Blue Pharmacy
Guild shops were out.
The thought arrived automatically as I walked, my boots scuffing against sun-heated cobblestones.
Too much scrutiny. They logged everything—buyer identity, purchase volume, pattern analysis. One wrong flag and suddenly someone in a pressed Guild uniform wanted to see my status. Wanted to know my familia affiliation. Wanted answers I couldn't give.
Can't risk it.
Big familia shops were equally impossible. Dian Cecht worst of all—healers trained to spot the wrong kind of wrong. The kind that came from bodies that didn't match their paperwork.
Medical familia's notice everything.
I needed someone independent. Small. Desperate enough that profit mattered more than questions. Someone who looked at valis and stopped counting anything else.
So, I started asking.
The Shopping District hit me with color and noise. Bright painted signs everywhere, each trying to out-shine the next. Shops stood open-faced, wares spilling onto the street. Merchants called out prices with voices that could wake the dead.
The air smelled like optimism and commerce. Expensive optimism.
Adventurers browsed in groups, pointing at shiny things they probably couldn't afford. Children darted between adults with wooden swords, playing at heroism. Somewhere, someone was haggling loud enough to be heard three streets over.
I approached a potion seller whose shop looked modest—decent stock, no familia crest above the door.
"Where can I sell herbs?" I asked.
He sized me up instantly. Worn armor. No party. Careful posture. "Guild Exchange. Two streets over. Fair rates."
"Anywhere else?"
His eyebrow lifted. "Why? Guild pays fair."
"Just looking for options."
He shrugged, already losing interest. "Try the Manufacturing District. Some independent alchemists buy direct. Can't promise their rates though."
I thanked him and left before he could ask why I cared.
Too formal. Too connected. The kind of place where my purchase history would eventually connect to the Guild's "concerned inquiry" department.
Next.
The Manufacturing District announced itself with heat and hammers. Forges lined the streets, their open doors breathing out waves of scorching air. The temperature jumped ten degrees just walking past.
Everything here existed to produce. To make. To turn raw materials into finished goods through skill, fire, and what I suspected was a lot of cursing.
The sun had moved. Shadows fell longer now, slanting east instead of straight down. My body reported the passage with growing complaints.
My feet ached where boots rubbed skin raw. Thirst had progressed from "want water" to "would commit minor crimes for water." Hunger sat in my gut like an unwelcome tenant demanding rent.
I kept moving anyway, drifting toward residential areas where streets narrowed and buildings leaned like tired workers.
Fewer adventurers here. More locals who looked exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with dungeons. Paint peeled. Cobblestones cracked. The smell changed—less commerce, more life. Cooking food mixed with old stone and the particular scent of too many people living too close together.
I stopped at a street vendor's cart. The old man was packing up, arranging unsold goods with careful efficiency.
"Know where I can find cheap potion makers?"
He looked me over with eyes that had seen everything twice. Then pointed vaguely toward the next district. "Blue Pharmacy. Near the poor quarter. Lady there makes potions. Cheap."
"She buys herbs?"
"Maybe. Ask her yourself." He returned to his packing. Conversation over.
Best lead I'd gotten all day.
I followed his directions into streets that twisted like someone's idea of a joke.
The residential maze had no logic. Streets looped back on themselves. Alleys branched at impossible angles. Buildings stood identical—same height, same worn brick, same narrow windows. No signs. No markers. Just locals who knew the path by heart and outsiders who got lost trying to find their own feet.
My legs burned. Not the good training burn, but the "I've been walking for hours on stone" burn. Sweat soaked through my shirt. Every few minutes I had to stop and check sun position, trying to translate "near the poor quarter" into actual directions.
The light kept changing. Golden now. Late afternoon painting everything in amber. By the time I found it, exhaustion had settled into my bones.
Blue Pharmacy.
The sign hung crooked above a narrow storefront. Faded paint, letters almost illegible. Small. The kind of place you'd walk past without noticing.
I stopped. Stared at that faded sign.
Blue Pharmacy. Naaza... Miach Familia.
My breath came easier now that I'd stopped moving. I could feel my heartbeat everywhere—temples, wrists, ribs.
She'll rob me.
The thought arrived with certainty. Small familia's always did. Debt didn't forgive and gods didn't pay bills. Survival meant squeezing every Val from every transaction.
But she won't ask questions.
That was what mattered.
And after Bell helps her with that double potion formula... after the canon events I couldn't interfere with... she'll become trustworthy. Reliable. Someone positioned exactly where I needed them.
Future investment. Long-term cover.
The logic checked out even through exhaustion. Even knowing I was about to get robbed.
Sometimes you paid in valis. Sometimes in time. Sometimes in pride.
All of it was just business in Orario.
I took a breath. Found the door handle—wood worn smooth by countless transactions.
Pushed it open.
A bell chimed. Soft. Clear.
The shop exhaled scent—dried herbs, old wood, chemical compounds. That particular smell of alchemy in progress.
Dim inside. One window.
Shelves lined every wall. Glass jars. Clay vials. Bundled plants hanging from hooks. Everything positioned with purpose.
Behind the counter stood a woman. Chienthrope—drooping ears, sleepy expression. Naaza. Her eyes were half-closed, but her posture said otherwise. Sharp. Alert. The stillness of total awareness.
Her gaze tracked me the moment I entered. Reading me instantly.
Then I saw her.
Standing slightly to the side. Pale ash hair catching sunlight, turning almost silver. Light armor, worn in specific places. Her back partially turned.
My heart stuttered.
The grey-haired girl.
Her.
Again.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.