"I should have realized it earlier... Atabanus."
Annan narrowed his eyes slightly.
He raised his head, gazing at the Corrupted Husband slowly approaching him, and murmured in a low voice, "Though you were once the finest alchemist... your divine authority likely doesn't encompass the domain of 'spices.'"
"Well said."
The Corrupted Husband, instead of showing anger at Annan's direct address, responded in a calm and agreeable manner: "Indeed, it does not. But what of it?"
His pace neither quickened nor slowed.
Like strolling through a garden in the afternoon, he raised his pale and slender right hand, tracing mesmerizing patterns in the air like magical illusions.
There wasn't the slightest trace of air currents around him, yet the petals—of varying colors, some fresh and others dried—seemed to come alive, coiling around his fingertips.
While the previous petal resting on his fingertip had transformed into a butterfly and then disintegrated into dust mid-flight...
