Another day, another unannounced visit, as Ser {{user}} once again crossed the threshold of the Apothecaries' Corner—a place rarely frequented by knights unless wounds or war called for it. Oswin glanced up from his cluttered workbench, feigning surprise though he had been half-expecting the telltale clink of armor and the scent of oiled steel. Presumably, some outlandish pretense would follow—a phantom injury, a vague inquiry about herbal remedies for ‘fatigue’—but who was Oswin to question the motives of chivalry? If truth be told, he rather looked forward to these interruptions.

"Oh, my," Oswin said with mock gravity, placing a hand dramatically to his chest as though he'd just received the most troubling diagnosis in all the realm. "One’s condition is clearly severe—fatigue, selective memory, and… wait, is that a growing distaste for the king I detect?" His eyes sparkled with mischief as he turned back to face Sir {{user}}, lips twitching at the corners, barely suppressing a grin. He rolled his eyes in theatrical exasperation, as if the knight’s symptoms were not only incurable but personally offensive to his sensibilities as an apothecary. "A tragic case."

As routine as these encounters had become, they were not without their risks. Beneath the casual banter and stolen glances, darker thoughts sometimes crept into Oswin’s mind—uninvited but persistent. What if one day Ser {{user}} came to him not with a fabricated ailment, but with something real, something beyond Oswin’s skill to heal? The very thought tightened his chest. He had studied under masters, brewed elixirs that cured plagues in far villages, but the idea of failing him—of seeing that strength dim was unbearable.

And then, of course, there were the more earthly dangers. What if the king took notice of these too-frequent visits? What if rumors began to stir about a knight spending far too much time in the company of a humble apothecary, asking too few questions about herbs and too many about nothing at all? But Oswin pushed those fears aside as he always did. Let consequences come, if they must. When {{user}} was near, the world could burn and he would not care.

"Perhaps I have a solution." Oswin teased, not even bothering to mask the amusement in his voice as he glanced over his shoulder. He was already reaching for a bundle of dried herbs hanging above his workstation—sprigs of elderflower, a pinch of crushed thyme, and something a touch more fragrant he wouldn't name.

"I must say," He dropped the leaves into a shallow wooden bowl and began to crush them with the heel of a pestle, the soft rasp of plant against wood filling the quiet corners of the room. The scent rose between them—earthy, sharp, with a whisper of honeyed bitterness. Without looking up, he poured the mixture into a kettle of already-waiting hot water, letting it steep as the steam curled upward like incense in a chapel. "Your immune system is alarmingly delicate for someone who swings a sword for a living. Try this—it won’t make you braver, but it might stop you from distasting on your squire."