“Sorry, but Mirrin just stepped out.”

Tilda smiled, but Marek noted a hint of strain on her brow. “Umm, actually, I’d like to talk with you while your uncle is away. Do you have a moment?”

Marek studied the Healer a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected visit and strange request. He thought of the tincture he’d neglected to drink the night before, and fear blossomed in his chest.

No, that can’t be it. It’s something else. Did Mirrin try to court her too?

The idea was preposterous, and Marek immediately dismissed it. Tilda had thirty winters, and for five of them she had been Misthearth’s main Healer. She was a handsome woman with fair skin and bright eyes, which had drawn too many suitors to count. Chief among them was Danick, the baker they were even now crafting a sigil array for.

Is that why she’s come? No, but then why speak with me and not my uncle?

“Sorry,” she said, perhaps understanding his trepidation. “It won’t take long. It’s about his health.”

Marek sighed, his anxiety shifting in a new direction. “Of course. Come in and sit down. And, oh, do you want some tea?”

She declined politely with an upheld hand. Instead of meeting him at the small table for customers, she remained where she was. The slightest crease deepened between her stark brows. “Like I said, I won’t waste time with too many words. I’m not very good at that anyhow. I’m worried your Uncle Mirrin’s condition is worsening. Without his medicines, he would already be among the Principalities, yet they will never cure him.”

The young man nodded, unsurprised.

“Only problem is, a few of the herbs I use to make the tonic are costly and rare,” she said, clutching the fabric of her dress tightly in one hand. “You work daily in Mirrin’s shop, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marek replied, his concern deepening.

“Then you hear the gossip. Kobolds raiding Ardean lands for the first time in decades. Unrest between the Haikini and Druskin peoples. And of course, the never-ending tension between our kingdom and our neighbors, the Casterans.”

She paused and wet her lips, eyes flashing with emotion. “Some even claim a Death Mage has risen among them, blast their ambitions, and I don’t think I need to explain the severity of that situation should it prove true.”

Marek had indeed listened in on several heated discussions among Mirrin and the old man’s most trusted friends. Yet this last bit surprised him.

“What does this have to do with my uncle?” Marek asked.

Tilda smiled, breathing out through flared nostrils and visibly calming herself. “Apologies, Marek. My point is that for the past few months, the goods coming into our little corner of Ardea have decreased… drastically. Food, we have plenty of. But—”

Marek understood. “But herbs are another story. How long till he runs out?”

The woman blinked a few times and chuckled bitterly. “You’re as clever as everyone claims. Clever and strong of heart.”

Her words echoed what Uncle Mirrin had told him the previous night, and Marek’s chest twanged like a bow string. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

Tilda reached into her leather satchel and took out a bottle. She gave it to Marek. “This is all I can give you, at least until the summer. My contact from Swiftwall said they hope to establish peace with Casteras in a few months.”

She stepped closer, blocking out the light from the window behind her. Wreathed in golden motes, her features were both severe and benevolent. Grasping Marek’s hand between her own, she whispered, “Take a care to ration this as best you can, Marek. It must last.”

The woman turned and stepped through the door. Hem fluttering in the wind, she left Marek drifting in a tempest of emotions.

Outwardly, one would only see a solemn young man, five and a half feet tall, eyes ringed black and features gaunt. But inwardly, Marek wrestled with fear and the threat of a grief he wasn’t at all certain he could manage. Marek was resilient, though. He turned his attention to the bottle in his hand. It was half as large as the previous delivery. Steeling himself, he held it up and stared into the dark liquid.

He’d given the customary dose to Uncle Mirrin countless times. On good days, the old Sigilist needed a tablespoon. When things took a turn for the worse, a second or even a third dose was needed. Marek cursed himself for insisting Mirrin take a third helping after waking him last night. Yet from the fever in Mirrin’s eyes, Marek knew he’d made the right decision at the time.

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He estimated as best he could, not at all liking the results.

“Thirty or forty days,” he said, disquieted. “Maybe two months if we’re lucky. Less if we’re not.” Clutching the medicine to his abdomen, Marek donned his cloak and began to lock up the workshop. Walking to the front of the building, he entered to find the house empty.

He deposited the bottle on the highest shelf behind the honey jar. Knowing there was nothing to do about their predicament, Marek did his best to leave his fears there too. Sighing, he scrounged the pantry for a snack to share with Mags. His friend would cheer him up, and she might even have a solution.

The sun had begun its descent by the time he headed out, the sky vivid as the day waned. The wind tugged at his cloak playfully, drawing his eyes up to the branches of the red pines that rose like sentinels around the house.

“We’ll be fine,” he told himself. “Just need to ration, and if worse comes to worst, I’ll convince Mags to head out on a little adventure of our own. After all, medicinal herbs do grow in the wild.”

As he’d half-expected, Mags was nowhere in sight when he made it to their meeting spot. She was one to sleep in, and in so doing, had to work late. He walked through town, intent on finding Mags in due order.

Kioko, the Armorer’s daughter and apprentice, pulled a short blade from the forge. It glowed a bright orange and trailed a bit of smoke behind it. The girl was only sixteen years old, yet she wore an immutable scowl that terrified half the men of Misthearth. Spotting Marek, she nodded once.

He suppressed a chuckle. Kioko nods like a hammer striking steel, he mused, nodding back.

Marek liked Kioko. She and her family treated him well. Many in Misthearth were less generous, and he’d long ago gotten used to the half-guarded scowls and whispers. Being half Casteran didn’t help his cause by a long shot. Coupled with his sickly nature and lack of wealth, it was a foregone conclusion that Marek wasn’t exactly popular.

Confident she’d likely know his intentions, Marek slowed his pace. He wanted to see the next step in Kioko’s process. Sure enough, the girl held the glowing blade above the quench barrel, gripping the tongs in one hand. Then, whispering something he could not hear, she activated Temper. One of the first Skills any smith learned, it wasn’t advanced or elaborate. Yet Marek thought it fascinating when the girl’s eyes lit up the ethereal blue of pure mana, a single bead of the energy forming on the tip of Kioko’s outstretched finger. It clung for a moment before skipping through the air and splashing against the hot steel. The mana was absorbed almost immediately, and soon after, a faint shimmer surrounded the metal. Only then did she plunge her work into the cool water. A small puff of steam rose, and Kioko’s mouth twisted upward ever so slightly.

Not wanting to offend, Marek picked up his pace and continued his quest. The streets were lively this time of day. Half the shops were closed, yet the workers that manned them bustled about, finishing errands. The weekend meant a time of rest, especially in Southshore, and it was obvious everyone was in a hurry to be done.

Long ago, Southshore had been the entirely of Misthearth. The settlement had hid behind the rushing river, using it as a natural defense against kobold raids and the threat of Casteran invasion.

As the town grew, Northshore was born out of necessity. That neighborhood lacked the solidity of its southern sister, the buildings made of wood instead of stone. Many that lived there were uncouth and lacked any shred of elegance. Yet Marek preferred the folk of Northshore. Mags and family people lived there, after all, and the Strongtowers were some of the very best people around.

His friend’s slim figure emerged from the tannery moments before Marek could reach it. She turned, braid swinging behind her as she spotted him. “Oi!” she called, thickening her Ardean accent to ridiculous proportions. “Have a mind to catch some wrigglers?”

Marek’s face split into a grin. Then he and his best friend were jogging through town, headed for Milly’s Market. The grocer was closed, but the treasures they sought were found behind the building. A few heaps of rotting produce greeted them, and a dog scampered away at their approach.

“Did you bring the spade?” Marek asked hopefully.

Mags rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a wimp. Just a little refuse, Marek. Won’t kill you.”

Without ceremony, she dug her hand into the dark soil. Marek wrinkled his nose, but he knew his friend was right. She’d chosen an older mound, and by now, none of the roots, eggshells, or corn husks were fresh enough to be truly disgusting. Still, he knew he’d always lack the enthusiasm Mags had for this task.

“Loads!” she cried, clinging to the O sound dramatically. “Can ya believe it, Marek!? Could feed half‘a Swiftwall wuthis!” A pile of red worms writhed in her palm. She tossed them in a leather pouch at her hip and grinned widely.

Marek shook his head in disapproval. “You’re crazy, Mads. Nobody should like worms this much. And your accent is ridiculous. Nobody talks like that.”

“Aye’ve cousins that would resent that comment!” she exclaimed, eyes bulging as she feigned drunkenness, amping up her performance. “An’ they’re beggar men ‘an yoooo!”

Marek sighed, unwilling to encourage the woman further.

She stood up straight and grunted. “You’re no fun. I pity your future wife. Nobody deserves such a dreary spouse.”

He leveled a hard look at his friend. She knew better than to mention any prospective romantic interests. It was a touchy subject for Marek, nearly as much as gaining a Class was to Mags.

She snickered and walked past him, standing as tall as her five feet could manage. “Anyhow, let’s go. I stashed the poles in the bushes near the bridge. We should have time to catch a few before it’s dark.”

Marek followed as she walked down the alley toward the street. His mind had moved on to thoughts of colorful trout when three figures blocked the alleyway ahead. Marek’s shoulders sagged, knowing full well what the sneering faces would mean for his fishing day.

“Grubby little girl,” Isaac spat, resting his hand on the pommel of his ridiculous sword. “Been digging in the dirt like a boar again?”