No one knew as much about the caves of Belawain as Jole had, which was suspicious, really, but could also just have been the fact that no one actually trusted Erdor enough to tell him in the first place.

Considering he was actually a secret Turanveilian Prince… that was fair.

Luckily, he didn't really need more stories about the place. The one Jole had told him had already re-ignited the burning embers of hope nestled in his chest, and now he was on his way to finding out about this ‘key’.

He might have some idea where the caves were going to be – courtesy, again, of Jole – but what use was endless power without a way to access and mould it into a cure for Ilora?

Of course, he had no idea where to start.

Except Jole had mentioned magic and there wasn't any great proliferation of those in the kingdom, was there? Likely not after the story Jole had told him, too.

Magic had belonged to Belawain, and since the old king had tried to snatch it away–

Regardless, the point was, his next step was looking for magic and magic users, and that meant finally – finally – venturing outside of the taverns.

His first stop was an apothecary, nestled at the edges of the town he'd found himself in. The storefront, from the outside, was plainly decorated, with a plain, simple sign marking it.

Erdor took one step inside and a veritable trove of smells hit his senses. They weren't exactly bad, just a mix of intense and not, some soft, some sharp, some flowery, some, well, not.

On one side of the store were plants, lined in small pots of seedlings and small sprouts. Some grew in larger pots to the corners. The other side was almost exclusively covered with potions and tinctures – anything stoppered and bottled, numbered labels placed on them, likely for the shopkeeper to know which was which.

And then, finally, in the front was the counter with a man sitting behind it. Hearing the door open he looked up, pasting on a smile. “Welcome,” He said. “What can I get for you?”

Erdor stepped forward, confirmed the rest of the place was basically empty, then looked the man straight in the eyes. “What can you tell me about magic?” He asked.

The man's smile turned quizzical. “... In connection to herbological findings? Or–” He nodded in grim understanding. “We don't stock any magic potions, sorry.”

Erdor exhaled sharply. “Not– look, I'm looking for magic users, and I've been informed that a number of your products are impossible to grow or harvest in these months.”

There was a moment of silence. “I have a lot in stock,” The man said, his eyes darkening.

“I don't mean anything bad,” Erdor continued. “I need their help. The magic user’s, I mean.”

“And that affects me how?” The shopkeeper asked. “If you're not going to buy anything, please leave. My establishment does not appreciate stragglers.”

An irritated snap worked its way up. Erdor’s lips twitched and he pulled out a couple of coins from his pocket. “Fine. I'll buy some medicine. Got a cure for the Zelfernian Death Knell? I'll pay you a gold coin for it.”

The man laughed. “If I had the cure for that, it'd go for tens of golds,” He said.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Erdor said nothing, staring at the man.

The man's expression fell. “You're serious?”

“My sister,” He said. “She's afflicted.”

The shopkeeper swallowed. “Still,” He insisted. “There is no cure, sir. Not even magic has managed such a feat. Even if I knew these magic users you speak off, none would have the propensity to come up with a cure. ’Tis called the ‘Death Knell’ for a reason.”

Erdor leaned forward, his eyes still narrowed. “I'm going to follow every avenue possible,” He promised. “And right now, I need your help following one.” He slid the gold coin forward. “Will you, or will you not help?”

The man's eyes flickered from coin to Erdor and back again. “... Fine,” He said in the end. “I don't get these from no magic user – not directly,” He said hurriedly, letting his eyes fall from Erdor’s face for a moment.

Erdor smoothed it into a neutral expression. “Then?”

“There’s a vendor,” The man continued. “You won’t find him – he finds you. He comes round here every couple o’ weeks and he’s not consistent–” He shook his head. “Point is, running into him is probably not going to happen.” He hesitated, glanced around, then lowered his voice. “But I do know where he gets his stuff. There’s two big suppliers. The Lady of the Forest peddles the most stable supply, but the Lady of the Night gives the more exotic ones.” He tilted his head to the right, where samples of his more glittering concoctions were shimmering on the displays.

Erdor frowned. “That's it? That's all you've got?”

The shopkeeper scowled. “What more do you need? I already gave you their names.”

“You think–” Erdor stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You think those are their names?”

“What?” He grumbled, looking away. “You never know with those magic folk.”

“Rulan,” Erdor said under breath. “Give me strength.” Because if he didn't, Erdor was not going to be able to contain his… irritation.

The man waved at him, snatching up the money before Erdor could say anything else. “Now go away. I've got a business to run and no one's going to come in with you hogging up the place.”

Erdor sighed and turned on his heel.

The rest of his Search wasn't as productive, despite unsavory thoughts regarding the productivity of this particular bit of information, either.

No store he entered would tell him anything. More often than not, they couldn't. But the ones who could seemed to have gotten wind from the apothecary and had no new information.

In the end, two more gold coins uselessly spent, Erdor just gave up on the stores.

He was sitting on a stoop in the corner of the street a couple of hours later, though, when someone cleared their throat.

Erdor stilled – he hadn't even heard them approach – and looked up, hand inching to his hidden dagger, when his eyes met warm, endless brown.

It was a man, he realized, tall, toned, and well-dressed. His face was angular, somewhat familiar (but from where, he couldn't tell), and in one hand, he held an old staff made of gnarled wood – nothing Erdor would have carried, not by choice.

The man didn't waver at the scrutiny, only smiling amiably as his eyes glittered from warm to calculating to warm again.

Erdor felt a shiver snake up his spine. This man is not to be trifled with, it said, even though Erdor had trained his whole life, with almost every kind of weapon available to Turanveil.

His smile sharpened. “Hello,” He said, and his voice was as warm as his eyes – that is to say, hiding a dagger, if not physically, like Erdor.

“... Hi,” Erdor said. “May I help you?”

The man inclined his head but only for a second, and even then, it wasn't quite a bow. “I believe I can help you,” He said. “I hear you are looking for the Lady of the Night?”

One out of two wasn't bad. “You're the trader,” Erdor said.

“Indeed,” The man said. “Please, call me Uwain.” His smile could cut through steel. “We may yet have a fruitful relationship.”