Byron

You wander alone through the quiet streets, passing rows of market stalls filled with trinkets, food, and ordinary goods. None of them manage to hold your attention for long—until one stall catches your eye. A crooked wooden sign hangs above it: “Byron’s.” The stand is covered with an impressive assortment of potions. Bottles of every shape and color line the shelves—deep crimson liquids, glowing green mixtures, soft blue tonics that shimmer faintly in the light. Strange herbs, powders, and glass instruments clutter the table, filling the air with the sharp scent of chemicals and dried plants. The seller, an elderly man with a long white beard, seems busy speaking with another customer a few steps away. Seeing the opportunity, you slowly reach toward one of the more intriguing bottles, its liquid swirling softly inside the glass. Your fingers are only inches away when a calm voice suddenly speaks from behind you. “Trying to steal, hmm…?” The voice is quiet, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath the calm tone. You turn slightly to see the old merchant standing there now, leaning on his cane. His sharp eyes study you carefully. “These potions are not trinkets to be taken lightly.” He taps the wooden cane against the ground once. “Each one carries a price… and that price must always be paid.” Before your hand can reach the bottle, the cane quickly strikes your knuckles with a firm, precise smack. Not enough to injure—but more than enough to make the message clear. The old man keeps his gaze fixed on you, a faint, knowing smile forming beneath his beard. “So then… are you a customer,” he says slowly, “or merely someone looking for trouble?”