She awoke to the sounds coming from the tavern.
Voices echoed through the floorboards — a mix of afternoon chatter, laughter interrupting conversations, the clinking of bowls, and the heavy thud of cups hitting tables. The city outside her window had already determined the kind of day it would be and didn't wait for her.
Reerie sat up.
She glanced at her leg. The bandage had done its job overnight, the cloth keeping the cooling paste against the burn while she slept. Now, she slowly unwrapped it, the cloth coming off in her hands and the dried herb paste flaking away from her skin. The burn was still there — it would be for a long time — the outline of the musket muzzle imprinted on her calf in a wide, raised mark, the skin around it still sensitive to touch. She pressed two fingers against its edge, checking it, then left it alone.
She reached for her dagger on the table. Slid it into her belt. Opened the door.
The tavern below was packed.
Workers on break occupied the benches, merchants who had closed their stalls early enjoyed ale, and those with evening shifts ahead were eating before the second half of their day began. The noise was layered and constant, coming from many people sharing the same space without much interaction.
The keeper was behind the counter, moving with the efficiency of someone nearing the end of their shift, determined to finish well. He noticed her coming down the stairs and nodded in greeting.
"Ghost. You caught me just in time — I'm almost done for the day." He set down what he was holding. "What can I get you?"
She approached the counter. Two fingers raised. A point at the stew pot. A finger toward the meat visible in the broth. A tearing motion for bread.
The keeper understood most of it. "Stew, bread — black bread, right?" He paused. "And what else?"
Reerie placed her coins on the counter.
He glanced at them. The amount registered slowly, then all at once — his eyes shifting from the coins to her face and back. "Oh." A pause. "Oh!"
He turned to the server across the room with newfound energy. "Oi — wheaten bread. Wheaten, not black! And extra meat in the stew! Hahaha." He turned back to Reerie, a look of delight on his face. "Take your seat, Ghost. We'll bring it over."
She moved to her usual table. Back against the wall. Facing the door. The room spread out before her, nothing behind her, every entrance in view. She sat and waited.
The food hadn't arrived yet when a chair scraped against the floor from across her.
Ben took a seat, his familiar smile already on his face, settling into it like someone would with a favorite coat. He looked like a man who had information and was relishing the fact.
"Miss Ghost." He leaned back in his chair. "I hear you caught another big fish recently."
She stared at him. Her expression revealed nothing, just as it always did, which he had long since accepted.
The stew came — thick, with a hearty portion of meat floating in the broth — along with a warm round of wheaten bread. Ben observed the food being placed on the table and watched her pick up the bread without any noticeable change in her expression.
"You don't have to say anything even if you can," he remarked. "It's showed." There was a pause, comfortably quiet. "Anyway—"
His tone changed. The smile remained, but it shifted to something more serious beneath.
"A doctor is looking for help. Needs someone to gather ingredients."
She set her bread down, paying attention.
"There's something called Lizard Tail Grass," Ben said. "It's a magical herb, that's all I know. You'll get one silver for the job."
One silver. For collecting herbs.
"The apothecary is five blocks from here," Ben mentioned. "The sign says Yumi Apothecary. You can't miss it. The doctor will provide all the details when you arrive—where to find it, how much he needs, everything."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small piece of paper and a pencil stub, writing on the table with the calm precision of someone who had done this many times before. He slid the paper over to her. Lizard Tail Grass, written in neat cursive. "Give him this. He'll understand why you're there."
Reerie took the paper, folded it once, and tucked it away.
One silver for collecting herbs. It was good pay for simple work, and she made that clear. However, it was not what caught her attention when he mentioned magical herb. A doctor who worked with magical ingredients was someone who understood magic — who engaged with it, molded it into useful items, and utilized it daily as a routine. Such knowledge resided within a person. It was not found solely in books.
She put ten copper coins on the table. Ben took them without fuss and leaned back in his chair.
She completed her meal — starting with the meat, then tearing the bread to soak up the remaining broth — and got up.
Ben remained seated, observing her departure. He did not say anything more.
Five blocks to the east.
The sign was precisely where he mentioned it would be — a wooden board above the entrance, etched with a mortar and pestle, herbs illustrated along the borders in green that had dulled but not completely vanished. Below, in neat handwriting: Yumi Apothecary. The windows were clearer than any others on the street, and through them she could see shelves packed with bottles, dried plants suspended from the ceiling in tied groups, the intricate order of a functional space.
She stepped inside.
The chime was small and clear.
The scent came before anything else — a mix of herbs and a chemical undertone, with a sweetness tinged by sharpness, and beneath it all, faintly, the smell of blood. The inside was a realm that had organized itself by rules she had yet to grasp — shelves overflowing, jars of all sizes, stacks of books that seemed to stand tall by mutual consent, and dried plants hanging in thick rows from the ceiling beams. Potion stains marked the floor in shades of purple, deep green, and something that might have once been gold. Water had pooled in the corners. The counter had dark stains that looked like blood and likely were.
Behind the counter, amidst all this, stood a child.
She paused just beyond the entrance.
He appeared to be around nine years old. His dark hair was tousled in various directions. Ink stained his fingertips, and there was a smudge on his cheek that he either hadn't noticed or had chosen to ignore. He wore a stained apron over clothes that had been wrinkled for so long that the creases had become permanent. His hands were busy — sorting dried herbs with one hand while adjusting a stack of small bottles with the other, his eyes monitoring both tasks and the door at the same time.
A half-eaten pastry lay open on a book next to him, crumbs scattered across the pages.
He looked up, his face lighting up with a grin.
"Heya!" It was bright and immediate. "Who are you? Here for medicine, or a potion, or—"
Reerie walked over to the counter and set down Ben's note without stopping.
He picked it up, squinting. One second. Two. Then his eyes widened and he slammed the paper down with both hands. "You're here for the lizard butt grass!"
Reerie blinked.
Lizard. Butt. Grass.
"Okay, so—" He was already pulling a basket from under the counter, placing it on top with a thud. "About this much. Twenty bunches — just enough to fill the basket. It looks like regular grass, mostly, but it has this pattern along the blades. Like scales. Snake scales, running the whole length. That's how you know."
He leaned on his elbows.
"It grows in Murkmire. It's a swamp on the north. On foot, it would take you a week or two, but I can lend you a horse — two days with a horse, give or take." He continued without stopping. "You want the dry spots. Like higher ground, nothing submerged. And here's the thing about it — it regrows almost instantly after you cut it. Snip, and it's already coming back from the root. That's why it's useful."
He explained its use. Potions for limb regeneration — a person who lost an arm or a leg, the potion helped regrowth over about a year. The grass was what provided the regenerative property. Rare. Hard to cultivate. Hence the job.
"One silver when you bring back twenty bunches, roots included. Fair?"
She nodded.
As he spoke, her eyes wandered.
The shelves were filled with jars, and inside the jars were various items. One jar contained a goblin baby floating in a murky liquid — small, green, with closed eyes and tightly curled limbs as if still in slumber. Next to it was the severed head of a Deep One, its neck gills spread wide, skin grey and rough. The walls were lined with boards showcasing pinned specimens — wings from pixies, dried and meticulously arranged like a collection; something with an excess of joints that could have been a young ogre's hand; bones arranged in labeled patterns. In the corner, cages were piled up, and inside the cages, young goblins pressed their faces against the bars, their tiny hands gripping the metal, soft chittering sounds escaping from them. Plants covered every other surface — some were recognizable as medicinal, while others glowed faintly, their leaves shimmering with colors that seemed impossible for plants.
Yumi noticed her gaze.
"They are my testers," he said, pointing at the specimens with the casualness of someone explaining where he keeps his kitchen knives. "And sometimes ingredients." He specifically pointed to the goblin infants. "Goblin baby meat — it has remarkable protein content. If prepared properly, it can actually be beneficial for pregnant women. It helps fetal development. I've conducted three trials. The results are very promising."
He delivered this information at the same speed and in the same tone as he did everything else.
Reerie looked at him.
There was no judgment on her face. No horror crossed her expression. She simply absorbed the information and the complete lack of context around it, coming from a nine-year-old who had already started to rearrange a row of bottles before he finished speaking.
"You don't speak, do you?" He looked up, more curious than annoyed. "That's okay. I'm Yumi, by the way."
Three seconds of silence went by.
Then he gasped — a real, sharp sound — and his eyes widened.
"You don't speak. And you have a dagger." His gaze swept over her with sudden focus. "And you look just like — oh my goodness. You're Ghost, aren't you?"
He leaned in over the counter.
"I've heard the tales! The bandits — the entire group, you took them all out by yourself and brought the leader's head to Ember Guild and everyone there was — they were scared!" He was almost bouncing. "How many were there? Was it twenty? Thirty? How did you carry the head, was it in a bag, did it — "
She didn't kill the entire group of bandits. She just assassinate the leader. She refused to battle when there's forty goblins, let alone twenty bandits.
But he didn't wait for answers. He didn't need them. The words flowed in a constant stream, bright and unending, questions merging into the next before the first had even finished.
Her gaze wandered to the book shelves behind him as he spoke.
There were numerous books — some were leather-bound, others brand new, and everything in between, with bookmarks and loose notes sticking out at angles that indicated they had been used a lot. She scanned the spines as her eyes traveled along the shelf, each title registering before moving on.
One title caught her attention.
Aqua: The Language of Tides.
She walked around the counter. She couldn't have asked — she never could — so she simply approached, her hand reaching for the spine and smoothly pulling the book from the shelf.
She held it in her hands. Noticed its weight. The corners of the cover were frayed, and the title was embossed in the leather, though the letters had faded but were still visible. This book had been used by someone. They had carried it, placed it down, and picked it up repeatedly, leaving marks on the material.
She opened it. She flipped a page. Then another.
Yumi appeared next to her. She hadn't noticed him come around the counter, so engrossed was she in the book.
"Water spells?" His voice had softened, becoming more inquisitive. "Are you interested in those?"
She glanced at him. The book remained open in her hands. She had taken it without permission, instinctively reaching for it as she would for anything she needed to inspect — and she realized that now, the realization coming a bit late.
Yumi's expression changed to one of calculation rather than a smile.
"Here's the deal," he said. "Bring me the grass — twenty bunches, roots included — and I'll give you that book too. No cost. Plus the silver."
Reerie's gaze shifted from him to the book and back again.
She nodded. Once. A nod that also signified a decision.
She carefully closed the book, the pages aligning, and returned it to the shelf with the same care she used to place any tool she planned to retrieve later.
Yumi clapped his hands once, with a bright and decisive sound.
"It was great talking to you, Ghost." He caught himself and laughed — a short, genuine laugh. "Well. I've been the one talking. But still." He waved a hand, unconcerned. "Come on, then."
He guided her to the back of the apothecary, through a narrow corridor that smelled of hay and horses, and out into a small stable yard. Four horses were in the stable, each in its own stall — a grey, two bays, and a brown mare at the far end whose head lifted as the door opened, ears forward, eyes alert and focused.
"Choose one," Yumi said, stepping aside. "I was going to lend you a horse, but — you're Ghost. It would be a bit rude of me to not just give it to you. So take your pick. Any of them is completely yours."
Reerie walked slowly along the stable.
The grey was tall and restless, shifting its weight from foot to foot, its eyes scanning her with a hint of wariness. The two bays were sturdy animals — well-fed, well-cared for, built for hard work. She evaluated each of them as she did everything, without haste, taking what the animal offered rather than what she sought.
She paused at the brown mare.
The horse looked back at her. Not with the restlessness of the grey or the calm indifference of the bays — but with something steadier than both. Her coat was a rich, warm brown, like the color of earth after rain, and her mane fell in loose waves that turned almost golden at the tips where the light hit them. She was not the largest of the four, nor the most striking at first glance. But she stood with a calm presence, a patience that was not passivity — the patience of an animal that had assessed the situation and found it manageable.
Reerie extended her hand and pressed it flat against the mare's nose.
The horse exhaled against her palm, warm and steady.
"Alloy," Yumi called from behind her, already moving to unfasten the stall. "I'm going to lie, she's not the fastest. But she's the most sensible. She's steady on rough ground, doesn't get startled easily, and will keep going long after a quicker horse would have given up." He opened the stall door. "Good choice."
Reerie saddled her without fuss — locating the gear on the rack next to the stall, she worked through the steps with the focused efficiency she applied to all practical tasks. Alloy remained still throughout, accepting the saddle's weight, the girth's tightening, the bit, all of it, with the calm cooperation of an animal that had experienced this enough times to find it routine.
She got on.
From the saddle's height, the stable yard appeared different. Smaller. Alloy shifted slightly beneath her, adjusting her stance, then became still again — not tense, just present, waiting for instructions.
Reerie glanced down at Yumi.
She nodded — slow and deliberate, the full weight of it aimed at him. He had given her the horse. He had offered the book. He had not made anything of her silence or treated it as a problem to fix. The nod conveyed all of that, as much as a nod could convey.
Yumi smiled up at her, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun.
"I'll see you when you return with my lizard butt grass." He waved. "Safe travels, Ghost."
Reerie directed Alloy north.
The mare entered willingly, her hooves making a steady sound on the cobblestones, and the city unfolded around them — the bustling afternoon streets, the noise and activity, the aroma of bread, coal smoke, and people engaged in their daily routines. Reerie sat upright in the saddle, her dagger at her side, the folded note from Ben still in her pocket, and the memory of a book spine on a shelf waiting for her return.
Aqua: The Language of Tides.
She had time to ponder it on the journey north.
She had two days.