The rain had stopped shortly before dawn broke, but Mirior still retained the cold dampness of the previous night in its very bones.
Threads of dirty water ran through the uneven joints of the stone pavement, gathering beside the thresholds of dark wooden houses, while heavy drops continued to fall from the eaves whenever a gust of wind cut through the narrow alleys. The city was beginning to awaken at a slow and cautious pace. Wooden carts creaked along the soaked streets, merchants lifted the heavy shutters of their stalls with the dry snap of locks, and the aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery mingled with the acrid smell of wet earth and the gray smoke beginning to rise from the chimneys.
Akel walked without hurry, leading his horse by the supple leather reins. The animal followed at a slow pace, still drowsy after the exertion of the previous day's journey. As they passed a small shop squeezed between two buildings of overlapping wooden planks, Akel stopped to read the wooden sign hanging above the doorway. The horse took two more distracted steps before realizing it was alone; it stopped abruptly, turned its muzzle, and looked at him from the corner of its eye as though the interruption to their journey were an unjustified offense committed by its owner.
"Wait here," Akel instructed without changing his tone.
The animal lowered its neck and began stretching its muzzle toward a pile of dry hay leaning against the neighboring wall.
Akel gave the reins a short tug before its teeth could reach the straw.
"No."
The horse raised its brown eyes, holding his gaze for several seconds in silent defiance. Akel maintained eye contact before tying the lead to an iron ring embedded in the masonry.
"Five minutes."
Above the weathered oak door, the words were barely legible beneath the effects of time and crumbling plaster:
Edran — Alchemy, Herbs & Remedies
Akel pushed the door open.
A small bronze bell rang above the doorway with a sharp chime, and the dense atmosphere of the interior immediately surrounded him. The shop was much deeper than its cramped facade suggested. Dark shelves covered nearly every wall up to the exposed-beam ceiling, crowded with thick glass bottles, linen pouches tied with twine, and small glazed ceramic jars. Dozens of bundles of dried plants hung upside down from hooks in the ceiling, swaying slowly in the cold draft that entered through the open door.
Behind a counter polished smooth by years of use, an elderly man with stooped shoulders and thinning ash-gray hair ground something with rhythmic movements in a heavy soapstone mortar. He did not raise his eyes immediately.
"If you've come to buy something, wait," the old man said, his voice rough and dry as oak bark. "If you've come to ask the price, wait for that too."
Akel took two steps toward the counter and slightly inclined his head to examine the whitish powder collecting at the bottom of the mortar.
"And if I want to know why you're in such a bad mood this early?"
The old man stopped moving the pestle and finally raised his deeply wrinkled, sun-spotted face.
"Then you'll have to wait even longer."
Akel allowed the faintest hint of a smile to appear at the corners of his lips.
"Fair enough."
The man resumed grinding the plant matter.
"What are you looking for?"
"Simple healing potions. Antidotes for common poisons. And something to restore my strength before my body demands payment for the road."
This time, Edran stopped working and examined him more closely. His small, sharp eyes traveled over the worn leather of Akel's long sword sheath, the patches of dried mud on his high boots, and the recent moisture darkening the shoulders of his traveling cloak.
"You don't look like someone who buys potions merely as a precaution."
"Perhaps I'm simply more cautious than I look."
"Prudent men usually carry more luggage and fewer scars."
Akel rested his thumb against the sword's pommel.
"I carry enough."
Edran gave a nasal snort that came dangerously close to a sarcastic laugh.
"Everyone says exactly that before they need the one tool they left at home."
Akel did not argue. Instead, he extended his gloved hand and picked up one of the small glass bottles arranged on a wooden tray beside the counter. The reddish liquid inside was almost translucent, leaving a thin, sluggish film sliding along the inner wall of the glass when he tilted it toward the weak light of the oil lamp.
"What's inside?" Akel asked.
Edran raised a gray eyebrow.
"Do you usually question the formula before buying medicine?"
"When I'm the one who has to swallow it, yes."
The alchemist seemed to consider the answer for a moment before giving a slight nod.
"Sensible."
He took another bottle from the counter and placed it beside the first.
"This batch was distilled three days ago. Ground moonroot, wild bitterleaf, filtered silverflower extract..."
"Sheep's blood," Akel finished quietly.
Edran's hands froze in midair.
For several seconds, the silence of the shop was broken only by the rhythmic dripping of the late rain running from the roof outside. The old man stared at Akel with genuine surprise beneath his thick eyebrows.
"You recognized it by the smell?"
"By the iron scent beneath it and the density of the film on the glass."
A thin, satisfied smile appeared on the old man's lined face.
"Then you've seen this preparation before."
"A few times."
"And you know why it's there?"
"To stabilize the reaction between the root and the silver extract before the mixture ferments and loses its potency."
Edran placed both palms on the wooden counter and leaned forward.
"You understand considerably more than you appear to for an ordinary mercenary."
Akel carefully returned the bottle to the tray.
"Not much. Just enough not to drink whatever garbage someone puts in front of me at an inn."
"That has saved more lives than most swords," Edran admitted, taking the bottle and returning it to a shelf protected from the light. "The blood is measured in tiny drops during decantation. It isn't the healing element itself; it merely acts as a biological ballast to keep certain volatile components under control while the solvent reacts."
"And if they get the measurement wrong?"
"Then the man standing over the cauldron learns the hard way why precision scales exist."
Akel stared at him.
"Seen it happen?"
"Never to me."
"To someone you knew?"
Edran resumed working the pestle, reducing the last pieces of dried root to a fine powder.
"An apprentice I had fifteen years ago."
"What happened to him?"
"The entire potion turned into a blue, viscous mass that smelled like rotten sulfur."
Akel waited several seconds for the rest of the story. When the alchemist added nothing, he asked:
"That's it?"
"You sound disappointed," Edran remarked dryly.
"I expected an explosion. Something that took the roof off."
The old man let out a hoarse laugh.
"So did I. But the boy was lucky. He only lost three days of sleep cleaning the copper cauldron and trying to figure out where he'd misjudged the ingredients."
Akel picked up another container, cylindrical and sealed with dark wax.
"And this?"
"Strength tonic."
He pulled out the cork and brought the neck close to his nose. A faint expression of disgust creased his forehead.
Edran noticed immediately.
"Not pleasant to the nose?"
"The smell isn't particularly inviting."
"It wasn't prepared to be served at noble banquets."
Akel examined the thick amber liquid against the light.
"What causes that smell of rotten earth?"
"Pure gentian, black alder bark, and a few bitter herbs dried in the shade."
"And the taste?"
"Horrible."
Akel raised his crimson eyes toward him.
"At least you're honest with your customers."
"If I lie now, you'll find out after the first spoonful in the middle of the forest. Armed men who feel deceived in the wilderness tend to come back rather angry."
"A poor way to keep loyal customers."
Edran smiled crookedly.
"Worse would be losing them because they died before paying the bill."
A nearly imperceptible laugh escaped Akel's throat.
The old man began arranging the bottles on a clean wooden board.
"How many are you taking?"
"Two strength tonics. Four healing potions sealed with wax."
"And antidotes?"
"Three small bottles."
Edran nodded and began retrieving the containers from the side shelves, moving with the methodical agility of someone who knew the exact position of every bottle without needing to look twice.
While he waited for the items to be gathered, Akel let his gaze wander across the rest of the workshop. There was much more than simple counter medicines. Wooden drawers displayed labels bearing the names of rare seeds, tree bark from the far north, and mineral powders in vivid colors. In a darker corner, beside the unlit fireplace, a smaller shelf held bottles of unusual shapes, kept apart from the ordinary merchandise.
Akel pointed toward them with his chin.
"Those over there seem to be kept separate for a reason."
Edran followed the direction of his gaze without hurry.
"They are."
"Why?"
"Because they're not for sale."
"Then why keep them there?"
"Because I haven't decided whether I should finish them or simply throw them into the river."
Akel remained silent for a moment, watching the murky reflections of the lead-sealed bottles.
"Advanced alchemy?"
"Some are raw compounds made from unstable ores. Others are mixtures I started years ago and never had the courage—or the stupidity—to finish distilling."
"And why not finish them?"
Edran closed a small wooden box on the counter with a dry snap.
"Because some things in this world work much better when left unfinished."
The answer made Akel examine the shelves with renewed attention.
"You know a great deal about this craft."
"I've worked with it for more winters than I care to remember."
"And what about magic?"
The old man hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, setting the stone pestle down on the table.
"That's a completely different conversation."
Akel waited, resting his shoulder lightly against the counter.
"Alchemy is science and patience," Edran explained, placing both calloused hands on the wood. "It depends on ingredients harvested at the right time, proper preparation, temperature control, proportions, and purification time. Anyone with enough patience can study it. It can be taught to anyone with discipline. You make a mistake, find where you went wrong with the measurements, and try again."
"And magic isn't like that?"
"Not remotely. Mages are born with that spark inside them. They can spend their entire lives refining control over that innate gift, but an ordinary man will never be able to conjure even a spark simply by reading books, no matter how long he spends bent over a parchment."
Akel stared at the ceiling covered in dried leaves.
"So an alchemist can study his entire life without ever casting a spell."
"And still prepare elixirs and acids that a mage wouldn't even know where to begin distilling."
Akel nodded slowly.
"Sounds like a fair division."
Edran gathered the selected bottles.
"The world rarely cares about fairness."
The Hunter kept his gaze fixed on a cluster of blackened, twisted roots hanging beside a crucifix made of wrought iron.
"And witchcraft?"
The old man did not answer immediately. He pulled out a curved-bladed knife and began peeling a thick root over a clay bowl, removing thin slices with surgical precision.
"Why the sudden interest?"
"Road stories. You always hear something at inns."
"Inn stories usually mix ignorance with fear and call the result truth."
"That's exactly why I'm asking someone who deals with it."
The knife continued its measured work against the woody bark.
"Witchcraft is a term people use to shove everything they don't understand into the same sack. Some people are born with magical talent and choose to live isolated in the woods, and the farmers quickly call them witches out of sheer fear. But there are also those who were born without any gift and seek dangerous shortcuts to obtain power."
"Rituals," Akel said flatly.
"Among other, worse things."
"Blood sacrifices?"
Edran slowly raised his face. His expression had not changed dramatically, but the stiffness in his posture did not escape Akel's trained eyes.
"You pay too much attention to things you shouldn't."
"It's a habit that tends to keep me alive."
"A dangerous habit."
The alchemist resumed chopping the root, though his rhythm was visibly more cautious.
"There are rituals that require blood, pacts, and things that should never be touched. Others depend only on infusions of poisonous plants gathered beneath the right moon. It all depends on what a person is willing to pay for what they desire."
"And you sell herbs to that kind of person?"
Edran slowly exhaled through his nose.
"I sell leaves, roots, and minerals. I don't sell intentions."
Akel held the old man's penetrating gaze.
"You don't seem very comfortable with that distinction."
"And I shouldn't."
The old man poured the chopped pieces into a glass bowl.
"If a man comes in here and I know for certain that he intends to poison the village well or slaughter a goat over a profane altar in the forest, I'll throw him out with a broom. But I can't open the head of every hunter or stranger who crosses this door to find out what's going on inside before handing them a handful of aconite."
Akel nodded slowly, understanding the merchant's dilemma.
"So you control what is within your reach."
"It's all we can do in this forgotten land."
For several moments, neither said anything. Outside, a gust of wind made the windowpanes tremble softly, sending a fine, scattered rain against the wood.
Akel pulled a small coin pouch from his belt.
"How much for everything?"
Edran calculated the cost of the healing potions, tonics, and antidotes in his head and named the price.
Akel frowned slightly.
"Expensive for a poor province like Mirior."
"Fresh, properly filtered ingredients are expensive to gather beyond the swamps."
"And the sheep's blood?"
"Almost free."
Akel placed the silver and copper coins on the waxed counter.
"At least one thing in this city has a reasonable price."
Edran counted the coins with his fingertips and began arranging the glass bottles inside a reinforced canvas bag with straw-padded dividers.
"I'll also include a jar of ointment for burns and lacerations."
"I didn't ask for that."
"Consider it a gift."
Akel opened the small clay jar and examined the thick, whitish paste.
"What's in it?"
"Ground whiteleaf, purified pine resin, and sheep's lard."
Akel raised his crimson eyes.
"Sheep again?"
"They're much more useful than most people realize."
"Apparently."
"And cheap. Never underestimate a combination that's both inexpensive and functional."
Akel closed the container and placed it in the side pocket of the saddlebag.
Edran tied the canvas bag shut and pushed it across the counter.
"Just don't skimp on the antidotes if things get ugly out there."
Akel fastened the bag to his belt.
"Why the warning?"
The old man studied him for a long moment before answering.
"Because men who make a living hunting monsters in the wilderness tend to believe they know every danger they might encounter along the way. Usually, they discover they were completely wrong when the poison has already paralyzed their legs."
Akel remained still.
"I know."
Edran studied the pale features and controlled calm of the young Hunter.
"You really do," the old man murmured, without a trace of doubt.
Akel took two steps toward the exit and placed his hand on the iron handle.
"I hope your potions are still good when I need them."
"And I hope you're still alive to come back and complain about their quality if they fail."
Akel glanced over his shoulder. This time, the old alchemist wore a genuine smile between the wrinkles.
"Sounds like a good agreement."
The bell rang clearly when Akel pulled the door open and stepped into the fresh morning air.
---
Outside, he found his horse patiently chewing a tuft of hay it had managed to pull from the neighboring pile with the tip of its lips.
Akel stopped in front of the animal and watched it in silence for a few seconds. The horse raised its head, meeting his gaze with a piece of yellow straw still hanging from the corner of its mouth, showing not the slightest sign of remorse.
Akel said nothing. He simply untied the lead from the iron ring.
The horse chewed twice more and swallowed.
"Let's go."
They resumed walking down the main street, which was now beginning to fill with the morning bustle.
They had not gone more than two blocks when a rough, thunderous laugh caught Akel's attention. The sound was accompanied by a chorus of exclamations and irritated murmurs growing louder near the center of the market square. It did not seem like a violent fight with drawn blades; no one was bleeding on the ground, and the merchants continued weighing vegetables and counting coins at their stalls, although several people had stopped to watch the commotion.
Akel could have simply continued toward the inn.
Instead, he slowed his pace.
At the center of the small gathering, he recognized two unmistakable figures.
The first was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a reinforced leather jerkin over a light tunic. His blond hair was tied loosely behind his head, with stray strands falling over his temples, and a short, neatly trimmed beard framed his square jaw. Even while standing casually among the local mercenaries, there was a quiet steadiness to his posture that made him impossible to ignore.
Bjorn.
Beside him, gesturing vigorously with his short, calloused hands, stood Rurik. The dwarf had thick red hair and a full beard of the same color that descended to the middle of his chest, divided into small braids secured with dull brass rings. His short, muscular legs were planted firmly in the mud, and a short-handled axe hung from the side of his broad belt. There was something deeply familiar about the way he carried himself in the middle of the commotion, completely at ease in the kind of uproar that would have made any sensible man uncomfortable.
Four months.
That was exactly how long it had been since Akel had last seen them leave through the valley.
Four months did not seem like much in the solitary routine of the road—until you came face-to-face with the same familiar faces again.
Akel stopped several yards away, watching the argument.
"You cheated in the count!" shouted a red-faced mercenary, pointing a finger at the dwarf.
Rurik spread his arms with theatrical indignation.
"I didn't cheat, you turnip-head. I merely interpreted the rules of the challenge in a way that greatly favored my chances of winning."
"That's exactly what cheating means!"
Bjorn, who was leaning against a wooden post and watching everything with an amused half-smile, decided to intervene in a calm voice.
"I tried explaining that to him before the third mug, friend."
Rurik turned his entire body toward Bjorn, the braids in his beard shaking.
"You should be defending me, you forgetful bastard!"
"I would," Bjorn replied without flinching, "if you happened to be right."
Several people around them muffled their laughter.
Rurik ran a heavy hand through his red beard, grumbling.
"You're both building a completely unfair and tarnished reputation for me in this city."
Bjorn raised a blond eyebrow.
"You bet silver coins on a contest to see who could drink a pitcher of dark beer faster against three lumberjacks from Mirior."
"And I almost won!"
"You lost badly."
"By half a mouthful!"
"You still lost."
Rurik opened his mouth to unleash another torrent of excuses, but stopped when he noticed that Bjorn had stopped paying attention to the argument and was staring intently past his shoulder.
"What now, Bjorn? Lost your tongue?"
"Look behind you, Rurik."
The dwarf spun on his heels, adjusting the butt of his axe.
For a moment, he stood completely still, blinking his small eyes as though the morning light were playing tricks on his vision. Then a broad, open smile split his freckled face beneath the red beard.
"No way."
Akel crossed his arms over his chest, his dark cloak falling along his sides.
"I could say the same."
Rurik crossed the distance between them in three heavy strides and threw a sturdy arm around Akel's shoulders, giving the Hunter a loud slap on the back before stepping away to look him up and down.
"Four months gone without a trace, and you decide to show up in this muddy hole called Mirior?"
"Looks like it."
Bjorn approached shortly afterward, walking with calm, measured steps. He said nothing at first. He simply studied Akel's eyes for a long moment, as though examining a piece of steel to make sure it had not suffered any invisible cracks during the winter.
"You're in one piece," Bjorn observed, his deep voice warm and reassuring.
Akel nodded.
"I am."
Bjorn continued his visual inspection, noting his companion's steady posture.
"You look more rested than the last time."
Akel's eyes moved over the faint dark circles and travel-worn marks on the blond man's face.
"You don't."
Bjorn let out a short, warm laugh.
"Still the same."
Rurik stepped between them, gesturing animatedly.
"Didn't I tell you he wouldn't change a single hair? He disappears for months only to come back even grumpier."
Akel looked at the dwarf.
"And you were expecting to find me here?"
"Expecting? No," Rurik admitted with a blink.
"Good."
"But now that you've shown up, I'm not going to complain about my luck."
Akel looked between the two of them. Bjorn and Rurik's presence made Mirior's gray, oppressive air feel slightly different. Not entirely familiar, but certainly much less hostile.
Bjorn discreetly pointed toward the worn sheath hanging from Akel's hip.
"Still the same sword?"
Akel rested a hand on the worn hilt.
"It still cuts when it needs to."
"You always say that."
"Because it's still true."
Rurik's sharp eyes immediately dropped to the reinforced canvas bag Akel had just tied to his belt.
"What did you buy in there?"
"Some things I needed."
"Potions?" The dwarf extended his thick hand. "Let me see."
Akel shifted his hip half a foot away, keeping the saddlebag out of the dwarf's reach.
"Absolutely not."
Rurik frowned, offended.
"I just want to check the quality of the glass!"
"You just lost coins on a stupid tavern bet. I'm not risking you spilling my strength tonic because you mistake it for wheat beer."
Bjorn sighed with good-natured resignation.
"Don't give him reasons to be suspicious, Rurik."
The dwarf withdrew his hand, grumbling.
"I'm a perfectly trustworthy and responsible person when it comes to other people's supplies."
Akel stared at him without blinking.
"You nearly bet your war axe on a dice game last autumn."
"I knew exactly what I was doing that round!"
"And you lost the bet."
Rurik fell silent for two seconds, blinking rapidly before firing back.
"That doesn't invalidate my main argument!"
Bjorn laughed loudly, shaking his head.
"It invalidates almost everything, actually."
Rurik turned toward Akel with a mock scowl.
"You disappear for four months and come back even more insufferable than when you left us at the Alfra fork."
Akel allowed a faint smile to appear on his lips.
"Maybe you two forgot what I'm really like."
The amusement vanished from Bjorn's face for a brief instant, replaced by restrained, brotherly seriousness.
"Maybe."
The silence that followed was brief, but heavy enough to change the atmosphere of the conversation. Akel noticed the shift and kept his attention fixed on them.
"You still working together?"
Bjorn nodded.
"We're still taking some contracts together with the Levis group. We recently finished an escort job and ended up here. Mirior has more monster and mercenary activity than it looks like on the map, and a few opportunities came up that were worth investigating."
"Planning to stay long?"
Bjorn gave a quick glance over the movement in the square.
"Not sure yet. For now, we have no urgent reason to leave before the end of the week."
Rurik adjusted one of the brass rings holding his red beard.
"And there are jobs paying silver without much paperwork."
Bjorn nodded.
"That helps too."
Akel looked between his two longtime companions.
"So almost nothing has changed around here."
Rurik shrugged.
"Some things always change."
Bjorn glanced sideways at the dwarf.
"What he means is that he still starts an argument with me every day before lunch."
"Because you insist on making bad decisions with an irritating amount of calm!"
"And you insist on talking three times more than your lungs can handle."
Akel almost laughed openly.
The small crowd around them had already begun dispersing completely. The mercenaries who had started the argument at the beer stall stumbled down the alley, still muttering insults at one another, while the other passersby returned to their daily business. Within minutes, the square had regained its gray commercial rhythm.
Bjorn turned toward Akel naturally.
"Where are you staying?"
"I haven't chosen a permanent inn yet."
"Get a room near the north square, at the Old Oak," Bjorn suggested. "It's cleaner, and it'll be easier to find hot food without having to wander around the entire city in the rain."
Rurik made an obvious grimace of disgust.
"The food there is an outright robbery."
"You complain about the price of every bowl of stew, Rurik."
"Because charging five copper coins for a plate with three pieces of turnip and a pork bone is extortion!"
Akel slowly shook his head, pulling on the horse's reins.
"You two still argue exactly like an old married couple."
Rurik frowned for a second, processing the remark.
"Was that an insult to my lineage?"
"No."
Bjorn patted the dwarf on the shoulder, laughing.
"Then I'll take it as a compliment."
Akel resumed walking down the cobbled street, leading his horse across the wet pavement.
"Maybe I'll stop by later for a drink."
Rurik immediately raised both red eyebrows.
"Does that mean you're actually going?"
"It means maybe I'll stop by."
Akel glanced sideways at the dwarf.
"That's not what you said."
Bjorn let out a low, steady laugh.
"Leave him alone, Rurik. Four months away and you still haven't learned that you shouldn't try to corner Akel with words."
Rurik grumbled something unintelligible in Dwarven as he adjusted the strap of his axe.
Akel began moving away down the alley, leading his horse across the damp pavement.
After a few steps, Bjorn's deep voice sounded behind him, cutting through the market's bustle.
"Akel."
The Hunter stopped and looked back over his left shoulder.
Bjorn remained where he was, his solid posture and calm expression carrying none of the earlier irony.
"It was good to see you again."
Akel held his gaze for several seconds. Some answers came easily to any mercenary in a tavern; that one, however, required a sincerity he rarely expressed aloud.
"Likewise," Akel replied.
He turned forward and continued walking.
Around him, Mirior carried on with its usual rhythm, indifferent to that brief reunion between three men marked by the road. Carts hauled heavy loads through the muddy alleys, merchants shouted their prices, and children ran across the drier stretches of pavement, jumping over the puddles left behind by the storm.
Akel slid his gloved hand along the horse's warm neck as they continued toward the Old Oak.
Four months.
Until a few minutes ago, that amount of time had seemed enough to turn traveling companions into distant memories of extinguished campfires.
Now, hearing Rurik's rough, indignant voice beginning another argument with some stallkeeper in the distant center of the square, four months no longer seemed like such a long time.