The dungeon, at least, didn't refuse to form passageways upward—though that far from meant they progressed unimpeded. Their reckless ascent could have made things worse should they stumble into a trap, but they were spared that misfortune. They spotted them as they came, and Morgana vaporized enemies in a barrage of magic missiles and chain lightning. A stairway led them to the first floor, the mineshaft tunnels, and a second brought them into the quarry, through the dungeon entrance, and into the sunlight.

Apparently, injured delvers staggering out from an expedition wasn't an unusual sight. The two guards, Tomas and Finn, were hurrying over the moment their party stepped through, their mundane routine interrupted by a not-so-uncommon occurrence. But there wasn't much they could do; Tomas offered to carry Flint to town, where the healers would be, and Vesper accepted. After transferring him, they were off at a jog only seconds later, with Finn staying behind to continue his watch over the dungeon entrance.

Morgana struggled to keep up. She wasn't much of a jogger, much less a runner. Even weighed down by his armor and carrying a grown man, Tomas outstrode her easily. Almost outpaced Vesper, too.

A few minutes later—each one passing with growing dread, since healing items were more effective the sooner they were applied post-injury—the four piled into a wooden cabin on the outskirts of Quarrygate. A simple wooden sign hung above the doorway: Archibald's Herbal Remedies.

Inside the apothecary's shop was a spacious room thick with the smell of herbs. Tomas carried Flint to a bed with white sheets and laid him down. Again, Morgana was struck by the familiarity of the action and the lack of hesitation. This was not his first time carrying an injured dungeoneer to a healer. Wouldn't be the last, either. Flint's repeated statements about the dungeon's lethality rates flickered into her head.

The apothecary himself was an old, bespectacled man sitting behind a counter. His sour expression turned upward as they came barging in, and not an ounce of sympathy blossomed on his face as he took the scene in. He had been writing, and looked supremely unhappy to be interrupted.

"Need to get back to my post," Tomas said, laying a hand on Morgana's shoulder. "I'm sure he'll be fine. Archibald does good work. However … unfriendly he can be, sometimes." He glanced over his shoulder at the old man, who had risen from his seat and hobbled over to the bed hosting Flint. He pulled a cart with him, which had sat off to the side, out of the way. Vesper spoke frantically, loud and intense, her panic not settled much since the incident. To be fair, it hadn't been all that long. They'd made a blazing pace up and out of the dungeon.

"Good luck," Tomas said, and left.

Morgana walked over, head still aching, but her own injury was unimportant compared to Flint's. Concentrating on the words being exchanged between Vesper and Archibald was difficult.

"What color?" Archibald was asking. He was looking Flint over; he pulled an eyelid up. Morgana winced at what she saw. 'Bloodshot' didn't do it justice. And somehow, the boy was even paler than before.

Was he going to die?

She'd never seen someone die before, much less a friend—which she guessed she counted Flint as, even if they had only known each other for a week, and frankly weren't all that friendly with each other.

Watching the event unfold, Morgana didn't feel like she was piloting her own body. A part of her knew she was, to some degree, in shock. She'd never been through something like this.

"Color?" Vesper repeated. "Of what?"

"The venom."

"That matters?"

The man turned a withering look her way, and Vesper swallowed and answered. "Green?"

"How long ago?"

"Less than ten minutes."

"Be precise. How much less?"

"Eight, nine?"

Archibald grunted. "Well past the ideal window," he said. "What was the monster called?"

"[Jadescale Serpent]."

"Haven't heard of it." He stroked his chin as he considered Flint. "The venom is likely the worst. Head injury could be serious as well. Not much way of knowing, not easily."

He continued his inspection, peeling off the healing bandages to take a look at the wounds underneath. The bulk of their magical healing had already expired, anyway.

"Shouldn't—shouldn't you be giving him something?" Vesper demanded.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On what you can afford."

"What I can afford!" Vesper seemed like she'd been slapped. She leaned forward with a growl. "Give him what'll save him!"

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Archibald turned a disdainful eye toward her. He took a few seconds to reply. When he did, distaste dripped from every word.

"Congratulations," he said. "You ran into the dungeon and got one of yourselves killed, just like every other adventure-struck group of idiots. You think I care? That I'm running a charity? Plenty could save him. But it's a matter of cost."

Vesper's expression mirrored what Morgana was feeling. The complete callousness of the man's words was so outrageous she almost couldn't believe what she was hearing.

On the bed, Flint's shaking was growing weaker. And not in a good way.

"You'll give him," Vesper said through grit teeth, "the best you have. We can afford it."

That was a lie, and Archibald knew it too. "Can you? Yet you went into the dungeon without even a health potion on reserve? No, I think I'll see the silver first."

"He'll die!"

It took a second for Morgana to realize those words had come from her, not Vesper.

Archibald didn't spare her a look, though. He continued to address Vesper. "Should've thought of that before you went down into a monster-infested dungeon, shouldn't have you? Don't blame your stupidity on me."

"We can sell our gear! Set up a payment plan? Something?" Morgana said.

Archibald turned the contemptuous gaze her way instead of Vesper's. "This boy is minutes from death," he said. "A moron could see that. Unclassed, and he's had a second-floor boss's venom coursing through him for ten minutes, well past the ideal healing window. And that's to say nothing for his head injury, which could've crippled him itself. Want my advice? He was dead before you dragged him out of the dungeon. Reality is just catching up." He sneered. "A less scrupulous man would give you false hope. Wring every silver from you. But here's the truth: nothing you can afford will help him. You should thank me for saving you the coin."

Morgana had seen the growing fury on Vesper's face, but those callous words tipped her over the edge. She surged forward, grabbing the elderly apothecary by the front of his shirt and shoving him backward. The man stumbled and hit the nearest shelf of herbs. A few glass jars and other containers fell to the floor, shattering obscenely loud in the sudden silence.

"If he dies, you die," Vesper hissed, gripping the man's collar. "How about that?"

The words were delivered in such a bone-chilling tone that even Morgana froze, much less the target of the threat.

It took the elderly man several seconds to orient to the violence.

He wasn't cowed.

"What—What is this?" he roared. "You'll be strung up! Assaulting a healer? Unhand me, child. It is not illegal to refuse to spend my own coin to save some idiot dungeoneer."

"I don't care," Vesper said, the calm in her voice making Morgana's stomach clench. "If he dies, you die."

Morgana watched the event unfold, frozen as a statue. Too much had happened in too short of a time—and with her own head injury clouding things. The cold promise of murder in Vesper's voice and the violence written on her face only further served to heighten the sense of unreality.

She'd known that despite Vesper's friendly attitude, she wasn't some sheltered innocent; she had lived a hard life, and however easily smiles and jokes came from her, the girl was not unaccustomed to giving and receiving threats.

But this? Morgana had never seen someone so casually threaten another person's life. Did she mean it? Would she kill him if he refused?

Would she be wrong to? It was her brother's life on the line. And apparently, there were means to fix him—just too expensive of ones.

Whatever the case, the apothecary seemed to take her threat as credible. He went still, his red-faced outrage stifled. But fear didn't replace it, or at least that wasn't the dominant expression. He glared hatefully at Vesper, his own expression promising murder if only he was capable of delivering it.

"Even if I—" he began to spit.

Vesper shook him, rattling the frail old man's body. Another glass jar fell from the shelf and slammed into the floor, filling the air with a pungent smell.

"He dies, you die," Vesper repeated.

"Even if I—"

Faster than Morgana could track, a dagger was at Archibald's throat. The man went freshly still.

"Repeat what I said," Vesper said. "Because apparently, you don't understand."

They held each other's gazes. Despite the very real threat of an unknown delver cutting his throat, Archibald almost seemed like he was going to refuse. Morgana wasn't sure whose eyes were filled with more hate: Vesper's or the old man's.

Morgana watched in mute shock. It wasn't like there was anything she could do. Vesper had taken things into her own hands. And now wasn't the time for a careful, well-reasoned argument on why they should be afforded a long-term payment plan. This might have been the only way to help Flint fast enough—to get Archibald to act immediately. Every minute that passed further threatened Flint's life. He was fading even as Vesper was delivering her threats.

Which Vesper recognized. Her dagger pressed into Archibald's throat, though didn't draw blood. "I'll start taking fingers, if you're having trouble deciding," she hissed.

Still, Archibald glared for nearly five full seconds before replying.

"Get off me," he spat. "I have work to do."

Vesper did so, though not out of any sense of intimidation, but because they had no time to waste. The elderly man straightened out his shirt and hobbled over to his cart.

"I'm watching you," Vesper said, lingering to his side, dagger still in hand. "Try something, I'll see it."

The man ignored her and grabbed something out of his cart. He headed for the back room next. Vesper trailed after him.

"Where are you going?"

"You think I keep the expensive materials in the front?" Archibald asked, voice no less baleful than before. "It's behind lock and key."

"I'll follow."

He shook his head and hobbled through; Vesper pursued, posture tense, dagger held at the ready, watching the old man like a hawk. She suspected retaliation? Morgana supposed he was a man surrounded by poisons, in his own workshop. He could cause damage if he was clever enough. Had the hateful motivation to do so, as well. Though his advanced age made him less of a threat. Morgana was surprised he'd taken being roughed around so well.

The back room's door swung closed. Morgana jolted as she realized she'd been forgotten. She spun, broken free from her shock.

What should she do? Follow them in case Archibald did try to retaliate? Stay back and stand guard? Look over the rapidly deteriorating Flint? She didn't know.

She walked to the entrance and deadbolted the door closed. They would probably want privacy for the next half hour; the shop was officially closed for business. She scurried over to the back room door next, so she was ready to help.

Really.

How had things gone so terribly, so fast?

And even if Flint lived, what would they do afterward? Vesper had threatened a man's life and was effectively robbing him of no small sum. A sum that they wouldn't be able to pay off, not any time soon—even if she were to sell the collection plate, she could only assume.

They were deep in trouble, and it was far from over.

Just beginning, really.