“I won’t,” she replies, sounding amused, but he believes her. “Why not cast an illusion? It seems like it would be easier.” Seokga had spent ten long minutes fixing minute details on Hwanin’s face, and wincing as bone and skin shifted.

“How much do you know about illusion work?” he asks, shedding his pants, as well.

“Not much,” Kisa admits, sounding curious. “The Seokga shamans I knew—your shamans—went flinging them around like confetti. Illusions of rabid animals, frightening monsters…Those were the popular sort.”

—they were—terrifying—

“That’s mere child’s play.” He can’t repress a snort of disdain. “They have only a modicum of my powers. My shamans are able to create illusions but can’t access the well of power I can. When I work with illusions, I make them not only look real, but feel real. If I were to create the illusion of a rabid animal, I could also create the feeling of its hot breath, the exact experience of teeth sinking into flesh. Whoever’s unlucky enough to be attacked would believe they were being ripped to shreds—their brains would process it as real. Although the animal is not, technically, real, their pain would be. It’s a delicate process,” he adds proudly, “and requires extensive training and control.” As he smooths out the dark blue fabric of the hanbok he’s just donned, he worries that he’s frightened Kisa off. But when he turns, he sees that she’s open-mouthed and bright-eyed, staring at him like he’s hung the moon.

It’s intoxicating. Seokga feels quite drunk.

“I don’t suppose,” Kisa says, “that you could cast an illusion for me right now?”

His lips twitch mischievously and Kisa blinks in surprise.

—so strange—Hwanin would—never smile like that—so wicked—but kind—at once—

“What would you like?” he asks, and feels like a complete bumbling fool as she grins at him. Seeing Kisa so excited is his drug of choice.

“The rabid animal!”

“Absolutely not,” says Seokga.

“For research purposes—”

“No.” This time, those pleading eyes will not work on him.

“Fine.” She huffs, looking incredibly peeved. “I suppose a rain cloud will do.”

“A rain cloud?” Seokga asks, delighting in how she blushes.

“I just—I love when it storms.”

For some reason, that small admission—this tiny detail about her—is so precious to him that for a moment, he can barely breathe.

“I do, too,” he whispers and then is promptly and absolutely humiliated when affection courses down the thread from his end to hers—a blazing hot pink color. The red thread loops itself into one big heart, and he glowers at it, half-fearful of Kisa’s reaction.

Just friends. Just friends.