Chapter Text
The wind that rolled down from the Sidra had a bite to it that morning. Not cruel, not winter’s wrath — but sharp enough to slip beneath cloaks and find skin. The kind of wind that reminded you the world moved on, with or without you. The kind that asked whether you’d move with it.
I walked with my hood up and my hands tucked into the sleeves of my coat, eyes on the slick stones of the narrow alleyways that cradled my little shop like a secret. People passed me by with baskets of bread and paper-wrapped flowers. Some nodded, most didn’t. That suited me just fine.
The apothecary sat where it always had, halfway between the river and the square, tucked into a weathered stone building that leaned like it was tired. A faded wooden sign above the door read “The Apothecary” — how original — , but most people just called it the shop with the blue door.
I liked it that way.
The bell above the door gave a single, soft chime when I pushed it open. That sound was mine — I’d chosen it, tuned it, hung it with trembling fingers years ago. Not just to hear when someone entered. But to remind me that this space was real. That I existed, here.
Inside, the warmth was waiting. Not from a fire — I hadn’t lit one yet — but from the walls themselves, from the worn wood shelves and their neat rows of amber bottles, herb bundles hanging from the ceiling, soft powders and dried petals in glass. The scent of bergamot, ash bark, and clove curled in the air like memory.
My fingers moved automatically — unlocking the storeroom, checking the fresh jars from the night before, brushing dust from the counter. It was still early. Velaris hadn’t woken fully yet. That was the way I preferred it: the hush before sound, the stillness before demands.
The city was beautiful, a dream for poets, all marble and starlight, but I had no interest in its art galleries or its floating lanterns — not anymore at least — . Beauty like that had always seemed a little cruel to me. Too fragile. Too easy to break.
I liked the ugly things. Bitter roots. Cracked vials. The stubborn fight of plants that grow in poor soil.
By the second hour, the shop was humming in the soft way it always did. The bell rang, and I didn’t have to look up to know it was Aeluin.
He came every week — a retired cloth-dyer who still carried the scent of ink and wool on his hands.
“Morning, girl,” he said, with a nod and a wheeze. “Same as usual.”
“You sleeping?” I asked, already reaching for the tin with the lavender blend I made just for him. “Or just pretending you are?”
Aeluin gave a dry laugh. “If I was sleeping proper, I wouldn’t be here beggin’ for leaves.”
“You’re not begging. You’re paying,” I said, and wrapped the tin with a strip of linen. “This time, don’t steep it more than five minutes. You overbrew it again, it won’t knock out a field mouse.”
He left a few coppers on the counter — more than I charged — and didn’t wait for change. He never did.
“You should come by the square,” he said before the door closed behind him. “They’ve set up a market for the solstice. Music, food, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t do crowds.”
He gave me a look. Not pity, not judgment. Just… recognition. Then he nodded once and left.
Alone again.
⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
The second bell of the morning came with the scent of wet stone and steel. An Illyrian — tall, broad-shouldered, wings tucked neatly beneath his cloak. Draxen, I remembered. We’d only spoken a few times before.
"You’re up early," he said, pulling his hood back and ruffling damp hair.
I gave a small nod, already reaching for the tincture I guessed he’d come for — something for sore muscles or a bruised rib. "Trouble flying?"
"Trouble sparring," he replied with a grin, eyeing the shelf like he was looking for something else entirely. “Your stuff works better than whatever my partner stashes in his desk.”
“You’re still using it wrong.”
Draxen gave a mock-wounded look. “Can’t I just appreciate your brewing skills without the lecture?”
I let the faintest smile curl the corner of my mouth. “That would be new.”
He leaned against the counter, casual, like someone who didn’t quite know what to do with stillness. “You always this cheery in the morning?”
“You always this nosy for no reason?”
He barked a laugh, genuinely amused. I handed him the small dark-glass bottle, carefully labeled.
"Thanks," he said, slipping it into his jacket. But instead of leaving, he looked around — really looked. At the half-lit corners, the shelves, the care in every label and placement. His gaze was warm, but sharp. The kind that sees more than it should. “You ever think of moving closer to the city center? You’d have more customers.”
I arched a brow. “You want more people to know where I live?”
“Fair enough,” he said, that smirk of his deepening with approval. “Still. You’ve got a talent.”
“I’ve got quiet. That’s enough.”
He lingered, like he wanted to say more, but finally just gave a nod and turned toward the door. The bell jingled behind him, the wind tugging at his cloak as he vanished into the street.
The shop was quite again.
I leaned against the counter and listened to the silence. Not empty, not lonely. Just quiet. And in that quiet, I breathed.
This was my space. My rhythm. My peace.
So when the bell chimed again — softer this time, like a fingertip on glass — I knew before I turned that something was different.
She stepped inside, cloak damp at the edges, the color of the deepest red — a shade that would’ve blended into shadows if not for the sheen of rain on the velvet. Her hair, golden and impossibly bright, fell in a braid over one shoulder, and her expression was open in that diplomatic sort of way — welcoming, unreadable, disarming.
She seems like someone used to being watched.
Not in a vain way — not the kind that demanded attention — but the way people moved when they were accustomed to it. Like she was always bracing for something. Praise or attack, I couldn’t tell.
I didn’t need more than a second to place her. I saw her in the city, everyone knows her.
The Morrigan.
A member of the Night Court.
The High Lord’s third in command.
She didn’t introduce herself, but I didn’t expect her to. Instead, she stepped forward and said, “I was passing by,” voice warm but measured, “and your shop looked… inviting.”
My hands didn’t still over the bundles I was sorting. “It’s open.”
Her eyes moved over the room with genuine interest, not feigned for politeness. “What do you prepare here? Herbs? Brews? Tinctures?”
“All of the above,” I said. “Oils, powders, teas. Salves. Tonics for the body. Others for the mind.”
She nodded, stepping closer — not into my space, but toward a low shelf lined with small dark vials, all unlabeled.
“You work alone?”
I gave her a look. She didn’t press.
After a quiet moment, she turned back to me. “Do you make truth serums?”
The question was clear, but her tone was carefully neutral — too practiced to be idle curiosity. She didn’t say who they wanted the truth from, or why.
“Yes.”
“Subtle ones?”
“Yes.”
Something flickered behind her gaze. Not surprise, but something adjacent. Approval, maybe.
“I need one that doesn’t taste like anything,” she said. “One that doesn’t slow the tongue or dull the mind. One that won’t be noticed until it’s too late.”
I tied off the sprig of dried anise root I was wrapping and finally met her eyes. “How long do you want it to last?”
“A few minutes. Long enough for answers.”
I nodded once, then turned to the back shelves without another word. I didn’t ask who it was for. I didn’t ask why. She didn’t offer.
And that, oddly, felt like an understanding.
I took down two jars — one filled with crushed veritas blossoms, another with pale green thistle seeds. From a third tin, I pulled a small folded parchment containing a fine white powder that shimmered faintly in the light.
I began measuring in silence.
Behind me, the woman wandered, careful not to touch anything. Her gaze moved to the bone charm hanging above the archway — one of the old ones. A ward against liars. She didn’t comment on it.
When I turned back, she was already watching me.
“This won’t compel truth,” I said. “It’ll only lower the resistance to speaking it. The mind will want to keep secrets, but the tongue won’t quite cooperate.”
“That’s all we need.”
I folded the blend into a black wax paper and tied it with string. No label. No instructions. If she needed this, she’d know how to use it.
“Four silvers,” I said.
She paid in silence. Then, without reaching for the bundle yet, she studied me a moment longer. Not rudely. Not with suspicion. Just with… interest.
“Most apothecaries wouldn’t hand this over without a dozen questions.”
“Then most apothecaries waste breath.”
That made her smile — small, almost private.
“I’m Morrigan,” she offered then, with a slight bow of her head.
“I know.”
She paused — not offended, just curious. “And you are?”
“Y/N”
A flicker of recognition, maybe in the name. Maybe not. But she said nothing else. Just tucked the packet into her cloak, nodded once, and turned for the door.
“It suits you.”, then she vanished.
I didn’t answer.
The bell chimed as she left, and the silence folded around me again — but not quite the same silence as before.
Something had shifted.