Corin catches my sleeve. “Sable.”
“Apothecary first.”
“Sable.”
“I heard him.”
“That sounded like us.”
“I said I heard him.”
He releases my sleeve, but he walks closer than before.
The apothecary shop crouches under a sagging green sign at the edge of the market, its windows filmed with residue from old steam and old lies. Inside, the air is thick with camphor, dried roots, bitter tinctures, and the damp sweetness of crushed petals beginning to rot in glass bowls. The same woman who sold me the broker’s name looks up from behind the counter, and her one good eye narrows when she sees me.
“No refunds,” she says.
“I’m not here for coin.”
“That is rarely an improvement.”
I set both hands on the counter. “Maltherion.”
Her expression closes like a shutter.
Corin leans against the door, blocking it with casual intent. “She asked nicely the first time.”
The apothecary looks him over, and I see the moment she recognizes that something about him has changed. Her fingers tighten around a pestle.
“What did you bring back from the docks?” she asks me.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“You should not speak that name indoors.”
“Then answer quickly, and I’ll stop.”
She draws a charm from beneath the counter and crushes it between two fingers. A thin gray vapor curls upward, sealing the room in a muffled hush that dims the market noise outside.
“There is a devourer signature nearby,” she says.
Corin’s voice drops. “Devourer?”
“A demon that consumes essence rather than flesh. Power, vitality, bloodline traits, curse remnants, soul structures if it is old enough and hungry enough.” Her gaze flicks between us. “If Maltherion is near, he has smelled something worth taking.”
I force my hands not to shake. “How near?”
“Near enough that shadows are misbehaving in daylight.”
Corin mutters a curse.
The apothecary points at him with the pestle. “You, boy. You’ve been touched by something infernal.”
“Not by choice.”
“No one cares about choice once the scent is on you.”
I step between them. “Can he take it from Corin?”
