The sun rises and I greet the new day. Recalling last nights dream, I enter Zaenith's apothecary in poor spirits and no shortage of anger.

  "Get out of my store, you insufferable brat! I have nothing for you." Zaenith’s scarred knuckles whiten as her fist tightens, her glare cutting into the young, raven-haired woman across from her. "Is this how you treat paying customers? I should have known better than to expect civility from a midden-born she-brute like you." Luna matches the large woman's glare with her own. Eyes, crimson and golden, bore into each other as they match wills.

  "I require three potions of mana. I was told that you were a capable alchemist. Was I mistaken?" Luna’s calm words only deepen Zaenith’s sneer. The towering woman leans heavily over the counter, casting an intimidating shadow over the slender figure before her. "I am more than capable," Zaenith snaps. "But I do not deal with your kind, petulant witch. Leave. I will not ask again." Rising to her full, imposing height, Zaenith radiates barely restrained aggression, her fists tightening. Luna meets her glare with unsettling calm, her hand slowly reaching for something at her belt, I can't see it from here, behind her.

  "Um... what's going on?" The tension breaks as both women turn to me. "You..." Luna’s eyes light with recognition, while Zaenith’s narrow in irritation. "The two of you are acquainted?" Zaenith’s tone is icy, but Luna only smirks. She strides toward me, her hands sliding over my waist and chest in a display far too intimate for what our relationship warrants.

  "I helped tend to his wounds. We've developed quite the bond since." The counter under Zaenith’s grip cracks with an audible snap. She steps out from behind it, her footsteps heavy and menacing as she approaches us. I instinctively shrink back, the sight of her expression dredging up childhood memories that make my bones ache. Luna, however, holds me tighter, her smirk only growing more smug.

  "I always preferred tall men," Luna says smoothly. Her hand dips to her belt, and I catch a glimpse of something, a silver rod etched with strange carvings. A chill runs through me. Her grip feels intimate, but the way she positions herself makes me feel eerily like a shield. I step back, untangling myself from her.

  "What’s all this about?" I ask, keeping my distance from both women. Luna doesn’t reply, shrugging her shoulders. While Zaenith only glowers. "I will leave, for now. But know this, alchemist, I always get what I want." She turns, her cloak flowing as she exits the apothecary.

  "What was that about?" I ask, turning to Zaenith. She glares at me. "Stay away from that woman." I arch an eyebrow. "Why? She just asked for potions. What was it... mana potions? Are they special or something?" Zaenith sneers, her tone dripping with disdain. "If you had completed your training, you wouldn’t need to ask such foolish questions." She turns and marches back to her counter.

  "But there will be time enough to rectify that. For now, we’ll see how you handle the alchemy you so crave. If you’re going to apprentice under me, I’ll need to measure your aptitude," she says, her tone brooking no argument. I consider pressing her with more questions, her eagerness to steer the conversation away from Luna is obvious, but if she's willing to teach me alchemy, I won't pass up the opportunity.

  For the next several hours, Zaenith reeducates me on the fundamentals of the craft. She starts with the reagents, teaching me to identify their appearance, texture, and scent. Each herb and mineral has a purpose, and she explains their interactions in meticulous detail. My memory serves me well, along with what I learned from Rose, allowing me to quickly retain the names and uses of the materials. Despite the monotony, I find myself intrigued by the complexity of the craft.

  She demonstrates how to grind herbs to the proper consistency and explains the importance of precision in measurements. "Alchemy isn’t just about throwing ingredients into a pot," she remarks. "A single misstep can render a potion useless, or worse, turn it into poison." Her hands move deftly, grinding, mixing, and stirring with practiced ease, each motion a lesson in itself.

  Despite my disdain for tasting potions, I can't hide my curiosity when it comes to making them. It's something I was always interested in, even as a child. That a small bottle of liquid could perform such miracles... it was almost like magic. "Potions of healing," I ask at one point, unable to hide my curiosity. "Can you teach me to make them?"

  Zaenith pauses, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "I could. But mastering them is a challenge few achieve. A novice herb-picker like you is a long way from producing the pinnacle of this craft."

  "What did you just call me?" I ask, indignant.

  "A herb-picker. Get used to it. That’s going to be your job for a long while, until you’ve proven you can handle more."

  My eyebrow twitches in irritation. I’m not entirely sure why, but the title grates to an almost irrational degree.

  "Hmm, now that I think about it, there’s more you can do for me than just picking herbs." she muses. Bending behind the counter, she retrieves an object wrapped in cloth, handling it with deliberate care before presenting it to me.

  "Deliver this poultice to the mayor’s house. It stands to the north, the largest one there, you can’t miss it."

  The mayor? Ha, fortuitous timing; I still need to claim my reward for those brigands. And while I’d like to learn more... it has already been several hours, I doubt I’ll retain much at this point.

  But... before I accept her task, there's one more matter to discuss

  "How much will this pay?" I ask. "20 coppers was a fair sum for picking those herbs, can I expect the same for delivering your wares?"

  Zaenith sneers. "Don’t get greedy, boy. For your assistance, I will allow you a weekly stipend of fifteen coppers."

  "That’s less than you paid me for a single task!" I argue, frowning.

  "I thought gathering those herbs would take you longer," Zaenith retorts. "But if you’re going to be living under my roof and learning my craft, these are the conditions you’ll have to live with. Fifteen coppers a week and not a single coin more."

  I consider negotiating but decide against it. It’s not a bad arrangement, honestly, especially with a place to stay. Surprisingly, she's not even pressing the issue of the trials and my place in the family. I should probably count myself lucky. Though that thought turns my mind sour.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Now get going. The rest of the day is yours after the delivery is made."

  Begrudgingly, I nod in agreement. At least now, I can go back to Lucien and complete that delivery.

  I stand outside the mayor’s estate, a large, imposing house perched on a hill. Its stone walls rise high, crowned with a slate roof, and the faint glint of sunlight catches on the iron gates. Taking a steadying breath, I knock on the heavy wooden door.

  It creaks open, revealing a heavily armed man. His weathered face is wrinkled with irritation, his hand resting on the pommel of a sword that looks well-used. "What’s yer business?" he growls, his tone as gruff as his appearance.

  I hold up the poultice Zaenith gave me. "I was sent to deliver this," I say, keeping my voice even. He eyes the pouch, then me, with thinly veiled annoyance, snatching it from my hand. Before he can close the door, I step forward, holding my ground.

  "I’m also here to claim a reward. I killed a couple of brigands," I add, my tone firm. His glare sharpens, but after a long moment, he begrudgingly steps aside.

  "Fine," he mutters, jerking his head toward the interior. "But show respect, boy. You’re speakin’ to the mayor."

  The guard leads me through a wide, dimly lit hall adorned with faded tapestries and thick rugs muffling our footsteps. At the end of the corridor, we enter a spacious study, where the mayor waits.

  This... is the mayor?

  The man before me is taller than I expected, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Though past his prime, his presence is commanding. Scars crisscross his face, speaking of countless battles, and his clean-shaven scalp gleams faintly in the sunlight streaming through a high window. He wears finely tailored clothes, rich fabrics that contrast sharply with his rugged demeanor and a long knife at his belt.

  He looks more like a brigand than a noble. Was he a soldier before?

  He turns to me, leaning back in his chair as he steeples his fingers. "Seven. The Brigand Killer," he says, his voice deep. "Edwin Stont. A pleasure, truly. It’s been far too long since someone reported any of those scum slain." A friendly smile touches his scarred face. "Been near a year since you’ve laid hands on one, eh, Gandre?"

  The man in heavy armor grunts dismissively. "Too busy guardin’ yer lazy arse."

  Despite being the mayor, the two of them seem unusually familiar with one another, almost casual. "The truth is, friend," the mayor continues, his tone hardening. "Our little town of Ravencroft has been plagued by brigand scum for some time. And now, they’ve escalated their provocations to unacceptable levels." He clenches his fist tightly, his anger palpable as his jaw tightens.

  “The empress refuses my calls for aid, the clergy too.” Edwins sneers at the mention of them. “I'd rally my guardsmen for a raid and butcher the filth myself. But they’re cowards, hiding in the shadows and only striking at lone travelers. Makes them damn near impossible to catch. Even my son doesn't seem up to the task..." He exhales heavily, unclenching his fist and rubbing the deep scars on his shaven head. "Folk like you, though, nondescript men unaffiliated with my guard but capable of holding their own... might manage what we cannot." The mayor nods thoughtfully, his gaze steady.

  "Two silver coins, the reward promised," he says, flicking the coins to me with a casual motion. I snatch them out of the air without hesitation. "There’s more where that came from, a silver coin a head." His gaze sharpens as he leans forward slightly. "But if you capture one alive for me... one I can interrogate to find the location of their hideout... the reward won't be silver, it will be gold."

  The offer immediately catches my attention. The chance to earn another gold coin, just like that? But... it’s like he said, the brigands won’t fight me alone. I managed to get the better of the last three, but it could have easily gone sideways if they had stuck together and attacked all at once, instead of trying to block my escape.

  Although, with Zaenith promising to train me with this club... maybe...

  "If I get the chance, I’ll bring one to you. I can’t promise anything, though," I say carefully.

  The mayor nods, a smile spreading across his scarred face. "Naturally. I don’t expect a stranger to die for our little cause. But if you did succeed... we’d be most grateful." He rises, extending his hand. "Until next time, Seven. Brigand Killer. I look forward to hearing more of your exploits."

  I clasp his hand firmly, nodding in return before stepping away.

  "Father, I have ret-" The voice cuts off as a man I recognize strides into the room. Daniel Stont. His golden hair and finely polished armor catches the light as he comes to a stop.

  Not this prick again.

  Edwin glances at him, his irritation evident. Daniel, however, isn't looking at his father, his gaze locks onto me. Recognition flickers across his face, followed almost instantly by disdain.

  "You," he spits, stepping forward. "What are you doing here, brigand scum?"

  He's just as insufferable as before, even with me here, talking to his father.

  Forgetting myself, I snap. "You pompous prick, you locked me up falsely!"

  Daniel's sneer deepens. "Falsely? You were skulking around the streets at night like a rat, and drew a blade on me."

  "Enough," Edwin sighs, rubbing his forehead. Gandre smirks, clearly entertained by the exchange.

  Realizing my mistake, I take a slow breath and step back. "My apologies, Lord Stont."

  Daniel's smirk widens. "That’s right. Know your place, lowborn."

  Edwin’s expression darkens. "Enough, Daniel. Unlike you, this man you call a brigand, has slain two of their kind."

  Daniel's eyes widen, his face flushing red. "You-" He grits his teeth, then rounds on me. "You’re the one the guards were talking about?"

  I cross my arms, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Yes."

  Daniel’s face turns crimson and shifts back to his father. "The only reason this so-called 'brigand killer' succeeded is because the cowards refuse to face me and my men in open battle!" he snaps, furious.

  Edwin makes no response, unimpressed by his reasoning. Though, it’s certainly true.

  “Actually...” A sudden idea forms in my mind and I turn to the mayor. "If you're looking for more capable fighters beyond your guard, ones willing to hunt brigands, there are two currently locked up in the gaolhouse. They despise the scum more than anything else"

  A slight lie. Only Hamza fits what I described, but there’s no harm in including William too.

  The mayor raises an eyebrow. "And their crimes?"

  Daniel scoffs. "Thieves."

  I nod. "They stole from Zaenith, my... employer. But she doesn’t care what happens to them. She’d be fine if you let them serve their punishment by hunting brigands instead."

  Another lie, but I doubt she cares overmuch. They'll still be serving some punishment. Just as conscripts rather than losing a limb.

  The mayor strokes his chin, looking to Gandre, who shrugs. “He delivered her poultice, though I’ve never known the woman to show mercy.”

  After a long pause, the mayor nods. "I’ll consider it."

  It’s about as good an answer as I’m going to get. I nod in return, accepting the outcome.

  "Farewell, Seven," Edwin says, his tone neutral but not unkind.

  Daniel, however, sneers as he steps past me. "Try not to get yourself killed, ‘brigand killer’."

  Gandre escorts me back through the hall and out into the cold air outside the estate. "Careful out there, stranger," he says gruffly, his tone more serious now. "The brigands are a dumb, useless lot, but their leader isn’t. If you encounter him, don’t try to fight. You won’t win."

  The weight of his words makes me pause. "What does he look like?" I ask, curiously.

  "Broad, with greying brown hair." Gandre replies. "Wears heavy armor and carries a greatsword. Do not underestimate him."

  I nod slowly. "I won’t. Thank you."

  He lingers for a moment, his eyes narrowing as though he’s debating whether to say more. Then, with a short nod, he steps back and shuts the heavy door behind him. Our business is concluded. I turn, heading back into town, the guard’s warning playing over in my mind.

  "A broad man in heavy armor, huh..." I mutter under my breath, gripping my club tighter.

  After a moment, I release it, calming myself. The chances of me encountering this person are low, there's no need for concern.

  "Anyway, there's still time left in the day and Zaenith did say the rest of it was mine.... I should go see Lucien," I say to myself, heading back to the market district.

  "And see what this job he talked about is."

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