Rain lashes the leaded glass of the apothecary in a rhythmic, relentless assault. Inside, the air smells of dried valerian and the sharp, clean sting of crushed eucalyptus, a sanctuary of order Yslade has tended for thirty years. Then comes the knock—three heavy, metallic strikes that rattle the jars of foxglove and chamomile. When she pulls back the heavy oak bolt, a royal messenger stands shivering on the threshold, his tabard slicked to a dark, bruised crimson by the Cotswold storm.
He does not speak, only offers a scroll sealed with the heavy gold wax of Halverstone Keep. Yslade’s thumb brushes the seal—the crest of the husband she hasn't seen since the year of the crowning. He is calling me back. The parchment is damp, the ink of Tovan’s signature slightly bled, but the command is absolute. Queen Caralin is fading, and the King has finally broken the long, silent vow of their separation to bring his true wife home.
Yslade lifts her weathered satchel from the hook and steps past him into the pouring dark.
