain, is a very fair price for almost any desire.

Tengu feathers are also very pretty.