“Bad… bad debt,” Besa stammered, the scent of nightshade suddenly thickening in her throat. She pulled her hands away, feeling the blush spread across her cheeks. The lie felt flimsy, like a moth-eaten curtain. “From… from an ill-advised investment in, ah, imported sun-berries. They spoiled.” Toma’s head tilted slightly, a movement that was unsettlingly precise for a man who could not see. A soft, breathy sound escaped his lips, a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Sun-berries, you say? A rare delicacy, indeed. And a rather convenient tale for someone seeking sanctuary in a manor famed for its forgotten nobility and their peculiar ailments.” His voice held a playful lilt, a melodic quality that resonated strangely with the eerie silence of the hall. “So, your gamble soured, and now you seek to hide behind a poet’s name to escape the wrath of some zealous berry merchant? How terribly prosaic.” Besa’s cheeks burned hotter. “It’s… it’s a very zealous merchant,” she insisted, her voice barely a whisper. “And he has connections. Powerful connections.” She omitted the part about the merchant being an allegorical stand-in for a terrifying shadow-general. “I thought… this place, with its… quietude… would offer the anonymity I require.” Toma’s smile widened, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin. It was not a cruel smile, but one filled with a peculiar, knowing amusement. “Anonymity, little apothecary, is a fragile thing in the Pale Manor. Here, we trade in secrets, not in forgotten identities. Still,” he sighed, a sound of mock weariness, “a betrothal, even a feigned one, does offer a certain… impenetrable shield. Very well, ‘fiancée’. We shall play your game. For now.” A small sigh of relief escaped Besa, a fragile thing that vanished into the cold air. “Thank you, Lord Toma. Truly. I… I won’t cause any trouble, I promise.” “Oh, I have no doubt you will,” he said, the amusement still dancing in his tone. “Trouble, like mist, clings to those who wish most to avoid it.” Neda, who had been hovering near the door, her bright eyes flitting between them, clapped her hands together with a cheerful snap. “Well, that’s settled then! A toast is in order! I shall fetch some of the manor’s famed thistle tea. It’s said to calm even the most agitated nerves.” She curtsied quickly, a bright, almost urgent smile on her face. “Be right back!” And with a swish of her apron, she vanished down a dimly lit corridor, her footsteps echoing away with surprising swiftness. Besa watched her go, a flicker of unease stirring. Neda was always cheerful, but that enthusiasm had a sharper edge, a hurried quality, she hadn’t noticed before. “Your maid seems rather eager,” Toma observed, his head turning in the direction Neda had departed. “A good trait, perhaps, in a household where discretion is often sought, but rarely found.” Besa mumbled a vague agreement, her gaze sweeping over the intricate, faded hangings adorning the walls, the shadowed alcoves. The manor was a labyrinth, each twist and turn promising forgotten histories. She felt a prickle on the back of her neck, a familiar sensation when her mind sensed danger before her eyes did. She adjusted the thick wool of her dress, ensuring the music box remained deep in her pocket, a cold, heavy anchor against her hip. Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the high arch of a balcony overlooking the main hall. It wasn’t a trick of the manor’s gloom; it was a figure, cloaked in dark, heavy fabric, dropping with unnatural silence. A blur of movement, followed by the glint of polished steel. The assassin landed with a muffled thud, a wickedly curved blade already arcing towards Toma’s chest. The air screamed with the sudden violence. Besa didn’t think. Her body reacted, propelled by an instinct honed by years of quick fixes and desperate remedies. “Look out!” she cried, a raw sound torn from her throat. She threw herself forward, arms outstretched, shoving Toma hard enough to send him stumbling back against a carved pillar. As the assassin’s momentum carried him forward, his dark form filling her vision, Besa fumbled desperately in her apron pocket. Her fingers closed around a small, leather pouch she always carried – a potent blend of ground lunaflower and powdered calcified salt. With a desperate heave, she flung the pouch. It burst open mid-air, a blinding cloud of fine, grey-white powder exploding directly into the assassin’s face. He shrieked, a guttural cry of pain and surprise, his hands flying to his eyes. The blade clattered to the marble floor, ringing harshly in the sudden, echoing silence. From the deep shadows cast by a grand, unlit fireplace, a new figure stepped forward. His gait was measured, almost elegant, despite the underlying menace that seemed to emanate from him like heat from a forge. The stranger had silver-streaked hair pulled back from a hawkish face, his gaze flat as polished flint. He wore a velvet coat the shade of dried blood, and a thin, cruel smile played on his lips. “Amateur theatrics,” he drawled, his voice a silken rasp. He kicked the discarded dagger aside with a pointed, leather boot. “Truly, Lady Hosti, your entrance has been… memorable. But we both know you’re not here for poetry lessons. Hand over the music box.” The blood roared in Besa’s ears. This intruder knew. He knew about the music box. How? She instinctively clutched her side, where the cursed object rested. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she lied, her voice shaking. Toma, now upright and steady against the pillar, his face unreadable, stood silently beside her. The man's smile tightened. “Such defiance. Quaint. Perhaps a more… persuasive argument is required.” He took a slow, deliberate step towards her, his hand reaching into his coat. Before his fingers could grasp whatever weapon lay hidden, a cacophony erupted. A shattering crash of glass, splintering wood, and a guttural, terrifying growl tore through the manor’s oppressive quiet. Two massive, hulking forms burst through the tall arched windows flanking the hall, showering the marble floor with glittering shards. Not wolves, but something far more monstrous – immense, dark-furred beasts with eyes like burning coals, and jaws capable of crushing stone. Ravik’s shadow-hounds. The beasts snarled, their dark shapes rippling like liquid night. One, larger than the other, with teeth like polished daggers, fixed its gaze on Besa. Its massive head lowered, sniffing the air, its nostrils flaring. It lumbered towards her, its heavy paws thudding against the marble. Besa stumbled back, hitting the pillar where Toma stood, motionless. The hound’s burning eyes narrowed, its dark muzzle inches from her pocket, where the music box pulsed with a faint, cold energy. A low growl rumbled in its chest, and its jaws, wide enough to swallow her head, slowly opened.

Shadows in the Apothecary