They ended up naming the golem Jordo, and the discussion with the golem wound down, moving on to planning for David and Niala's eventual trip to the Reign's repository, all other mysteries put on the sidelines for now.

  Leandro banned David from leaving before he'd had some time to improve his boosting, and he first wanted to finish training up his physical abilities. He had then turned his attention to Niala, piercing her with his gaze, before offering her a wide, full-teethed smile, but not a single word.

  A pearl of sweat slid down her brow. She slowly shook her head, no.

  The Azure Knight slowly nodded, yes.

  David sighed and patted Niala's hand, compassion in his eyes. “It'll be alright. Leandro never got anyone killed during his training, and it's safer for you this way.”

  “But I'm already training with you! And last time I went alone and I made it out fine!” She defended herself.

  Leandro scoffed. “Ha! You call those warm-ups training, girl? The boy is sweet on you, of course he would go easy on you!” He slammed a fist on his chest, the sound like someone punching an ox. “This old man will show what getting into shape means!”

  Niala stared at the man, seeing the future he promised. She had seen David come crawling back from his training. She was going to be the first. The first person to die from Leandro's regimen.

  With rising dread, she snapped her eyes to David, hoping to find a saviour.

  She instead found her executioner's accomplice, his mouth the gentlest of smiles, yet uncaring of her approaching demise.

  She hid her face in her hands and let out a high-pitched moan. “Noooooooo!!!”

  The Boot Inn, the next morning.

  Felicia, the innkeeper's wife and designated cook, watched from the corner of her eye the three pots of old woman boiling as she finished preparing the morning's stew.

  Two pots weren't enough for the mornings anymore, and the last time they ran out and had to ask the patrons to wait a few minutes, they'd almost started rioting.

  So now, they made three pots, and soon they'd have to make four, because people had started showing up for “An old woman on the arm.” A drink to go.

  She looked at the half-empty herb casket on the shelf, their last one. She would have to remind her husband to go buy more at that new shop, Panacea Potion.

  She scoffed. A pretentious name, just like most outsiders who visited their town. She had only spotted the catkin owner a few times, but she didn't seem like much; certainly not someone worthy of a name like that.

  That tall, handsome, dangerous-looking man who followed her around, though... well, it's a good thing she was a faithful wife and that she wasn't ten years younger.

  “Ma! Three breakfasts and cups of old women!” Her daughter's shout snapped her out of her fantasy. “Coming up, Leta!” She yelled back, plating the food on a large tray by the door, and filling three cups of the bitter, hot liquid.

  Personally, she couldn't stand the stuff raw, but once you added a bit of mint and honey, the taste was pretty interesting, and she couldn't deny the effects.

  She wouldn't admit it, but she found it hard to skip having a “Sweet woman” in the morning nowadays. It gave just enough of that little extra pep in your bones and made everything feel easier.

  Felicia brought the tray out of the kitchen and onto the counter, where her daughter picked it up and stepped back into the dining room, distributing the food and drinks.

  The cook heard a clamour of boots striking the wooden stairs and noticed the large group of adventurers that had shown up yesterday coming down for breakfast. She pursed her lips... these guys hadn't tasted the old woman yet.

  And... yep, she spotted a few of the old woman fanatics in the crowd of patrons, snooping glances at nearby tables, on the lookout for anyone who had not been introduced to the bitter drink.

  Her brow furrowed as she tried to figure if three pots were enough after all...

  The Hungerwoods

  Olin was screwed. He was pretty sure he was screwed. His bloodied leg, slowing him down to a panting, jogging limp, was a pretty good indicator that he was screwed.

  The hungry roar that assaulted his ears, followed by the sound of splintering wood, not a hundred meters behind him, reminded him that he was screwed.

  He'd done the one thing you didn't do in the Hungerwoods; he got separated from his group. Of course, he'd gotten separated because a Razorshell had jumped them, forcing everyone to scatter, but he'd still ended up alone and wounded! Slowed down for the carapaced ambush predator to catch up to and rend him into Olin fillets with its inches-long claws.

  Bleeding pits! He hadn't even gotten hurt from the thing's ambush! He'd slipped and gashed his leg open on a stupid rock! And now he was leaving a blood trail for the beast to track him down!

  He was so screwed.

  He took the last step he could, feeling light-headed from the blood loss, fiery pain clawing at him through his injured limb.

  Gulping for air, hair slick from sweat, he rummaged into his potion pouch, feeling the pitiful three he knew he had, but wished he'd found more anyway. He took them out, staring at them with eyes of denial, still holding out hope that he'd somehow mislabelled one of them into something useful...

  A digestive, an anti-venom, and one singular healing potion. He gritted his teeth and cursed. If only these worked like in the stories; you take a swig and pop, the wound is gone!

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It wasn't like that. They needed at least a few minutes to even begin working, up to a quarter bell to fix most of the damage. A roar rang out, startling him, his hands shaking and almost dropping the potions. He threw a panicked eye around the tree he was resting against. Nothing yet, but that had been very close.

  He picked up the healing potion, cursing his stupidity once more. He'd let the cute little goblin woman rob him of his money for what she'd called a “premium” potion. Pah! He could have bought three potions at Brenson's for the same price, maybe he'd have picked up a scent masker or something actually useful...

  He let his head hang, a resigned chuckle escaping his throat. At least he'd die with a good taste in his mouth.

  He uncorked the intricate potion bottle, its sweet aroma wafting up to his ragged nostrils, bringing it up to his lips and tipping it back.

  He felt the warm cardamom liquid coat his throat on the way down, dispelling the soreness within in a wave of relief. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree. Your meal has been seasoned, Razorshell. Come and feast.

  A few seconds later, Olin's eyes flung open, pupils pin-pricking, his breath stolen from his lungs as a sharp, piercing pain clamped down on his injured leg.

  And then the pain devolved to a bubbling ache, as if a thousand ants were biting his flesh.

  He looked down at his leg, afraid of what he'd find, and his eyes grew wider still.

  With a trembling, unbelieving hand, he wiped the blood away from his wound and found nothing but a fresh scar.

  What...

  What kind of miracle was this!?

  He tested his leg; the scar felt stiff, but he had a full range of movement, and even the pain was rapidly fading away! He was still marvelling at the impossibility of it when another roar rang out, almost on him this time.

  He jumped to his feet, flexing his leg. His nearly fully healed leg! In barely a minute!

  With jubilant disbelief, he darted forward, away from the beast, the time of his death postponed. Razorshells were tough and scary, but they weren't that fast. Without a savaged leg to slow him down, he could easily outpace it.

  He wasn't screwed! He was going to live! He felt like he could run all the way back to town!

  Oh, he was going to go right back to that potion shop, buy up all the premium healing potions he could, and ask the goblin girl out on a hot date!

  And then he'd let everyone know that Panacea Potion had saved his life!

  Bellharbour

  Luke, David's adoptive brother, repeated himself for the fifth time, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Sir, it's not that I don't want to sell you some of my exclusive hangover potions, it's that I can't. I don't have any left! The next shipment is due in a week's time. If you want to leave a deposit, I will most certainly reserve a number of them for you.”

  The foppish man in front of him huffed, his nostrils flaring, his annoyed glare landing on Luke's apologetic face.

  For an instant, the merchant was afraid the young noble would throw a tantrum, but the powdered snob instead stomped his foot, arms straightening in affront, before letting go of his breath.

  He retrieved a bulging purse from his pouch, weighing it in his hand, before rolling it off onto Luke's counter and turning up his nose. “There. That is for your entire next shipment. Send for me the minute it arrives.” He ordered, turning around and marching out before Luke could hold any protest.

  The merchant let his head hang. Half the shipment was already sold...

  He put his head in his hand, trying to figure out a way out of this without having his skin flayed by the ever-growing throng of nobles clamouring for his “exclusive potions.”

  Saint's love! He had already increased the price fourfold, and still they mugged him of all his stock.

  He didn't have a choice. He'd increase his price even more and ask Niala to double, no, triple, the amount of potions she sent his way.

  He sighed, plopping down on the stool at his desk, staring into the void.

  He didn't get it. Sure, they were high-grade potions, but that's it. They were bleeding energizers and hangover cures, not panaceas or youth potions! Why were they all so ravenous for them?

  Did they know something he didn't?

  Noble's auto-car, outside of Luke's shop.

  Lord Vinter flung open his auto-car's door, stomping inside and slamming it shut, dropping on the bench with a righteous pout on his face.

  The old manservant sitting across from him arched his eyebrows. “I take it they had none left, my lord?”

  Vinter's gaze shot up at his manservant, the words blowing out of his mouth before his eyes had stopped moving. “None, Frederick! Not a single one! Oh, I still remember how Lloyd laughed in my face on the morning after the last well-watered ball! When he called my hungover potion mundane!”

  He slammed a fist on the bench, the driver at the front taking this as the sign to start moving. “Mundane! A potion that had cost a prince, guaranteed to have the most benign of side effects; just a bit of dry mouth and itching buttocks! And out of pity, he let me have one of his!”

  The noble crossed his arms, his face an indignant pout once more. “That little bottle was the most inane thing I had ever seen! Not a single decoration on it, just like a peasant's slop! I almost threw it away in disgust, before Lloyd smiled and drank one in my face!”

  He leaned forward. “Frederick, I saw it on his face! I saw it. His haggard eyes softened, took on an energized sheen. His posture straightened, his skin suppled, his hair coated in a freshly misted shine!” He explained, hands motioning for impact, before slumping back into his bench.

  “So I drank mine as well.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember the experience in the most precise of details. He reopened his eyelids, staring at his manservant, reverence in his voice.

  “Frederick, it was a transformative experience. Before this godly brew, any other potion might as well be the sludge from a peasant's latrine. An angel held me within its arms, its hands brushing away the lingering claws of alcohol! It fed me the purest, most refreshing water, sourced from heaven's own springs! It stole away my fatigue and left in its place radiant beams of sunlight!”

  Vinter was up into Frederick's face by this point, the manservant leaning back into his bench, face a few inches away from his lord's. He tried to speak with his usual candour. “I, hum, my lord, I see. Thank you for explaining to me. I was unaware.”

  The noble sighed and flopped back into his bench, waving a hand in defeat.

  “It's understandable, Frederick. Only those who have partaken of the nectar can truly understand its worth.” His eyes levelled at his manservant, stare hardening. “But I will have my potions from the next shipment. In fact, have guards stationed around the clock at that man's shop. Instruct them to hold my goods until we arrive to pick them up. Do you understand?”

  Frederick had never seen his young master so intransigent before. The weight of his gaze made him involuntarily press down into his bench, a bead of sweat rolling down his back.

  “I- I understand, my lord. I shall station guards around the clock, as you ordered.”

  Somehow, he knew without a doubt that his future employment within the noble's family was entirely dependent upon this task.

  Just who had brewed those potions!? The All Brew himself?