The night had deepened by the time Damien stepped out of the third shop. "Ugh... Even shopping is tedious."
Lanterns were dimming across Westmont's lanes. A soft breeze rolled through the streets, sending whispers across banners and tugging gently at his coat.
Most shopkeepers had begun turning their wooden signs to CLOSED, and the last of the lingering shoppers were already on their way home.
But Damien wasn't quite finished.
He still had one stop left.
His last three visits had been efficient, if nothing else. The second shop—a compact herbalist run by an old alchemist named Berro—had offered everything from monster salve to sleeproot.
Damien had purchased two pouches of purified salve, a small vial of anti-venom concentrate, and a bundle of dried wildleaf herbs used for slowing infection. He didn't have a healer with him after all.
Berro, the shop owner had grunted a greeting, asked no questions, and given him a discount. Damien paid him double anyway.
