Diana
Ingar’s shop was tucked away among the narrow streets of the oldest part of the city, as though stubbornly clinging to the past and refusing to disappear along with everything that had once been considered part of its history. The old sign above the entrance was covered in strange, intricate sigils, while the shop windows were crammed with so many peculiar objects that my eyes didn’t know where to settle. Vials filled with brightly coloured liquids stood beside dried plants, ancient amulets and objects whose purpose remained a complete mystery to me.
The moment we stepped inside, a little bell above the door chimed. A lean old man emerged from behind a tall shelving unit. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a pair of small spectacles perched precariously on the very tip of his nose.
