In the shadowed corner of the guild's common room, a wiry man sat hunched over a half-empty mug, the dark green folds of his cloak pooling around him like stagnant water. His armour—grey and black leather, scuffed but well-kept—shifted quietly with every impatient twitch. Keith's eyes, sharp and restless, tracked the scene across the room, watching his plans crumble one smug smile at a time.

It wasn't supposed to go like this. Not at all.

He and Blake had made it very clear—painfully clear—that anyone thinking of lending a hand to that old geezer Alaric and his two fresh-faced tagalongs on that cursed frog-hunt quest would regret it. And yet… here they all were, with another new group joining the fun.

Keith ground his teeth, the sound barely masked by the din of mugs clinking and dice hitting tables. Blake's "plan" this morning had been simple—intimidate the newcomers, scare them off, and leave Alaric with no choice but to come crawling for help. Instead, Blake had gotten nowhere.

After his spectacular failure, the brute had stomped off in a sulk, muttering something about going to "flirt" with that market girl he liked. Keith almost laughed—more like harass the poor thing. She hated Blake's guts, but without the power or friends to fight back, she was forced to grit her teeth and endure it. Blake had taken his two dim-witted followers with him, which suited Keith just fine. He did his best thinking without that meathead breathing down his neck.

He shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing on the door where the adventurers had returned. Alaric looked far too pleased with himself, and Keith didn't like it. Not one bit.

They'll come crawling soon enough, he told himself. Once they're desperate, they'll take my offer—a clean ninety–ten split. Ninety for me, ten for them. Fair, considering.

But then he spotted the newcomers talking to Alaric, and his gut twisted. They weren't desperate. They'd found help—real help—and judging by the grins on their faces, they'd work for a much better rate than Keith's generous terms.

He drummed his fingers on the table, mind racing. Could we hit them after they've done the job? A tempting thought—but something told him that going head-on against that strange group was a bad idea. Very bad.

The weight of his debt gnawed at the back of his mind. It wasn't just coin he owed. If he didn't pay soon, they'd collar him—turn him into property. Keith shuddered.

"Maredin's ballsack," he muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. "It was the perfect plan. Didn't even have to kill anyone this time."

But that ship had sailed.

His eyes hardened, the decision already forming. Fine. If the easy way's gone, then they'd use Plan B. Blake would love it. The big oaf always enjoyed killing—or selling the survivors into slavery.

Keith leaned back in his chair, a thin smile curling across his face. Maybe things weren't falling apart after all.

Bell hadn't even reached the guild door before it swung open. Zane stepped through, a massive grin spreading across his face the moment he saw her.

"What are you smiling at?" Bell asked, a half-smile tugging at her lips.

"My beautiful wife," Zane replied instantly, scooping her up in a hug.

"Put me down, you brute."

"But I haven't seen you in, what… twelve, maybe fifteen minutes? Far too long."

Before Bell could retort, a familiar voice cut in.

"I'd tell you two to get a room, but we don't have the time," Lily said, arms folded and an expression that screamed how am I the responsible one here?

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Reluctantly, they disentangled from each other. Bell straightened her cloak; Zane didn't bother hiding his grin. Kai, standing beside Lily, scratched at his ear and deliberately looked anywhere but at his parents making out in the doorway.

Three strangers stood behind them, mouths hanging open in a mix of shock and awkward fascination.

The silence stretched until Zane broke it. "Bell, this is the team Lily and Kai found—"

"I know," Bell cut in. "Kai already told me about them. Perfect fit. Let's sign the papers and get moving. I've got more to tell you about a quest the Vice Manager offered us. By the way—any idea what Tarni's up to?"

"Yeah," Zane said with a shrug. "He won't be able to help us this time. I'll explain on the way… to those frogs."

Across the room, Keith watched them leave together, laughter and energy swirling around them like they already knew they'd win.

His smile thinned.

"I got the flowers like I promised," Tarni said with a grin as he burst through the front door of the alchemist's shop.

Jake held out his large hand for the flowers. It was trembling slightly. After Tarni placed all ten blooms into his palm, Jake just stood there for almost half a minute, staring at them. Tarni wondered how to prod this large man into action without creating a dangerous situation.

"I'm looking forward to you teaching me how to make potions before I accidentally kill myself with a cooking pot," Tarni added.

Jake snorted and carefully placed the flowers into a locked drawer behind the counter. "Cooking pots are for soup, not unstable alchemical brews," he said. "Come on. Let's get this started. You want to begin with the basics, I assume?"

"Basics sound good," Tarni said, rubbing his hands together. "Preferably the kind of basics that end with me making things explode… on purpose."

Jake gave him a long, flat stare. "…We'll start with health potions."

The Lesson

Jake led him into the back room — a space crammed with more glassware than Tarni thought possible. Beakers, flasks, and strange tubing curled into glass spirals filled the workbench. The air shimmered faintly with heat from a small rune-etched brazier.

"Rule number one," Jake began, placing three jars in front of him, "don't eat the ingredients. Even the ones that smell nice. Especially the ones that smell nice. They're usually the worst."

Tarni eyed the nearest jar, which looked suspiciously like it contained dried apple slices. "Noted."

"Rule number two," Jake continued, "exact measurements. This isn't cooking. You don't 'just eyeball it' unless you like surprise side effects. One pinch too much of dried sunleaf, and instead of healing you get… uh… temporary antlers."

Tarni's eyebrows shot up. "…Temporary?"

Jake didn't answer.

They started simple: crushed redthistle for vitality, powdered moonroot for regenerative boost, and a single drop of wyvern's-tear sap to bind the brew together. Tarni measured, poured, and mixed under Jake's sharp eye.

By the time the liquid had shifted from murky brown to a clean crimson, Jake gave an approving nod. "Not bad. Now, heat it — slowly. Keep it just below boiling or it curdles."

Tarni leaned over the brazier, watching as faint steam curled from the potion. "This isn't so bad. Feels like making tea, but deadlier."

Jake chuckled. "That's a fair description of alchemy in general."

The First Attempt

It was going perfectly… right up until Tarni got distracted. A jar of dried glowmoss on the shelf above him was giving off a faint green light, and he couldn't resist poking it. Just once. Just to see if it was real.

That one tap was all it took. A few flakes drifted into the simmering potion, and the crimson liquid instantly fizzed into a violent magenta foam.

"Uh-oh," Tarni muttered.

Jake reacted instantly, grabbing a pinch of something silvery from a jar and tossing it in. The foam settled with an angry hiss, and the potion shifted back toward red — though it now had an alarming shimmer to it.

Jake gave him the look of a man who had just remembered why he normally refused to take students. "Congratulations. You just brewed a high-potency health potion… that also makes the drinker mildly radioactive for about five minutes."

Tarni blinked. "Is that bad?"

Jake sighed. "…Depends who you're fighting."

Wrapping Up

By the end of the lesson, Tarni had managed to bottle three normal minor health potions and one shimmering, highly questionable Magenta Special, earning a total of 175 XP. The System had awarded him 50 XP for each normal potion and 25 XP for the Magenta Special.

Jake corked the bottles, labelled them, and slid the unstable one across the bench toward Tarni. "Keep it. Might save your life. Might make your hair glow for a week. Fifty-fifty."

Tarni grinned. "Best odds I've had all day."

As he left the shop, tucking the bottles carefully into his pack, he could already hear the others teasing him about his "potion phase." But he didn't care — he had the faint smell of herbs in his clothes, the thrill of making something useful, and one drink that might either heal him or turn him into a walking torch.

Either way, he was ready.

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