Osric ambled along the cobblestone path toward his abode. He waved farewell to Cain and Glucia, their laughter still ringing in his ears as they parted ways.

He had only come to classes because of the information gleaned for the awakening ceremony.

Although the ceremony happened each year around the same time, the specifics were kept under wraps until two weeks prior. The air would be thick with secrecy, and whispers would fill the village streets as residents speculated about the upcoming event. The information was guarded fiercely because the awakening held more than just spiritual significance; it was a time of thrilling high-stakes betting bonanza.

The village would come alive as the ceremony approached, with colorful banners adorning the buildings and lively music filling the air. Massive celebrations would be held, the villagers uniting in their excitement and revelry.

Various factions and associations within the village would gather, their members ready to place their bets. Their members, throbbing with anticipation, ready to gamble on the newly awakened. Every fresh initiate was a lottery ticket, their performance in the tournament a potential goldmine.

And the awakening served as an enticing banquet, promising a feast of possibilities.

The village was gasping for new blood. Its associations and council were ravenous for fresh recruits. And the awakening served as an enticing banquet, promising a feast of possibilities.

The ceremony was a fertile ground where the seeds of the future were sown and nurtured.

Beneath the gambling excitement, a more nuanced game unfolded – sponsorships. The factions and associations, like predatory hawks, sought out initiates to sponsor, securing loyalties that could shift the balance of power. These sponsorships could dramatically alter the balance of power within the village, and numerous scholars were ready to pounce, eager to handpick potential recruits.

The awakening ceremony for this year was scheduled to be on the last day of spring, ushering in the summer with the seeds sown during the season of renewal.

The countdown was ticking. Merely weeks away, the anticipation curled in the air.

***

The air was heavy with the pungent smell of raw flesh and iron-rich blood, undercut by the aromatic herbs and spices sprinkled liberally on the meats.

Rudimentary hooks and aged shelves were a part of the shop's rustic decor, each heavily laden with diverse cuts of meat procured from a menagerie of beasts. The carcasses hung like gruesome trophies, each one representing the skill and artistry of the butcher. The meat was displayed in varying states of freshness, with some cuts glistening, still dripping with fresh blood, while others had a rich, deep hue that spoke of the aging process.

The butcher himself was a man-mountain with a thick, unkempt beard that veiled most of his face, sparing only his twinkling eyes and a grin boasting of numerous tales. He sported a battle-scarred apron over his tunic, his hands perpetually stained with blood.

The customers, mostly village folk, would stream in and out of the shop, their purses jingling rhythmically, eyes appraising the butcher's display. They came from all walks of life – farmers in their work-worn attire, mothers with children in tow, and the occasional well-dressed merchant seeking a finer cut for a special occasion. Conversations filled the air, a cacophony of voices discussing recipes, family news, and the latest village gossip.

The butcher, arms folding across his barrel chest, greeted his next customer with a robust grin. "Wha' can I get ya, kid?" he asked, his voice rich as rum.

Osric, his gaze flickering over the selection of meats, "Shopkeep, I'll take three of those basilisk roosters, a midsection cut from the elk marmoset, and perhaps some tender opossum rats, if they're in stock?"

With an affirmative nod that stirred his beard like a rustling thicket, the butcher replied, "Sure as sunrise, lad. That'll be 20 stones for the lot. 25 if you fancy your roosters still kickin'."

"Dead's fine by me," Osric responded with a wave of his hand, adding, "and leave the innards intact."

"Hmm.” the butcher grunted thoughtfully, standing tall over his well-worn wooden worktable, stained with the deep red remnants of dried blood.

“How's the hunting going?” Osric probed, engaging in the conversational dance that often accompanied commerce.

“Prey's gettin' 'arder to find these days. Some proper game's scarcer than 'en's teeth," the shopkeeper replied, the words rolling off his tongue as he reached for his trusted companion, the cleaver.

The butcher's blade glinted in the warm, flickering light of the shop, reflecting the golden hues that illuminated the bustling space. Gripping the basilisk rooster tightly in one hand, he skillfully maneuvered the blade across the bird's skin with the other. His movements were swift and precise, a dance of dexterity honed through years of experience.

With a practiced motion, he separated the chicken's legs from its body, the sound of the knife slicing through bone and flesh resonating throughout the room. The wings soon followed, cleanly severed and arranged neatly on the wooden counter.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Some hunters 'ave been followin' a pack o' tinder moose," the butcher said, his voice a pleasant rumble that carried easily over the din of the shop. "So if yer lookin' to stockpile, expect a windfall soon." His words were accompanied by a knowing wink, as if he was gifting a nugget of insider wisdom.

With a thoughtful nod, Osric responded, “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

As he worked, the smell of raw chicken filled the air, mingling with the distinct scent of the butcher's sweat and the sawdust that blanketed the floor.

"Here ya go," the butcher announced, a puff of breath whistling past his teeth as he hefted the container heavy with fresh cuts over the counter. "Fresh off the chopping block, just as you like it."

Despite the hard work and the grime that clung to his apron, the butcher wore an infectious smile on his face – the mark of a man who found joy in his craft.

***

With a swift, calculated kick, Glucia startled Cain out of his dreams, her boot penetrating his side with the searing intensity of a well-tempered blade. The sudden wave of pain reverberated through his being, shredding his veil of sleep into tattered fragments. His eyes flared with unbridled fury, darting around in search of the assailant.

Who-"

"Me," Glucia interjected, cutting him off. Her arms were crossed over her chest, serving as a physical barrier to match her rebellious spirit—a teasing expression on her face.

"Must you always deploy such primitive methods!? You realize I'm not a deaf mule, right? I respond quite well to 'Cain.' C-A-I-N, rather straightforward," he objected, his hand kneading the pulsating sore spot on his side as if to soothe the bruised ego residing there.

“Are you calling me stupid?” she retorted, her emerald eyes flashing with irritation.

"I'm not just insinuating, Glu. I'm confirming. You're unequivocally the dullest girl in all of Sunhavenia," he doubled down, a smirk etched onto his face.

"You've got some nerve."

"And you seem to be running on a high amount of it."

"..."

"..."

"Look, you can't just win an argument by just glaring and going mute on me," Cain declared, annoyance wrinkling his forehead.

"Just did," Glucia returned smugly, her voice laced with a triumphant undertone.

Exhaling a defeated sigh, Cain capitulated, "Alright, what's the matter?" His voice softened, acknowledging his playful defeat.

“Let’s train together. You, me, and Osric.”

"Cocky Glucia getting jittery after the date reveal? I recall you bragging about how easily you'd beat me. Funny, why seek help from an alleged weakling?" Cain goaded.

“You know you really like to talk, don't you?”

“Took you this long to figure that out?”

“Fine. I’ll just ask my dad.”

“No. No. Wait, fine. Let’s train together. I would much rather go on my own too, now that afternoon classes are free-range. Aside from the mandatory training session in a week, we can train together.”

“That wasn't so hard, was it?” Glucia sniggered, her eyes glinting with triumphant mischief.

“Osric is doing his own thing. He seems to have a plan, so you're going to have to put up with just me,” he added with a shrug.

"Perfect," Glucia groaned, rolling her eyes. But her sarcasm couldn't quite mask the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

***

“That’s the enchanting dreamweaver's blossom,” the librarian elucidated, his finger gently tracing the intricate illustration embedded in the weathered pages of the ancient tome. "The petals of these fascinating flowers morph and shift as the day wears on, mimicking the resplendent hues of a setting sun. Their habitat is typically near cave entrances or nestled within the sheltered nooks of boulder cracks, where they add a dash of vibrant color to the otherwise somber surroundings."

“What are their properties?” Osric questioned.

“Well, when mixed with mistflower and moonseed, it amplifies the sedative effect to concoct a potent sleep-inducing potion," the librarian delineated with an air of seasoned wisdom. "Alternatively, by combining it with the crisp leaves of a windroot plant and a dash of mist veil powder, one can brew a potion that staves off sleep for several days." The edges of his mouth curled upward in a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling with the memory of a past experience. "I’ve had one. It’s not a pleasant experience. I would not personally recommend it.

“I wager you squandered the surplus waking hours engrossed in your beloved books,” Osric chimed in.

"Guilty as charged," the librarian conceded, a sheepish grin gracing his lips.

“Is there any catalog or reference for the common herbs and plants located around our region? Osric continued

"For the most updated data, you'd have to secure membership in the Alchemy Association. They maintain a comprehensive archive, which we unfortunately do not stock," the librarian informed him, a hint of regret seeping into his voice.

“However,” he continued, guiding Osric to a nearby bookshelf, its wooden frame bearing the scars of time and continuous use. From within its depths, he retrieved a thick, dust-laden volume. "This one should suffice," he offered, extending the hefty tome towards Osric. "It provides meticulous descriptions of all common plants and their preferred habitats within the Darkhold mountain range, at least the sections we've managed to explore."

"Thank you," Osric accepted the tome, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover before eagerly flipping through the content.

"A sudden plunge into the world of alchemy, Osric. What lit this spark of interest?" The librarian queried, his inquisitive gaze studying the young man with a curiosity that mirrored Osric's own.

"Well, I figured besides the training, knowing alchemy could also turn a stone or two. So, I might as well get a leg up," he explained, his gaze anchored to the pages.

The librarian smirked, his eyes glazed with nostalgia, "Ah, the voracious hunger of the young."

"If you're indeed committed, consider joining the association. They house exclusive recipes and exotic ingredients that you'll find highly beneficial. If you mention my name to Johnanthan, he'll probably waive the sign-up fee."

“Thank you,” Osric expressed his gratitude, his voice imbued with genuine appreciation. He paused in his reading to return the librarian's thoughtful gaze.

The librarian shrugged off the thanks with a humble chuckle. "It's no trouble at all. It's a heartening sight to witness the voracity of young minds like yours. The desire to drink deep from the well of knowledge from the earliest hours of the morn to the dim, quiet avenues of the evening. But here's a piece of friendly advice - don't bury yourself completely in books and alchemical experiments. My advice? Live a little.”

"Seems a bit ironic, coming from a librarian who practically lives amongst the stacks, wouldn't you say?" Osric couldn't resist the opportunity for a friendly jibe.

The air filled with the librarian's hearty laughter, echoing through the quiet study hall and bouncing off the high ceilings. “Ah, you're lucky I have a soft spot for cheeky brats,” he retorted playfully.

“You're lucky you have a fresh mind willing to spend countless hours in your dusty sanctuary,” Osric shot back, his retort prompting another bout of jovial laughter from the middle aged scholar.