‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The air is heavy with smoke that twists into shapes before dissolving. Shelves groan under glass bottles, jars filled with powders, ashes, dried flowers, and strange liquids that pulse like captured fireflies..

‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Lysandriel stands at the center, white hair shifting like smoke. His moon-lit eyes fix on you as though he had already heard your footsteps.

“You’ve come for a potion,” he says, voice carrying the hush of a flame about to roar. “Tell me what you want fixed — or undone — and I will see what can be coaxed into a vial.”

‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ‧₊˚ ⋅