Darius leans toward me, voice low and amused. “Oh no. She absolutely wants a roll with him.”
Fenric grins like he’s just confirmed a theory hotly debated by scholars. “I knew it!”
“Be nice, Fen.” I shake my head, trying—and failing—not to smile as I wander toward the aisle with the salves.
Fenric wastes no time.
The moment she greets us, he steps forward with that practiced charm, leaning just a little closer than necessary.
“You know,” he says, voice like honey over steel, “I’ve heard your salves work miracles.
But I have to wonder—” His smile deepens. “Is it the herbs . . . or the hands that make them?”
She blushes deeper—gods, she’s practically glowing—and starts fumbling over a response, clearly flustered.
Darius groans softly behind me. “Here we go.”
I laugh and wave them off, turning away from the performance before Fenric can dial up the theatrics. I make my way toward the far wall, where the salves are lined up in tidy rows—soothing balm, bruise poultice, fire-tinged muscle cream. The wooden shelf creaks slightly as I run my fingers along the jars.
The apothecary is cluttered in that charming, vaguely chaotic way most herbalist spaces are, with bundles of dried sprigs hanging upside-down from the rafters. Shelves overflow with jars of powdered roots, glowing tinctures, and vials sealed with wax stamped by the Clan Healers’ sigil. A faint hum of Elementalenergy lingers in the air—not magics exactly, but something old and attentive, like the herbs themselves are listening.
I’ve beensosore lately.
Thane reduced the level of protective enchantments during training—said it was time I started feeling the real impact of combat. It was meant to sharpen my instincts, force me to react faster, but gods . . . I’ve felt every hit since: the sting of wooden swords; the ache of bruised ribs; the throb in my shoulder from yesterday’s roundhouse kick that landed harder than expected.
I sigh and pick up a small jar markedRegenleaf & Ironroot—Deep Tissue Relief. The lid is wax-sealed and smells faintly of arnica, ginger, and a faint bite of something—Cayenne. Promising.
Behind me, I hear Fenric laugh again, all smooth and smug. Darius murmurs something in response, probably scolding him for flirting with someone who keepssharp toolsin reach.
I laugh to myself while gathering what I need—two jars of salve, one for sore muscles and another for bruises—and carry them to the front counter, where, unsurprisingly, Fenric is posted like he owns the place. He’s leaning casually on one elbow, voice velvety, probably spinning some line about swords and scars and how incredibly difficult his life is as a warrior.
The shopkeeper isgrinning, utterly charmed.
I roll my eyes.
Behind them, Darius is leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between fondness and exasperated amusement. He gives me a look that clearly says,he’s at it again,and I can’t help but smile.
“Just these,” I say, setting the jars on the counter.
The shopkeeper startles, like she forgot anyone else existed in the world.
“Of course!” she says quickly, cheeks flushed as she begins to wrap them in tissue paper.
Fenric doesn’t move away—of course he doesn’t—as he takes a peak at my purchases. “Oof. That bad, huh?”
I nod. “Thane turned down the enchantments . . . again.”
Fenric winces. “Brutal. No wonder you’ve been limping like a ninety-year-old blacksmith.”
“That would be the reason.”
“Figured,” he says brightly, before turning back to the shopkeeper and gesturing to me. “She’s very brave, you know. Fierce. Practically fearless.”
She giggles.
Darius shakes his head, chuckling quietly. “You done yet?”
“Not even almost,” Fenric replies with a wink.
