Enya began the crafting process for the Soul-Cleansing Pill.

Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill (Bronze Tier)

Description: A pill that can cure the symptoms of the Chilled-Soul ailment. Recommended dose of two pills a day, every day, until symptoms subside.

Materials:

Pill Capsule

Bitterbloom leaf

Soul-flame

10 Soul Energy.

The good thing about these kinds of recipes was that they didn't require much precision. As long as she had the ingredients, she could craft the item without much trouble. Purity and balance still mattered, but the basic outcome was almost guaranteed. If you had water, sugar, and lemons, you couldn't really mess up lemonade. Sure, it might end up too sour or too sweet, but it would still be lemonade in the end.

Probably.

Once Enya moved on to higher-tier crafts, things would get trickier. Then, she'd have to follow the same meticulous principles as blacksmiths—temperature, purity, shaping, and balance. The skeletal goliath was one such design: not as demanding as forging, but still requiring attention to material and method.

For now, she focused on the pill Pell needed. It wasn't too complex; it was just nerve-racking for other reasons.

Pell's constant hovering didn't help.

"You got this, right? Take it slow now. Don't rush. Get this perfect," he said, voice rattling behind her. His skull leaned over her shoulder, sockets fixed on her hands.

"Pell," Enya groaned, pouting. "I got this! Stop pressuring me."

His nerves were justified, though. The Bitterbloom leaves alone had cost a staggering one hundred gold coins. Each.

Pell's jaw had been clattering ever since they bought them, like a man gnawing his own nails. There were only three sellers on the market, and each had only a handful in stock.

The Grim Pullet had described the recipe as simple but historically precious. Even Elria agreed. Very few substances in the world could cure Chilled Soul. For a witch to make an equivalent potion, she'd need almost two hundred platinum coins' worth of rare reagents just to suppress its effects. That's why most people preferred preventative measures, like artifacts or armors.

Enya cracked open a small pill capsule on the workbench. The interior was smooth and hollow—a perfect shell.

<Grimmy> Lay the leaf flat on an even surface. Slowly inject a steady stream of soul-energy along its veins until it is fully enchanted.

She followed Grimmy's guidance. Laying the green leaf flat, she pressed down the curled edges with her palm. Then she activated Absolute Focus.

Time slowed.

Every detail sharpened more, each vein branching out from the base like glowing threads. She shaped a fine needle of soul-energy at her fingertip using transfiguration of soul.

Elria watched from the edge of the workbench. Enya looked more like a surgeon than a crafter, steady and patient.

Slowly, she inched her finger forward, positioning the needle over the base of the leaf. She held her breath as the soul-energy began to flow, tracing the thin network of veins. The light spread evenly, pulsing faintly as she maintained the stream—careful not to push too hard, not to spill over.

A painstaking minute passed before the leaf was fully infused.

Then, with a deep exhale, she moved on to the next step.

<Grimmy> Hold the base of the leaf near a soul-flame for roughly thirteen seconds. Do not allow the leaf to catch fire. Once the hue turns a dark red, quickly crush the leaf into a small ball. The denser, the better. Immediately place it into the pill capsule and seal it. Sealing can be done with fire or soul-flames.

"Let me borrow your skull, Pell," Enya said.

Still tense about wasting a hundred-gold ingredient, Pell didn't hesitate. He reached to his neck, detached his skull, and set it gently on the table.

Enya used her soul-energy to lift the leaf and position it before his floating skull. "Pell, keep your eyes steady. Don't move."

Easier said than done. Pell had no real sense of how his soul-flames behaved—only that they acted like eyes, contracting or flaring depending on his focus. He forced himself into complete stillness and cleared his mind.

The golden light in Enya's eyes brightened as she held the leaf close to his flames. She counted softly to thirteen, then pulled it away. The leaf had turned a deep, dusky red.

She crushed it in her palm, rolling it between her hands until it compacted into a small, tight sphere. Once satisfied, she dropped it into the waiting pill capsule and snapped it shut.

For the final step, she brought the capsule back to Pell's skull, holding it near his soul-flames for a few seconds. The faint heat shimmered against her fingers until familiar chime came.

System Notification: You have successfully crafted Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill: You have received 426 EXP. Experience Remaining Until Next Level: 6816/9814

Item Name: Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill Tier: Bronze Rank: A- Effect: A pill that can cure the symptoms of the Chilled-Soul ailment. Severe symptoms may require the consumption of multiple pills.

"So? Did it work?" Elria asked.

"How bad is it?" Pell asked.

Enya smiled. "A-! Easy as cheesecake!" Enya cheered, holding it up like a divine prize.

Immediately, Pell used appraisal on it. Although Enya knew the name, tier, rank, and the effect since it was something she crafted—there was one thing appraisal provided that she didn't know.

Item Name: Chilled-Soul Cleansing Pill Tier: Bronze Rank: A- Value: 10 platinum

Pell grinned. Jackpot.

On the marketplace, items claiming to suppress the Chilled-Soul ailment sold anywhere between ten and a hundred gold—and even those were temporary fixes, requiring constant use. The cheapest cure available was a specialized needle worth over a hundred diamond coins. A ridiculous price, though it doubled as a reusable tool, presumably for other diseases, too.

But now?

He had a genuine cure sitting in his hand.

Appraisal listed the pill's value at ten platinum coins. It should've been an average based on the market of its last known listings, even though none were currently for sale right now.

That number smelled of money.

Ten platinum… six years ago, that would've been enough to pay off the entire orphanage's debt—and still leave enough for him and Elara to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.

But now?

Wealth didn't mean much anymore. Still, if it could be used to screw over Amberdean, he'd take the chance.

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"This thing could sell anywhere between ten platinum and maybe a hundred diamond coins," Pell said at last.

Enya's eyes widened. "Really? That much?"

Pell nodded. "Yeah, but pricing it's tricky. It's a one-time use item and only works for Chilled Soul, which limits its market. The price range is huge; and for severe cases, one pill won't be enough. The auction tomorrow will be the best place to test its value."

Elria yawned, lounging on her side atop the workbench. "We're in the first layer, Pell. The sticks. No one's paying even a single diamond coin for it. You might as well list it at fifty and wait for some rich idiot to bite."

"No," Pell said, shaking his skull. "If Amberdean's people are showing up tomorrow, we can't just wait. Sure, we might make less here, but the auction'll draw hunters for sure. As long as we get at least a hundred gold, we'll break even. Ideally, I want five platinum—but I'm still not sure how common the ailment is down here."

"Auction hunters?" Enya asked, tilting her head. She was already kneeling at the center of the room, sorting through the mountain of bones Javey had brought.

Pell closed his marketplace window and rolled the pill between his fingers. "They're basically traveling merchants or servants of noble houses. They hop from auction to auction, looking for rare stuff. Doesn't matter if it's the first layer or the fourth—treasures pop up everywhere." He flicked his wrist and stored the pill in his inventory.

"Even here, there'll be some heavy wallets watching. If anyone there knows what Chilled Soul is, this thing should sell like wildfire."

Elria hopped off the workbench, using witchcraft to levitate a few bones beside Enya. "Won't you be fighting those same hunters for whatever Amberdean's after?"

"Maybe," Pell said. "Most of them represent big merchant guilds or wealthy families. Something rare down here might just be uncommon up there. I'm betting whatever Amberdean's after isn't valuable enough for the big players to bother with. If it is, then Amberdean's out of the item, too. He would know whether or not it'll attract the auction hunter's attention."

He turned toward the wall. The sanctum's portal shimmered to life, opening with a low hum.

"I'm going to run some errands," he said. "You two keep doing whatever you were doing. And also—" he glanced back at Enya "—curfew. Be back at the inn by nine."

Enya set down a femur and pouted. "But, Peeelllll~"

"No buts."

And with that, Pell stepped through the portal and was gone before she could whine another word.

"Highbells district? Yeah, man—it's that way." The man pointed down the street. "Go straight, take a left after two minutes. You'll know it when you see all the lights."

Pell nodded, tugging his hood a little lower. "Thanks."

A few minutes later, he crossed the stone bridge and stepped into Highbells.

It was hard to miss.

Lanterns lined the streets like a string of suns, each casting golden ripples across marble tiles and polished glass storefronts. Perfumed air drifted from open balconies. Wealth clung to the place like humidity—thick, stifling, and all-around expensive.

It wasn't quite as grand as Talo, though. Talo had been blinding with its white towers, towering courts, and marble so polished it hurt to look at. Everything there blurred together, rich and poor alike, washed clean by the city's gleaming facade.

Highbells was different. You could see the divide here. One street away looked quite plain; here, it was carriages, chandeliers, and the power of coin. Even in the first layer, the rich always found a way to wall themselves off.

Nobles, merchants, and high-ranking guilders filled the lanes. Every face gleamed clean, every voice carried that airy arrogance that only came with privilege.

Pell blended in as best he could, walking slow, keeping his shoulders squared. His cloak's enchantment helped to shadow his skull. From a distance, he could almost pass for human.

Almost.

After searching around for several minutes, and asking passersby that weren't particularly extravagant-looking, he eventually found a clue. Ulter was a large man with a big belly, trimmed mustache and walked around with an entourage. Two guards, one maid.

He found the restaurant easily enough: The Gilded Lily. Its facade was all polished mahogany and gold filigree, with servants standing at attention beneath chandelier light. He could already see through the tall windows—men and women in embroidered coats, crystal glasses, silver cutlery glinting.

Pell approached the entrance.

"Excuse me, sir," said a sharply dressed host, stepping forward. "This establishment is reserved for nobles and registered dignitaries. May I see your invitation?"

Pell's voice was steady. "Don't got one. I've got gold, though. Plenty of it."

The man smiled politely; the kind of smile that was really a no. "I'm afraid that isn't sufficient, sir. We have a reputation to maintain."

"I said I've got gold," Pell repeated, this time with a bit of edge.

"I understand, sir," the host replied, tone not budging an inch. "But I must ask you to lower your hood. For verification."

Pell stiffened. "Can't do that. I've got burn scars. Face isn't something people like looking at."

The host hesitated, then straightened. "Then I'm sorry, sir. Without proper identification, I can't let you inside."

Pell's jaw clenched beneath the hood. "Yeah. Figures."

He turned, the faint clatter of bone echoing beneath the rustle of his cloak.

He found a narrow alley across from The Gilded Lily. It was dark and empty except for a pair of stacked crates; he crouched between them and waited.

Highbells never slept; the place just dimmed itself to a softer kind of glow. The night breeze carried wine and cigar smoke, violins drifting from balconies. Carriages whispered over marble; every few minutes another cluster of well-dressed patrons flowed past.

Over an hour passed, and right be fore Pell was going to die from boredom—the Gilded Lily's doors opened.

A small entourage spilled out: two armored guards, a maid with a velvet case, and between them a round man with a trimmed mustache and a fine blue coat that strained at the seams. He moved with the easy confidence of someone used to being waited on, laughing softly at some private joke.

Ulter, Pell thought.

He stepped from the alley, brushed off his cloak, and followed at a careful distance. When the moment felt right, just as Ulter's group turned a corner—he called out.

"Wait!"

Hands went to hilts all at once. Pell raised both palms, keeping his tone light. "Easy, gents. I'm not trouble."

Ulter stopped, one brow arched in mild surprise. "And who might you be, skulking out of the shadows at this hour?" His tone wasn't sharp. It was more curious than anything.

"Name's Pell," he said quickly, keeping his voice steady and polite. "I'm a merchant. I'm sorry to stop you like this, sir, but I was hoping for a few minutes of your time. Strictly business."

The noble studied him, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. His guards stayed alert, but Ulter himself didn't seem particularly alarmed. "Business, hm? You certainly picked an unusual hour to conduct it."

Pell nodded with a small chuckle. "Yes. You're right. But due to some circumstances, I wasn't able to meet you earlier—wasn't allowed inside the restaurant. My associate and I only arrived in the city today."

"Associate?" he asked, intrigued.

The guards around him still had their hands on their hilts, ready to strike at any time. Pell could tell the guards were high-level just by how they conducted themselves.

"What associate? What company are you from?" he continued.

Pell shook his skull. "I'm a freelance merchant. No affiliation. Well—my associate is a noble, so I work with them."

Ulter's eyes lit with interest. "Another noble, you say? Then you're their servant, perhaps? Sent to speak on their behalf?"

"Not exactly," Pell said with a small shrug. "Close enough, though. I handle her dealings. You could say I'm her right hand."

That earned a quiet hum from Ulter. He gestured lightly to his guards, who eased their grips and stepped aside. "Well, Mr. Pell, I must say you have my attention. Come. Then. Let's speak where the carriages won't drown us out. Five minutes, correct? I'll give you that. If your business is worthwhile, then perhaps I'll buy offer you a drink."

"Much appreciated, sir," Pell said, following as Ulter's laughter rolled warm through the streetlights.

Several minutes later, Pell found himself sitting in one of Ulter's carriages, the polished interior dimly lit by soft enchantment. It was, by far, the most awkward ride of his life.

Two guards sat across from him, watching his every twitch, their hands never straying far from sword hilts. Ulter reclined comfortably beside him, humming an idle tune as if there wasn't a hooded stranger of questionable appearance riding inches away.

Pell kept his posture relaxed but still, his mind running the details of what he'd say once they arrived.

Thankfully, the trip passed without incident—unless one counted the unbearable silence.

The carriage rolled to a stop before a walled estate at the northern edge of the district. The manor loomed three stories high, trimmed in silver filigree and hung with banners bearing Ulter's crest: a black lion rearing over a pile of coins.

Temporary lodging, Pell guessed. Nobles like Ulter didn't live here; they occupied cities like Shallwick for as long as business demanded.

After a short walk through the front garden, Pell was ushered into a bright foyer lined with glass chandeliers and a red carpet thick enough to lose a coin in. Maids bowed in unison as Ulter passed, their motions seamless as clockwork.

He led Pell into a lounge; it was a quiet room with velvet chairs, golden sconces, and a faint scent of citrus oil in the air. Ulter sank into one of the seats with the ease of someone who owned every inch of the room, then waved Pell toward the opposite chair.

"Sit, sit," Ulter said warmly. He snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared almost instantly. "Tea. Jasmine. Just one cup."

The servant bowed again and disappeared through a side door. Pell pretended not to notice that only one cup had been ordered.

Ulter steepled his fingers, his tone still cordial but edged now with intent. "So, Mr. Pell—what is this business you wished to speak to me about?"

Pell leaned back slightly, gauging him. "I'll be direct, sir. Tomorrow's auction; I've heard you may be attending."

The man gave a small nod, mustache twitching upward. "Indeed. Though whether I bid is another matter entirely."

"I also heard," Pell continued, "that a certain noble—Amberdean—might be vying for the same item you're after."

That made Ulter's brows lift. "Amberdean?" He chuckled softly. "That rumor traveled fast."

"I make it a point to listen where others don't," Pell replied evenly. "Word is, you're not one for public spats. You'd rather avoid the noise if someone like Amberdean tries to make a scene."

Ulter exhaled through his nose, amused but wary. "You flatter me with accuracy, Mr. Pell. I've no taste for petty rivalries. Amberdean's the type to turn a bid into a spectacle, and I prefer to keep my name unsullied by that kind of theater."

"Then maybe I can offer you a solution," Pell said, lowering his voice slightly. "Let me handle the theater for you."

"Handle it?"

"Yes. You let me take your place as bidder. I make the bids in your stead. If I win, the item goes to you untouched. You avoid the spectacle, and in exchange…" Pell paused, meeting Ulter's eyes through the faint shadow of his hood. "You give me backing. Quietly. Funds if I need them."

Ulter didn't answer right away. The room was silent except for the faint sound of the teakettle whistling down the hall. Then, at last, he spoke. His tone was calm, and it carried even weight. It came from a man who knew to weigh every offer twice.

"You want me to fund you in a bidding war against a sitting baron," Ulter said. "And to what end?"

Pell smiled faintly. "Until I can personally frustrate Amberdean enough to ruin his day. The more angry and frustrated he is, the better."

That earned the noble's first genuine laugh—a rich, full sound that filled the room. "My, my. You're either bold or suicidal. Possibly both."

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