"Let's go buy my dignity."
The bell over the apothecary door gave a soft, musical chime as they stepped inside, the sound at odds with the weight in the air.
The shop was narrower than it looked from outside, shelves lining both walls and crowding inward in crooked rows. Glass vials and stoppered bottles filled every inch of space, their contents glowing faintly or lying dull and sullen in the lantern light. Labels in neat script proclaimed names like Dragon's Last Roar, Third Youth, Nightlong, Unbreakable, Endless Harvest. Some of the jars contained things that still moved—sluggish tentacles, a floating eyeball that drifted to follow them, a small plant that curled its leaves when Lyan's cloak brushed past.
It smelled like herbs, dust, and faintly singed hair.
Behind the counter stood an older woman with sharp black eyes and a tight coil of grey-streaked hair. Her sleeves were rolled up, her apron was spotless, and her smile was the kind that saw straight through a purse.
