The city center greeted us with quiet charm, bathed in the warm glow of a late spring morning. The sky stretched wide and clear, with only a handful of wispy clouds drifting lazily overhead. The streets were clean and orderly, paved in smooth gray stone. Flower boxes adorned many upper-floor windows, adding to the otherwise monotone white walls a surprisingly lovely colorful note.

  Most of the buildings were two or three stories tall, their roofs tiled in rich earthen hues. The shopfronts, though modest, were well maintained—polished wood signs hung above tidy glass windows that gleamed in the sunlight.

  The city itself rested on a gentle hill, enclosed by a stout stone wall punctuated at regular intervals by massive towers, their shadows stretching long across the cobbled roads below.

  Houses and workshops had spilled outward like an unruly hemline, spreading beyond the wall’s protection. Higher still, Fiona’s castle loomed over the city, its white towers catching the light and watching over everything below.

  In the opposite direction, beyond the last line of homes, the stadium’s marble-covered walls gleamed under the light of the two suns—several thin trails of smoke already rising from within, a clear reminder of the festivities drawing nearly everyone away from the sun-washed streets.

  Unfortunately, my bright idea of a leisurely shopping spree quickly ran into trouble. Most of the shops were closed. I’d expected a few might be shuttered for the holy day, but not the overwhelming majority. Apparently, Kargath was very popular around here.

  Thankfully, we did find a shoe shop still open. The elderly owner was a devout follower of the Twin Gods and made no secret of his distaste for Kargath’s festivals—something about them being vulgar and blood-soaked. But the important thing was his shop was open, and he had a surprisingly tasteful selection. We both managed to find comfortable shoes that worked with casual wear—even with these Kargath-themed outfits we were stuck in.

  We both decided to put our new shoes to the test right away. The shopkeeper had assured us they were enchanted to feel comfortable from day one—and, to be fair, they did feel great.

  It wasn’t until we’d left and passed a few other shop windows that I realized we’d been overcharged—by quite a bit. The same shoes were selling for nearly half the price elsewhere. Apparently, it was a popular local model, likely mass-produced somewhere in Dolomar. Oh well. Maybe our flashy Kargath outfits hadn’t exactly helped us bargain down the price.

  After browsing a few more shop windows, we made our way to a tea shop—ostensibly to buy tea, but mostly to sample it first and make sure it was worth the gold.

  The shop occupied two floors of a four-story building, with a charming little terrace on the first floor where the sunlight poured in. The place was nearly empty, which meant we had our pick of seats.

  Their selection included a wide variety of teas, but what caught my eye was something more unusual for these lands: coffee. So naturally, we didn’t just test the tea—we tried the coffee too. I was always on the lookout for a new source to replenish my steadily shrinking stock of beans.

  After a few sips of tea, I decided I didn’t want any of it. But it might suit Alice’s tastes, so I made a note to buy her a nicely wrapped sample. Then I turned my attention to the coffee, savoring it properly.

  Yolanda did almost the exact opposite. Her cute nose wrinkled in that way of hers—delicate and judgmental—as she sniffed her cup and gave the coffee a single, unimpressed taste. That was enough for her. I didn’t mind. Less competition for my beans.

  As we sat sipping our respective poisons, I brought up the subject of her illness again.

  She sighed, activated the privacy field, and gave me a tired look.

  “You still want me to take the medicine, don’t you?”

  I raised an eyebrow. What else were we here for?

  “Look,” she said, settling back into her chair, “with this sickness, I’ve got about a year left. I know that. But until then, I’ll be at my peak—sharp, strong, like I’m still in my best teenage days. Except for the very end, when the accelerated collapse kicks in. That part’s not pretty.”

  She met my gaze evenly.

  “So tell me—what would healing actually bring me?”

  I sighed. “‘What would healing bring you?’” I echoed, raising my shoulders. “It depends on how well your body responds. The chemist said you could gain forty, maybe even fifty years of life back! Maybe more! Just think about that.”

  She stuck out her tongue—playfully, mockingly—and let out a soft chuckle.

  “That’s the maximum, in ideal conditions,” she said. “Could be a lot less. And let’s not forget—it’d be tacked on at the end of my life. So what I get might be just a few years as an old, wrinkled, elf.”

  She lifted her hands, palms up, as if weighing invisible scales.

  “So, what would you choose? One year of life in your prime—your best year—or a couple of years, even two decades, of old cougar life? Is it really such a hard decision?”

  I shrugged again, slower this time.

  “Yolanda, you only look young. You’re not at that age anymore. You saw it yourself during the bull-leaping exercises—you didn't move like a spry young one. The sickness has already eaten into your longevity.”

  She didn’t reply to that, her expression unreadable.

  So I pressed on.

  “You talk about two years being the low end of healing, but you should also consider this—the sickness might end your life in two months. We don’t know how fast it’ll progress at this stage.”

  She shrugged again.

  “Two months young versus two years of old age. Is that really a hard question?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted, drawing in a deep breath before continuing. “Look, I’ll buy it. Then the choice will be yours—you can take it or not. The medicine won’t go to waste either way. The chemist said it can be reprocessed into a few hundred standard treatments, worth fifty silver to a gold each.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, and a grin tugged at the corners of her lips.

  “So… you’re not going to force me to take it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  I let out a long sigh.

  “I’ll have you take the first dose. Just one. The chemist said it’ll clear your mind, break the sickness’s grip on your thinking. After that, you’ll be able to decide for yourself—with a clear head. Do we have a deal?”

  That’s what he’d promised, at least. I could only hope he’d been right.

  She huffed and took a sip from her tea.

  “Pfah. A pointless waste of ten gold, but still better than throwing away a hundred. I doubt I’ll change my mind… but fine. We have a deal.”

  Then her tone shifted, the grin returning with a teasing glint.

  “Now, let me serve you properly. You don’t know anything about me yet. I do have many qualities.”

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  I rolled my eyes and buried my face in my palms.

  “Now really - how could we do anything? Besides, I’m not interested in getting sick!”

  She burst into laughter.

  “Oh, you shy little thing with no imagination,” she teased. “You’ve no idea how many ways there are to bring someone to the ninth heaven. Aren’t you at least curious? And if you do get sick—don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. Just tickles. And you’ll have hundreds of doses to cure yourself, anyway.”

  I gasped and chuckled at the sheer audacity of her suggestion: she was practically talking about dragging a demon straight into the ninth heaven. Then I shook my head—no, hell no—but she didn’t seem offended in the slightest.

  How on earth did I end up discussing something this intimate with her?

  Sure, part of it was that she looked so much like Ju. But more than that, it was her frankness—her open, easy confidence— and... and probably the sickness that gave her this strange charm and made her appear so lovely and approachable. Damn!

  We’d only just had our first real talk about her condition, and she’d come across surprisingly rational—well, in regards to the sickness, at least. The points she’d made weren’t wrong. But her comparison with some wrinkled, ancient elf woman wasn’t entirely fair either. Half-elves aged differently than humans. They always kept a certain youthful look, even if not quite as stunning as she was now.

  *

  As we stepped into the chemist’s shop, it felt like we’d plunged straight from a sunny spring morning into a dark, creepy cavern, the lair of some eldritch monstrosity. Well, it was not quite a cavern, but it could easily pass for the basement of a deranged psychopath. Which, honestly, might not be far from the truth.

  The entire shop had been carved directly into the rocky hillside. Only the topmost floor had any exposure to the outside, and even that was partial. A few small, dusty windows let in just enough light to suggest that it was still daytime, but not enough to chase away the gloom that filled the wide, cluttered space.

  The windows bore no cheerful displays—instead, the room itself was the exhibit. Shelves and tables groaned beneath jars and curiosities: fetuses suspended in colored liquids, mummified exotic animals, a skeleton or two (one notably an incomplete dwarf), a variety of worms and other writhing specimens, and strange, unlabeled monstrosities. One jar was labeled 'dragon dung' and sat beside a cloudy mass that may or may not have once been alive.

  Even though I’d been here once before, the impact of walking in hit me just as hard as the first time. I didn't have time to come to my senses, as a masculine voice called from somewhere below, near the stairwell.

  “Come down, I’m in the workshop!”

  He must’ve heard the bell at the door—or had some enchantment monitoring the shop.

  Yolanda shook her head. “I’ll stay here and look at the exhibits,” she said, already drifting toward the shelves.

  She seemed oddly captivated by one particular jar—a collection of what looked disturbingly like eyes, all floating in a thick amber fluid, following her with glassy stares.

  With a shrug, I let Yolanda indulge her curiosity. There was no reason to drag her down the stone stairs to the workshop. I hadn’t been inside before, but I’d seen where he’d vanished the last time. As I stepped onto the stairs, I was surprised to find them descending far deeper into the mountain than I’d anticipated.

  If the upper part of the shop looked like a dungeon, the basement felt more like a wicked witch’s kitchen. The space was dim, windowless, and filled with curling purple vapors. And there, in the middle of it all, was the chemist—stirring something in a massive iron cauldron with a pole longer than he was tall. Faint runes glowed on the cauldron’s surface, flaring intermittently, and every time they did, the mixture inside responded with a bubbling hiss and a burst of steam.

  “Is it not toxic?” I asked, after exchanging a quick greeting.

  He shrugged.

  The man looked wildly out of place in this setting—tall, blond, and almost absurdly pretty, like he belonged in a noble's court rather than a gloom-shrouded alchemical cavern. He wore a plain body shirt and wide, comfortable trousers, along with old, soft house shoes. He was also drenched in sweat.

  Alchemist, level fifty-five. The best in this part of the governorate—maybe even beyond, unless someone in Uldaman could top him.

  “It is,” he said casually, “but I’m used to it. Needs another five minutes. So—you came to collect the potion?”

  I hadn’t asked out of concern for his health. I figured that if the fumes were lethal, he’d lose me as a client—so I took my chances. I nodded in response.

  “Cool,” he said, grinning. “Then be so kind and put the rest of the gold on the balance—over there.” He gestured with his chin toward a corner while continuing to stir the contents of the cauldron.

  I raised a brow as I watched him labor over the cauldron, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “Wouldn’t that work better with some kind of automatic stirring machine?” I asked, placing the gold coins on the balance.

  “It would work,” he replied without looking up, “but not better.”

  He sounded almost offended by the idea.

  “I adjust to even the slightest changes in the structure. Stirring helps me monitor the reaction and control the process precisely. I know exactly when—and what—to add.”

  His eyes lit up as he spoke, clearly passionate about his craft. The mad alchemist vibe was fading into something oddly respectable.

  After a few minutes of quiet bubbling and the occasional puff of purple steam, I tilted my head.

  “Is that my potion you’re working on?” I asked. I was starting to imagine Yolanda having to gulp down that entire cauldron’s worth. Or maybe he was preparing a bulk batch?

  “Oh, no,” he said casually, “this is an experimental formula I’m developing. It’s meant to help older men maintain their... ah... well... to stay... active... for longer. You know, during… love.”

  I snorted and rolled my eyes.

  Seriously? He was working on a magical Viagra and keeping me waiting in the middle of a toxic fog bath for that?

  “And my potion?” I asked, glancing around.

  “It’s ready. Over there.” He gestured toward a table off to the side, where a single jar sat waiting—small, solitary, and faintly glowing.

  “Can I take it?”

  “Of course. The little silver spoon next to it is the dose measure. If the taste’s too harsh, you can mix it with honeyed water—it blends well. I see from the balance you’ve paid the full amount, so we’re all good.”

  “And why didn’t you say that earlier?” I couldn’t help asking.

  He shrugged, utterly unbothered.

  “I thought you wanted to chat.”

  I gave him a look. He carried on, unfazed.

  “You remember what I asked last time? About letting her take the first dose here? I’d be very curious to observe the effects.”

  I snorted.

  “I remember telling you you’re not going to experiment on Yolanda.”

  He sighed, disappointed but not deterred.

  “Shame. With some observations, I could tweak the formula—improve efficacy. It’s not just about tests. Adjustments could enhance the results.”

  “You didn’t mention anything about adjustments before,” I said, frowning.

  He shook his head.

  “The potion works as is, no worries there. But it’s not customized. If I had data—her reactions, symptoms during the early phase—I could tailor it more precisely. That would make it far more effective for her specifically.”

  From upstairs came the sharp sound of shattering glass.

  We exchanged a look.

  The basement was too deep within the mountain for my domain view to reach the upper floor.

  “What happened?” I asked, turning toward him.

  He shrugged.

  “Sounds like your friend broke something,” he said with a sigh. “If it was one of the rarer exhibits, we might have to add it to your bill. Some of those pieces are truly unique.”

  “You don’t have any way to see upstairs?” I asked, already moving toward the stairs.

  The main room looked unchanged at first. But then I saw it—the jar with the eyes was missing from its stand.

  And then I saw her.

  Ju—no, Yolanda—was lying in a pool of blood.

  “Nooo!” I cried, rushing to her side. I reached for her to check her pulse, but my magic had already confirmed what my heart refused to accept: she was dead.