Bells chime through the swamp.
Soft at first. Easy to miss.
Then steady.
Recognizable.
Across Two Creeks, movement falters — then quickens.
Floris pauses mid-sentence in his journal. A smile touches the corner of his mouth. "The trade wagon."
He closes the book and heads for storage.
Six chests wait against the wall, packed tight with glass and cork and months of work. He grips one and lifts. The vials clink softly as he carries it downstairs.
Outside, the bells grow louder.
The wagon emerges from the treeline like a moving house. Twelve reinforced wheels grind through mud. Iron bands brace its flanks. Fourteen thick-shouldered mules strain in harness, dragging the structure forward inch by inch.
It towers over the village when it arrives.
Doors open. Voices rise. Relief spreads faster than the wagon's shadow.
Harnesses jingle as the mules settle. The rear doors swing wide.
The trader steps out first — silver hair, long mustache, bright fabrics the swamp never produces.
"Two Creeks!" he calls. "You're still standing, I see!"
Laughter answers him.
Men climb inside. Barrels pass down. Salt. Grain. Iron tools wrapped in oilcloth. Lanterns. Rope.
Things the swamp does not give.
Floris climbs in without hesitation.
He works quickly, clearing space.
Glass vials.
Ink.
Fresh journals.
A crate of fine corks.
His attention sharpens.
When the imported cargo thins, the villagers begin loading exports. Pelts. Clay vessels. Carved tools.
Floris's chests go in last.
The trader watches the stack grow higher than usual.
"Busy season?" the man asks lightly.
"You could say that."
The trader smiles. "Your work travels further than you think. Border towns ask about you."
Floris hops down from the wagon.
"They wouldn't ask if it didn't work."
The trader laughs once. "Fair."
A villager nearby mutters, "He's better than the old alchemist ever was."
Floris ignores that.
The trader lowers his voice slightly. "Keep improving."
"I will."
They part.
Around him, the village hums with relief. Floris inspects his own crates, fingers lingering briefly on the journals. He'd begun rationing ink.
He lifts the first chest.
"Floris! Wait."
He turns.
Crystal approaches, already rubbing at her nose.
"Allergies?" he asks.
She nods, eyes watering. "Worse than usual."
"Bring that one," he says, nodding to the lighter crate.
She tries to lift it. Struggles. Manages.
"Just get it to the stairs," he says.
Upstairs, he moves straight to his journals. He finds hers quickly.
"Last time — nausea," he says.
"Light-headed," she confirms.
He scans the page. "Too much mint."
He adjusts the formula in his head.
Immediate relief first.
He crushes fresh marsh mint, steeps it briefly, strains it into a thick glass cup.
"Short-term," he says, handing it over. "Sip."
She inhales the steam before drinking. Relief softens her posture almost instantly.
"Better," she breathes.
"Dizziness?"
She shakes her head.
"Good."
He hands her fresh leaves wrapped in cloth.
"Two at a time. Hot water. I'll refine the batch."
She hugs him with one arm. "You're a miracle."
He stiffens slightly — not rejecting it, just unaccustomed.
She moves toward the stairs, then pauses. "You know," she says casually, "I'm the only one who comes up here."
He looks at her.
"The lights," she adds, glancing at the glowing vials. "They're beautiful."
He follows her gaze. He'd stopped seeing them.
"You should take the scarf off more," she says gently. "It hides too much."
He goes still. Then tightens it reflexively. "I prefer it."
She studies him a second longer than comfortable.
"Suit yourself," she says, smiling.
When her footsteps fade, Floris adjusts the scarf again. Too tight. He returns to work.
Outside, he tends his garden methodically. Harvesting only what he needs. Feeding soil. Checking roots. Inspecting hives.
The bees hum steady and calm.
"Floris! Floris!"
Otis Bramble runs toward him, clutching his arm.
"Scorpion!" Otis gasps. "Huge! Black! Nearly took my arm off!"
Floris examines the sting.
"White-clawed," he says dryly. "Does it itch?"
"Like madness!"
"Good. That means it's working."
Otis blanches. "Working?"
Floris sighs. "You'll live. Aloe."
Otis storms off, muttering.
Laughter ripples.
Cryistal hides a smile.
The rhythm returns.
"Floris! Floris!"
This time the voice cuts sharp.
Conversations die instantly.
Floris exhales once — annoyed —
Then turns.
Alvis.
Mud-caked. Twigs in his hair. Bow still in hand.
Too fast.
Not panicked.
But urgent.
Floris's posture shifts.
"You're late," he says.
"We have a problem."
The words land differently.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Certain.
Villagers watch.
Alvis grabs Floris by the arm and pulls him behind the house.
Floris doesn't resist.
And for the first time since the wagon arrived—
The village stops feeling safe.