The sigil was still there.

Soren kept walking.

His legs moved on instinct, carrying him past the alley, past the flickering gas lamps, past the faces in the crowd that seemed to linger on him for a second too long.

He clenched his hand, the tingling sensation still burning in his fingertips.

It was nothing.

That’s what he told himself.

Maybe it was just the fever. He had been sick for two days—his mother said so. Maybe his mind was still sluggish, playing tricks on him.

Maybe.

The thought did nothing to calm the weight pressing against his ribs.

The whisper had felt real.

By the time he reached Harper’s Apothecary, the sky had darkened, bruised indigo stretching over the rooftops. The shop was nestled between two aging brick buildings, its windows glowing with warm candlelight. A wooden sign above the door swayed slightly in the breeze, the painted words Harper’s Fine Remedies & Curios faded with time.

He took a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before stepping inside.

The scent of dried herbs, parchment, and something faintly metallic filled the air.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with glass jars and neatly labeled vials. Behind the counter, an older man with silver-streaked hair and sharp gray eyes carefully measured powdered root into a scale.

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Mr. Harper.

The apothecary looked up as the bell above the door chimed. His expression softened with recognition.

“Ah. Soren.” His gaze flickered over him, assessing. “Back from the dead, are we?”

Soren forced a tired smile. “Seems like it.”

Mr. Harper scoffed but said nothing as he returned to his work.

Soren stepped behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves. The motions were familiar, mechanical. He knew this place, had worked here for years.

Yet today, it felt distant.

The weight of the journal in his coat pocket was a reminder—he was missing something.

He tried to push the thought away.

He focused on the mortar and pestle in his hands, on the rhythmic grinding of dried valerian root into powder. The sound was steady, grounding. Normal.

The sigil flickered behind his eyes.

His grip tightened on the pestle.

He would not think about it.

The hours passed in a steady haze.

Customers came and went, some familiar, others faceless. Mr. Harper busied himself with restocking tinctures, occasionally glancing at Soren but saying nothing.

By the time the last of the shelves were dusted and the herbs sorted, the streets outside had grown quiet.

Soren exhaled, rubbing his eyes. The strange heaviness in his chest hadn’t left.

“Go home,” Mr. Harper’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You look like hell.”

Soren blinked up at him.

“I’m fine.”

Harper raised a brow. “Lad, you just spent two days with a fever strong enough to make your mother pace a hole in my floorboards. Don’t argue with me.”

A pause.

Soren sighed. “…Alright.”

Harper grunted, turning back to his notes. “Get some rest. And tell Amanda to stop glaring at me whenever you look pale. I’ve been an apothecary for longer than she’s been alive.”

Soren huffed a quiet laugh. It almost felt real.

He nodded and stepped out into the night.

The streets were emptier now, the gas lamps casting long shadows across the cobblestones.

Soren kept his head down, hands shoved in his coat pockets as he walked.

The air felt thicker.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the alley. The sigil. The whisper.

He would ignore it.

That was the plan.

A simple plan.

Then—

He saw it.

A single piece of parchment, caught against the cobblestones by the wind.

Familiar parchment.

He stopped walking.

The paper fluttered against his boot, edges curling slightly.

His chest tightened.

Slowly, hesitantly, he bent down and picked it up.

His fingers trembled as he turned it over.

A single sentence was written in his own handwriting.

“You must not look too soon.”

The wind whispered past him.

Soren stared down at the note, blood rushing in his ears.

His grip tightened. He looked around, scanning the empty street.

No one.

Nothing.

The sigil burned in his memory.

His own words—his own warning—stared back at him from the page.

A hollow ache settled in his chest.

For the first time since waking up in this strange, familiar city—

He wondered if ignoring it was even possible.