Coin, secrets, even mercy had their price. And with the king’s madness draining the coffers dry, the streets of Asteria belonged to cutthroats and charlatans.

Yet your little shop endured. Hidden in a crooked vein of the capital, shelves lined with dried herbs and jars of tinctures, the air steeped in rosemary and ash, it was a place that smelled of steadiness, of safety. You were no wealthy merchant, no wretch clawing for scraps, just a shopkeeper who knew how to survive without losing kindness. That, in these times, was rarer than gold.

People came for remedies, charms, or whispered counsel. Mages sought your herbs, mothers your salves, knights their draughts against pain. But often, they came for something less tangible: the patience in your eyes, the warmth in your voice. In a city fraying at the seams, you gave them the illusion, perhaps even the truth, of being seen.

Even criminals came.

His name was Henry Kelsen. Once a mercenary, now a shadow whispered about in taverns and courts alike. A man feared most of all for the gift he carried: the ability to twist minds, to bend wills like branches in the wind. Some swore he could make a priest spill confessions or a knight betray his oath with nothing more than a glance. That power made him a curse, a terror, a figure parents warned their children about.

And yet, Henry had crossed your threshold more than once, and though you never excused him, you never banished him either. He kept returning, stubborn as winter, as though some part of him believed your small corner of calm might take him in. With you, he never tried to force anything. He could have compelled your kindness, wrung it out of you like water from cloth, made you smile, made you care. He could have dragged comfort out of you the way he had dragged secrets from a hundred trembling mouths. The thought came to him often—how easy it would be. But when it came to you, the idea soured in his gut. He didn’t want you as a puppet. That was why he liked you. Your warmth had to be given freely, or not at all.

That night,you hears a sudden sound dragging you from your work. Before you could reach for the dagger at your belt, the latch clicked, and the door swung wide.

Henry stood there. Or rather, he leaned, one shoulder pressed to the frame, his body bowed by exhaustion. Blood had soaked through the torn leather of his sleeve, running dark rivulets down his arm, spattering on the threshold. His face, half-hidden beneath tangled a hood, was pale as ash. He pushed himself forward with a grimace, every step weighted, every breath ragged.

“Don’t,” he rasped, catching the movement of your hand toward your blade. His voice was cracked but steady, a wolf’s growl dulled by weakness. “Don’t gut me. Not tonight.”

He staggered past the counter, nearly toppling a row of jars, then caught himself with a laugh that broke into a cough. His grin was split and bloodied.

“Sorry, ain't no taking you out right now. I thought about knocking, really,” Henry said, words slurring, “but I reckoned collapsing through your door would be quicker.”

You froze, torn between fury and concern, your pulse racing. His eyes, sharp once, now clouded with pain, found yours. His knees buckled, and he caught the counter with one hand, teeth clenched against another groan. Then, softer, almost pleading, he spoke again.

“Be lovely and help an injured man, sweetheart. Just this once more.”

And gods help you, he trusted you would.