As the morning fog of Twilight Town crept over the bluestone alley, the wooden door of the Thorn Apothecary creaked open. Abler stood on the steps with an empty herb basket in hand, a hoarse cough in his throat startling the sparrows under the eaves — an aftereffect left by holy silver poison that flared punctually on rainy days.
“What are you dawdling for?” Linata’s voice came from behind the second-floor lattice window as she lifted a withered petal of mandrake with a silver hairpin. “If you don’t gather Nethermoss today, your dressing fee goes up another fifty gold.”
Abler glanced back with a glare, his red eyes burning in the fog like two flickering candle flames. Over this past year, he had grown used to this “creditor-style concern.” From the prisoner shackled in the attic at the start to the “apothecary errand hand” now free to move about town, he had traded countless mornings of being ordered around by Linata for the removal of his demon-seal shackles and— a roof under which he could temporarily live.
He turned and slipped into the thicket at the end of the lane, fingertips secretly rubbing the copper token hidden in his sleeve. He had found it in the tavern’s corner last week, engraved with half a bloom of an ice-crystal rose — the crest of Andrea’s family — its edge stained with dried blue blood.
The aftershocks of holy silver remained; his magic had recovered only thirty percent, not even enough to summon a lowest-rank familiar. But this copper piece was like a spark, letting him remember, on every morning when Linata woke him with a “debt ledger,” the searing heat of Andrea’s final spiritual brand.
“Until I find her, I must not die.” He whispered to the token in his palm, not noticing that on the branch behind him, a dew-wet leaf was quietly frosting over — the trace of some high-grade tracking magic.
The apothecary’s attic had been converted into a temporary clinic. Linata crouched at the dissection table, silver knife opening the belly of a demonrealm snow-lizard. Inky green bile dripped into a porcelain dish with a soft sizzle.
“Abu, pass the preservative powder.” She didn’t look up; the blood stains on the front of her white coat had dried to a dark brown.
No answer. When she glanced back, the vine chair by the window was empty. On the sill lay half a piece of uneaten oat cake — Abler’s habit. Every time he slipped out, he would leave a little trace that said, “I’ll be back.”
Linata clicked her tongue and dropped the snow-lizard’s heart into a vial. Of course she knew what he was up to. Over the past year he would take the pretext of herb-gathering to run to the ruined tavern west of town and sit in the very last corner, listening to mercenaries brag about their “kills of demon remnants”; he would steal moments while she was treating patients to sketch the wanted poster of Andrea from the bulletin board, filling in the half of the face smeared by blood; he would even space out at midnight under the moon, the demon-marks at his neck glowing faintly red — a sign of heightened demon emotion.
“Fool.” She picked up the oat cake and took a bite. It was a bit dry — she had burned it yesterday — yet he always said, “Better than the demonrealm’s black bread.”
The crystal ball in the corner flared softly, reflecting the bulletin board in the east of town: Abler stood before a newly posted warrant, his knuckles whitening from the grip. Andrea’s portrait had changed — short hair, leather armor, a strange curved blade at her waist. The bounty had risen to three hundred thousand gold.
When Abler returned to the apothecary, he set the herb basket on the counter. “The Nethermoss I picked today is good quality.” The copper token in his palm was hot from his grip. At the board he had seen Andrea’s new portrait — the stubborn light in those eyes was exactly the same as ten years ago when she first donned silver armor.
Linata cast a glance at the Nethermoss. The soil clinging to the roots smelled of sulfur — a mark of the volcanic rock east of town, at least ten li from the herb thicket.
“Took a pointless detour. Docking you three silver coins.” She pulled out the ledger and, with charcoal, added a stroke under “Abu’s Debt.” “Also, the mayor’s old cold-leg is acting up. We’re going to needle him tonight.”
Abler’s shoulders slumped. He most hated treating humans; those fragile fleshly bodies always made him think of the charred corpses at Ironrock Fortress— especially the mayor’s frostbitten leg, the mottled purple-blue so like the blue blood of his royal guard.
“Can we not go?” He tried to bargain. “I can help you refine potions, triple efficiency.”
“Will your potions stop the mayor from limping?” Linata arched a brow, tapping the “One thousand five hundred owed” on the ledger with a fingertip. “Or is it that the ale at the west-side tavern tastes better than my Nethermoss broth?”
Abler’s movement froze. His hand clenched on the basket, the thorns of the Nethermoss pricking his palm — how did she know he often went to the west-side tavern? He always took a roundabout way in through the back door, sat in the darkest corner, even wiped the cup three times with a cloth before drinking.
“I just… went to check herb prices.” He mumbled, gaze drifting out the window, not daring to meet Linata’s eyes. This past year, the woman seemed to hold a demon mirror, always able to reflect his little tells beneath the name “Abu”: when he copied the poster, she would suddenly sprinkle powder across the paper; when he breathed under the moon, she would toss him a thick cloak and say, “Catch a chill and your medical bill doubles”; now, even his tavern visits— she knew.
Linata slowly drew a fine chain from beneath the counter, twirling it between her fingers. The obsidian pendant was carved with half an ice-crystal rose. The clasp was tangled with a coil of ultra-fine black hair, the tips gritty with dried mud — dropped last week when Abler toppled a rack; as he squatted to pick up vials, his heel had nudged it under the counter.
She dangled the chain’s end and spoke as calmly as a still pond: “This yours?”
Abler looked up. The instant his gaze fell on the pendant, his hand clenched. That was the piece he had ground from demon crystals the year Andrea became his deputy. When tying up her hair, she liked to wind the chain end around her fingertip; when her hair fell loose, it would cover half the pendant. He reached for it in a fluster; when his fingertips brushed that coil of hair, his throat tightened. “N–No. Found it.”
“Found it?” Linata handed the necklace over, her gaze skimming his neck — the demon-marks there shone a touch brighter than usual, a red like sparks licking tinder. “There’s hair caught on the chain. Do you have a girl you like?”
Her voice was soft, the tail of the sentence pausing slightly, as if she regretted saying it. She lowered her eyes to pick up a silver needle from the floor, her fingertips absently rubbing the pendant’s carved lines.
Abler stuffed the necklace into his sleeve, his knuckles trembling. That coil of hair had been sliced by axe-wind when Andrea broke out, stuck to the chain with blood; he had never been willing to remove it. “It just… looked nice, so I picked it up.” He turned toward the attic, steps a shade too quick and uneven. “The mayor’s leg… I’ll prepare the needles.”
Linata didn’t ask further. She only watched his back and rubbed the place on her fingertips that had touched the hair. It was black and coarse, with a faintly familiar smell of smoke — not unlike the scent on the scrap of cloth she had found outside town last winter, stained with blue blood.
Wind outside swept fallen leaves across the eaves; distant tavern noise drifted over. Linata lowered her head to grind herbs again, but a faint curve tugged at her lips — of course she knew what he was looking for, just as she knew every demon-crystal shard he hid, knew he always made Andrea’s eyes too bright when copying her wanted portrait, knew that the demon-marks at his neck only warmed with such gentle red when he whispered a certain name.
But what was the rush? He hadn’t paid off his debt. And Twilight Town’s fog could keep him penned in a while yet.
When cooking smoke rose over Twilight Town, Andrea sat on the bench across from the smithy, pretending to polish the curved blade at her waist. A cracked demon crystal was hidden in her boot — found in the ruins of Ironrock Fortress. Whenever she neared Abler’s aura, it would give off a faint tremor.
Over the past year, she had fled from Ironrock to Frostvale, then made her way to Twilight Town. She had changed identities seven times and cut down twelve waves of mercenaries who came to kill her. The silver armor was long gone, replaced by coarse homespun. Her long hair was cut short. Even her voice was forced rough. Only her eyes still kept the sharpness they’d had back in Demon King City.
Suddenly the crystal’s tremor intensified. She looked up sharply. Her gaze cut through the busy market and settled on the wooden house at the end of the lane with the violet crest. The aura there was faint, masked by herbs and disinfectant, yet branded on her soul like a seal — Abler’s magic, tainted with the scorched reek of holy silver poison, but far steadier than she had imagined.
As she rose, her curved blade bumped the bench with a clear ring. The smith’s apprentice poked out his head, only to be driven back by her eyes — over the past year she had learned to conceal killing intent like a human, yet could not forget how to cow others with a look.
At the apothecary door, she hesitated. The crystal’s tremor nearly shook her grip loose, yet the violet crest carved on the lintel made her uneasy. It was the mark of some ancient witchcraft she had seen in the banned books of Demon King City, said to block all magical probing.
“Is he really here?” she whispered to the door, fingertips unconsciously stroking the ice-crystal rose on her scabbard — the piece Abler had forged for her back then, saying, “Only ice can lock the arrogance of fire.”
Drawing a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.
Up in the attic, Abler was needling the mayor’s leg. At the knock, his hand jolted; the silver needle nearly skewed. The mayor hissed, “Boy, what’re you shaking for? Afraid I’ll stiff you?”
“No.” Abler’s gaze drifted toward the stairs of its own accord, the demon-marks at his neck suddenly burning. The feeling was familiar — the resonance of a magic field whenever Andrea stood behind him.
Linata set down her crucible and stepped to the window for a glance. In the morning light, a short-haired woman stood on the step, dust from the road clinging to her boots. The curved scabbard at her waist gleamed coldly — the ice-crystal rose upon it exactly matched what she had seen in her crystal ball.
She looked back toward the attic. Abler’s back was to her; his fingers were bloodless on the needle as he pulled it free.
“I’ll get the door.” Linata picked up the poisoned dagger by the jamb and hid it in her sleeve. She disliked unexpected visitors — especially the kind who wore a blade and could make Abler lose his composure.
The lock clicked. Andrea lifted her head; her gaze collided with Linata’s — those gray eyes like a frozen lake, unlike any face she’d seen on a warrant, yet carrying a pressure that set her on guard.
“Excuse me,” Andrea forced her voice low, her eyes flicking past Linata into the shop, “is there… a special guest here?”
Leaning against the frame, Linata toyed with the door ring, her tone lazy. “A special guest? Do the drunkards who buy laxatives every day count?”
Andrea’s hand settled on her hilt. The crystal’s tremor was now unmistakable — just behind this door, less than ten paces away. She noticed the inky green stain on Linata’s white coat and smiled — snow-lizard bile from the demonrealm, a mix known only to her, Abler, and the royal apothecaries.
“Perhaps.” Andrea took half a step forward, the eyes under her gray veil suddenly bright. “Does he have red eyes?”
In the attic, Abler shot to his feet. The mayor’s scream and the clatter of the fallen needle rang together. As he bolted for the stairs, he heard Linata chuckle — the pleased sound of a cat with a mouse.
“A red-eyed guest…” Linata stepped aside half a pace, revealing the dim corridor within. “Why don’t you come in and see?”
Wind behind the door kicked up herb dust on the floor. The sulfur of Nethermoss mingled with a chill that belonged to ice-crystal magic, weaving an unseen net across the threshold. As Andrea lifted her foot, she heard hurried steps from the attic — the same as countless times ten years ago, with that familiar, slightly clumsy urgency.