What greets her inside the magic tower is a mess. 

But Aster’s never seen a mess as curious or fantastical as this one.

Damien leads her past tables laden with oddities and piles of half assembled machinery. An incomplete map hangs from the edge of one table, illustrations so detailed and elaborate it seems like the seas depicted on it are rolling across the parchment in inky waves. On another table, a metallic hand peeks out from a mess of wires and a poorly arranged tarp, its pinky finger missing. A corner of the room seems reserved for what looks to be discarded items, among them being a shattered silver mirror, a bronze bull head, and a mishappen bird cage.

As they approach the spiralling staircase at the centre of the room, Aster reaches out to brush her fingers against the downy feathers of a proud stuffed cockerel. With its luminous jewel-toned feathers and sparkling eyes, it almost seemed alive. 

“Don’t!”

Aster stops, turning to look at Damien quizzically. 

“Exploding chicken,” he explains.

“Exploding what?”

“Exploding chicken,” he repeats. “Trust me, you don’t want to be another one of Henry’s victims.”

There’s too much in that sentence for Aster to unpack all at once. “…The chicken has a name,” she ends up saying.

“Yes.”

“Henry. Henry the Exploding Chicken.”

“…Yes.”

“You guys cook up an exploding chicken and the best you can do is name it Henry?”

“The name is what bothers you?!”

“Damien, your mentor’s supposed to be the magical boy wonder who not only whipped up the cure for the Crimson Fever-” Aster begins to count off her fingers. “-but he also broke apart palace property for the sake of aesthetic, and kidnapped you while you were incognito just so he could recruit you as his apprentice. If the least he can’t do is concoct an exploding chicken, then I will be sorely disappointed.” She sniffs. “Horrible naming sense, though.”

Damien looks at her, stunned. Suddenly, he bursts into laughter. “You’re right,” he snickers, gesturing her forwards. “You’re absolutely right. What’s an exploding chicken, but a drop in a bucket of all the usual chaos he cooks up?”

As Damien leads her up the stairs, he points out each floor and its respective rooms as they pass by. Library, Han’s quarters, his quarters, kitchen, more junk that Han broke that they haven’t figured out how to deal with yet, storage room, crafting area, greenhouse, spare bedrooms-

“Spare bedrooms?” Aster has to ask. “What for? I thought you guys don’t really have guests over.”

“That’s true,” Damien agrees, stopping to lean against the banister languidly. “But these rooms aren’t supposed to serve as guestrooms.”

Before Aster can hound him for more details, he reaches up to yank on a string hanging from the ceiling. A hidden panel above unfolds to reveal a flight of wooden stairs, leading them to the topmost floor.

The second they emerge from the passage, Aster is bombarded by sunlight. The space is flooded with it, tall arching windows welcoming the sun to illuminate every shining glass vial and crystal beaker. While some receptacles stand empty, others are filled with a slew of varying substances, from multi-coloured liquids and crystalline grains, to vibrant powders and stoppered vapours. Aster watches as dozens of tiny translucent snails trail their way up the inside of a glass jar, a mass of jelly-like slime resting at the bottom. Once the snails reach the top, they cling onto the jar’s lid, slowly dripping off like drops of dew splattering into the goo below.

Amidst the countless vials and ingredients, as if vying for what little precious space is left, are every kind of plant. Feathery ferns and curling leaves poke out from corners while bundles of herbs and dried flowers hang from the rafters, turning the ceiling into a hanging garden.

In the middle of it all, is a man with a shock of fluorescent green hair, his back turned to them as he leans over the room’s central table. A ceramic pot sporting blue roses sits on the edge of its surface, flowers in full bloom. Aster watches as the man brushes his fingers tenderly over the petals of one of the flowers, before he raises a pair of shears to its stalk.

“Han,” Damien calls. “I brought company.”

“Hm?” The shears shut with a sharp snick, effectively severing the rose bud. Han’s back is still turned to them as his hand closes over the flower. “Yeah, yeah, tell Flynn I missed him too.”

“Han,” says Damien. “I didn’t bring Flynn with me.”

“Right, and every other person in this castle is just dying to pop in for a visit,” Han says dispassionately, as he meanders over towards the other side of the table. A small glass cauldron bubbles over a contained fire, flames licking against the sides of the bowl. Han holds his rose over the cauldron as he peels off a single petal.

“No seriously, Han. Look.”

Han looks. 

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening by a fraction as he takes in the sight of Aster beside Damien. “Actual company.”

And the room explodes in a cloud of roses.

Aster claps her hands over her nose, her eyes watering at the sudden wave of perfume that suffuses the room. Aster loves flowers as much as any other person would, but this – the scent of roses so thick, it practically claws down her throat – would make anyone’s head spin. 

“Bloody Hale- Han!” Damien chokes out, before erupting with a violent sneeze.

“Sorry, sorry, dropped the wrong one.” Han coughs, holding up a single rose petal as explanation. “Damien, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, on-“ Damien lurches as another violent sneeze leaves his body. ”-it.” 

He lifts his free hand. 

A gust of wind blows in through the wide windows, the breeze ruffling Aster’s hair as Han’s plants rustle shakily from their perches. A single swooping gesture from Damien sends the air wooshing past her, blowing across the room and right out the adjacent windows. Han slams a lid over the cauldron as the last of the gale breezes out of the room, taking with it the cloying stink of roses. 

“Good work Damien.” 

Damien waves away Han’s thanks, nose still crinkled like he’s holding back another sneeze. “Why in- achoo!” He sniffs, rubbing a hand over his nose. “Why in Hale are you making perfume?”

“No reason.” Han shrugs, snapping a metal cap over the fire. “I didn’t quite know what to do with all the roses that I got from my last project, so I thought I could do something fun with them. It seems I’ve gravely misjudged their potency; but I suppose that’s Lucre roses for you - a little goes a long way.” 

“Yeah, and too much will have you gagging for air.” Damien shoots a dirty look at the remaining roses still blooming in their pot. 

Han grins. “But look at how blue they are Damien!” He brandishes the rose pot towards him. “Aren’t they beautiful? Piff did such a wonderful job at caring for them while I was gone.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, so get those things away-“

Han shoves the flowers into his face. “You don’t understand, Damien! For so long, blue roses have been nothing but a sought after myth. A mere castle upon a cloud. But behold: this luscious blue sheen; these velvet-like petals! I have turned the dreams of florists into a reality!”

Damien recoils dramatically, ducking behind Aster to shield himself from Han’s enthusiastic assault. “Blue or not, they’re still Lucre roses,” Damien spits. “Bloody awful things.”

“I thought you liked roses,” says Aster. 

“Oh, he’s fine with roses. He just hates this variant.” Han sets the roses back onto the table, before turning back to Aster with a winning smile. “But never mind him. For starters, I’m sorry for giving you such a poor welcome, Lady Vastein.”

“How did-“

“How did I know it was you?” Han raises an eyebrow. “Your reputation precedes you, Aster.” He winks. “It’s something we have in common.”

Usually, any mention of her reputation would leave anxiety gnawing in the pit of her stomach, her thoughts racing against each other in her head. But instead of any of that much to her surprise, Aster only feels humoured.  

“Also, I’ve heard enough stories from Damien about his time in the Vastein residence. Naturally, you featured in a great many of them.”

Right, Damien had mentioned earlier about Han knowing of their shared past.

“Although-“ Han grasps his chin between his fingers, contemplative. “You’ve always been paranoid Damien, so I understand why you’re so cautious about people finding out about you and Aster; but I still don’t understand why you’ve kept your history with the Vasteins a secret from Flynn all this time.”

Damien shrugs plainly. “I just… figured he wouldn’t take it too well.” 

Han settles on the edge of the central table. “Really?” He muses, head cocked to the side. It’s only a matter of seconds before an amused smile begins creep over his face. “Scared he’d get mad at you for hogging his fiancé all this time?”

“As if,” Damien scoffs, as Aster finds herself cringing subconsciously. 

Florian? Jealous? When he never bothered to respond to her letters? When he hasn’t even shown his face a second time since the day she arrived?

Just the thought of it is laughable.

“Then why-“

The sound of hurried footsteps echo up the stairwell, cutting off the rest of Han’s words. Aster thinks she sees Damien go pale. 

“Oh shi-“

“Hey guys!” 

Florian Klars emerges from the passage, expression so bright that Aster barely makes the connection between the smiling face in front of her and the prick who’d given her the cold shoulder all those nights ago. He beams as he faces Han, turning to look at Damien. “I heard you got back yesterday, and-“ 

He freezes, gaze falling onto Aster. The smile on his face drops in an instant, expression replaced by utter shock.

Aster resists the urge to duck behind Damien.   

“You-“ Florian sputters finally. “What are you doing here?”