Ambrose

If it hadn’t been for Sherry, Ambrose could have avoided his new neighbor for months.

At least, that was his estimate. Brewing enough inventory for a proper shop opening would take the newcomer at least four to five weeks, and that was if the man worked at it all day. And who would have time for new neighbors, anyway? Between all the herb drying, crystal crushing, water cleansing. . . In fact, he was doing the man a favor by not visiting. Yes, that was it. He was being generous. Conscientious, even—

Sherry set down her hammer and sighed. “Conscientious?”

“Yes.” Ambrose placed a crate of bottles at the edge of her forge. “Like I said, I’m doing him a favor. Now, if these resistance potions are all you need, I’ll just. . .”

He turned on his heel but wasn’t quick enough—Sherry wrapped a firm hand around his arm and dragged him back.

“Not so fast, young man,” she said, her voice carrying easily over the day’s lunch rush. Her open-air forge had no visitors at the moment, but before long, she would have a small throng crowding the edges, admiring her armor and shields. Not that they could afford any of the pieces, of course—Sherry catered only to the best of adventurers, those with dragon gold and questing jewels to spare.

And today, her hard prices matched her gaze as she spun Ambrose around to face her.

“You’ve finished your errand and you’re closed for lunch,” she continued. “You have time to say hi to Eli.”

“I told you, I don’t want to say hi to him—”

She pushed Ambrose into the street, where he had very little choice but to dodge traffic and make his way to Eli’s Elixirs next door. Once he successfully navigated around donkey carts and messenger dragons, he looked behind him and groaned. Sherry had slipped back into her forge, leaving him to grit his teeth through the pleasantries alone.

Then the door swung open and his new neighbor stepped out.

“Hey! Sherry mentioned you’d stop by.” All smiles and fast words, the human waved him inside. “Elias Valenz, but you can call me Eli. You’re Ambrose, right? Come on in.”

Eli ducked back in as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving Ambrose blinking at the doorway. This was meant to be a brusque hello, not a tour of the gormless place—but he couldn’t turn away now. He glanced at the forge, grumbled, and stepped into the shop.

Eli’s Elixirs was a scattered mess of crates and packing straw, dappled and warmed by the afternoon sun. The empty shelves gave Ambrose some comfort—the man was nowhere close to opening—but as he took a deep breath, the scent of the place surprised him. Though the old owner had left months ago, the shop still smelled of potting soil and sunlight. Together with the whiffs of dried herbs from the crates, the shop was reminiscent of the lavender fields surrounding the top edge of the Scar.

Ambrose shook his head—the smell was almost dizzying. One more reason to get back to his shop as soon as possible.

“I know you must be busy,” he said. “I don’t mean to intrude—”

“No, no, it’s all good.” Eli rubbed his hands together and looked around. “So, you came over to talk about the shop, right?”

Incorrect—he came over to avoid Sherry’s ire. But if the man wanted a straightforward conversation. . .

“Yes.” Ambrose neatened his cuffs. “I suppose there’s no use ignoring it. You are opening a potion shop, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And you understand I run a potion shop across the street?”

Eli spread out his hands. “Hey, it’s nothing personal. When I bought this place, I had no idea your shop existed.”

Ambrose bristled—your shop, as if he wasn’t talking to the premier potioneer in northern Laskell—but he reluctantly reeled himself in. Eli’s expression was open and honest, and there was a distinct Kolkean lilt to his voice. If he wasn’t from around here, he couldn’t be entirely blamed for the oversight.

Though he could be a little blamed.

“I imagine the listing failed to mention it. Very well.” He looked around at the crates. “So, when will you be moving out?”

Eli laughed. The sound grated on Ambrose’s ears like metal scraping a cauldron.

“Moving?” Eli repeated. “I can’t move now. You have any idea how much the seller’s permit alone cost?” He turned and dragged a crate off the counter. Though packing straw speckled his hair, his smile was untarnished. “Listen, I think we can make it work. You can’t tell me you’ve never had any competition in this city.”

Ambrose swallowed his frustration once more. There was a potioneer in the northern quarter, but they focused on household brews, nothing adventure-tier. The apothecary two levels up was a specialist, and the psychic’s elixirs in the south were little more than fizzy juice. “Nothing significant,” he said, surreptitiously peeking into a nearby crate. Only straw peeked back at him.

“Really?” Eli frowned. “How long have you been at your shop?”

Ambrose set his shoulders back. “Twenty years.”

“Twenty?” Eli gave another laugh. As he swung over to a shelf, a pair of sun-shaped earrings twirled against his neck. “What, were you born in there?”

A different, deeper anger flared in Ambrose. He shoved it down with a practiced hand. “Apprenticed.” He tried not to hiss the word. “I began when I was eight. My master retired and left me the shop several years ago.”

“Huh.” Eli shifted the crate in his sturdy arms, then set it on the shelf. “Cool.”

Ambrose pressed his lips into a line. Twenty years of experience didn’t exactly merit anything as lukewarm as huh and cool. “Where did you apprentice?” he asked tightly.

“Didn’t apprentice anywhere.” Eli shrugged. “Accredited at Driftwood College, East Kolkea campus.”

“Really.”

He didn’t mean for the word to come out like it did—truly, he didn’t—but its edges were too sharp and too venomous to be ignored. Eli straightened, his smile gone, and Ambrose scrambled to save face. “So—so you plan to join the Potion Master’s Guild through work hours, then?”

Another shrug from Eli, this one more forced. “Maybe.”

“Oh. Sponsorship?”

“Not that worried about joining the Guild, actually.”

As Eli rolled up his sleeves and reached into the crate, Ambrose twisted the Guild signet ring on his index finger. This man clearly wasn’t worth his energy. No apprenticeship, a few college credits. . . With his level of experience, the man wasn’t going to take four weeks to brew inventory; it was going to take him four months.

“I realize you’ve already spent money on this place,” Ambrose started, “but before you start brewing, I highly recommend you begin looking elsewhere for a—”

Then Eli began to pull out potion bottles. Filled, ready-to-go potion bottles.

Ambrose’s mouth fell open.

“How did you—?” He glanced into the workroom. The cauldron there was only half-unpacked. “How did you generate the inventory so quickly?”

Eli’s smile returned, twisted into an infuriating smirk. “Brewed them back home before moving here. Had to spin up enough to start selling right away, you know?” Eli placed the potions on the shelf, and Ambrose’s grip on his signet ring tightened. “Have to start earning my keep as soon as I can.”

“Of course.” This time, Ambrose didn’t care how sharp his words got. This couldn’t be happening. If all of these crates contained inventory, Eli could be selling against him within the week. “Well—have you taken the time to check them for leaks?”

“Checked ’em this morning.”

“And your licensing is complete?”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Eli’s eyes narrowed. “I’m all ready to start.”

They stood there for a moment, all tight-lipped smiles and cold stares, until the rose statue on the front counter flashed white. Ambrose ignored it; Eli nearly dropped the vial in his hand.

“What the. . .?” Eli set down the bottle and strode over to the counter, where the statue’s glass petals glowed a dim white. As the glow faded, he picked up the device by its wooden base. “Sherry did something to this before she left but didn’t explain what it is. Do you know. . .?”

He looked back at Ambrose, who weighed the pros and cons of explaining the statue to him. After considering feigning ignorance, then deciding that Sherry’s judgment wasn’t worth it, he sighed and took the device from Eli’s hands. Briefly, his fingers brushed a smattering of scars, and his eyes immediately dropped to the white claw marks trailing across Eli’s taut forearms.

“She must have. . .” He tore his gaze away from the scars and set the statue back on the counter. “Sherry must have written her name down here.” He tapped the miniature roll of paper floating under the rose. The paper obediently unfurled, revealing Sherry’s name and a written message underneath. “It’s primarily an alarm system. Tap the top of the flower if you need assistance, and those who have added their name to the scroll will be alerted.” He stepped back from the counter. “Every shop on Rosemond Street has one as a safety precaution.”

“I see.” Eli tilted his head. “So, the white flash—does that mean Sherry’s in trouble?”

“Not at all,” Ambrose said. “Red is for an emergency. White is simply the message function. If you want to send a message, add your name to the person’s statue, then write to them on the scroll.”

“Oh.” Eli unraveled the scroll, and his face brightened. “That’s fun.”

Ambrose grimaced. Fun would not be the word he nor Master Pearce would have chosen for the incessant messages. Pearce had erased all the names from The Griffin’s Claw scroll long ago, and Ambrose had kept the names erased upon his inheritance.

“Well, I should be going. . .” He started for the door. Eli held up a quill.

“Weren’t you going to add your—?” He nodded to the scroll.

“No, no,” Ambrose said too quickly. When Eli frowned, he searched behind him for the door handle. “Quite an unnecessary system, in all honesty. I recommend you opt out before the flashing drives you mad.”

“No, I get it.” Eli’s tone went tight again, and he tossed the quill back onto the counter. “Nice meeting you, Ambrose.”

Ambrose had never heard a less sincere phrase in his life.

“Nice to meet you, Elias,” he said, returning the favor. “Have a good day.”

***

The conversation haunted Ambrose’s thoughts for the rest of the day, and he closed early with a sharp flip of the door sign. Make it work? Make it work? What did Eli think they were going to do, skip around in circles and share profits?

“Ridiculous,” he muttered aloud, then swept into the cozy stone square that was his workroom. He’d seek comfort where he always found it—in brewing a potion.

He first surveyed his robes and their gold geometric embroidery. Traditional potion master robes were never just for show—almost every stitch contained some kind of magical enchantment. Flame resistance at the hems, acid and smoke protection woven through the thread. There was even a cooling spell sewn into the collar for when he had multiple cauldrons bubbling at once. That had cost extra talons at the tailor’s, of course, but it had been worth it.

Once he was satisfied that his robes and protective amulet were in good condition—no snagged threads, no dirt on the metal—he stepped in front of the cleaning table. He ran his hands over it, and the gemstones embedded into its edge flashed once. A tingling sensation rushed over his fingers as the magic cleansed them of dirt and oil. He smiled to himself—once he upgraded the table as a part of his anniversary list, the cleaning gems would work twice as fast.

The rest of his ritual reminded him of how many other anniversary upgrades he had planned. When he tugged on his gloves, he noted the empty gem slots he wanted to fill. As he selected a fire wand, he envisioned his new wand rack, with twice as many spaces and a built-in recharge function. Once the cauldron was prepared, Ambrose turned to his final pre-brewing ritual—the lucky shrine by the door.

To an outsider, this shelf of knickknacks was hardly more than a pile of silly trinkets and superstition. Tiny plants, decorative bottles, and lucky corks littered the space, a rustic defense against failed potions and misfires.

But like every potioneer before him, Ambrose didn’t dare tempt fate over something so small. He reached for his personal favorite on the shelf—a bronze cat, its tiny forehead brightened from years of wear.

“Safe potioneering, eh?” He rubbed the spot between its ears and, before turning back to his cauldron, looked up at the final workroom piece to upgrade.

The wooden placard above displayed the names of all past owners of The Griffin’s Claw. Some had run the place for as long as thirty years, others as little as two or three. But the store remembered them all, their names shaped by the raised whorls and vines sinking in and out of the deep, lustrous wood.

Adding a new name to this enchanted sign took more than simple woodcarver’s tools, and when Ambrose had inherited the shop, he didn’t have the funds to get it done right. But it had been nearly ten years since then, and with the shop’s anniversary coming up. . .

He let out a breath. Once he had the money saved up—and he would, soon—the sign would bear his name, too. Right under Master Pearce’s.

But until then, he had plenty of draughts to make. He rolled up his sleeves, pet the cat one more time, and settled in for a night of brewing.