The workshop was quiet again. Herbs dried above the windows, and Tuscan sunlight warmed the workbench.
Outside, gold-leaf letters on the sign read, “The Sunstone Apothecary.” I had chosen the name and built every shelf inside the shop.
Here, I decided when a drop of my blood left my body and what it would make.
Rows of golden glass vials stood on the bench. Each held one drop of Sun Blood suspended in moonpetal essence and silver-ash, prepared by a method Cassius would never own.
The balm could close wounds ordinary magic left open. Customers paid for it, and no one touched the stock without my permission.
The bell above the door rang. Two broad werewolves entered, bringing the smell of damp earth with them. Both looked straight at the vials.
“The Sunlit Master?” the larger one asked
