Elara nods, a flicker of hope crossing her bruised face, and points a trembling finger toward a narrow lane that winds between two leaning timber houses. 'Old Margot's shop is two streets over, behind the cooper's yard—she keeps a pot of iron filings and a jar of crushed moonstone under her counter, and she knows the uses of every root in the Thornwood.' You help Elara to her feet, and she leans heavily on your arm as you navigate the slick cobblestones, her breath still ragged but her steps gaining steadiness. The rain has softened to a mist that clings to your skin, and the town feels hushed, as if the very buildings are holding their breath.

The apothecary's door groans open to reveal a cramped den of dried herbs, dusty glass bottles, and the acrid smell of sulfur. Margot, a woman with eyes like chips of flint and hands stained green, listens to your tale with a pursed lip. She presses a small leather pouch into your palm—a blend of woundwort, yarrow, and crushed adder's tongue—and a vial of viscous amber liquid that she calls 'witch's bane,' a concoction that can disrupt any spell for a heartbeat. 'That'll be three silver,' she says flatly, her gaze unyielding, and you feel the meager coins in your pocket weigh heavier than before.