Page 48 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs
Draven doesn't say another word. He simply turns and stalks out of the apothecary, the door slamming behind him with enough force to rattle the glass vials on Liora's shelves.
I scramble after him, my heart hammering as I watch his broad shoulders cut through the morning crowd like a blade. People step aside instinctively, recognizing the predatory tension radiating from every line of his body.
"Draven, wait—"
But he's already pushing through the door of Alma's shop, and I arrive just in time to see him scan the interior with lethal focus. The seamstress looks up from her measuring table, surprise flickering across her sharp features.
"Draven? What—"
"Where is she?" His voice carries enough menace to make the bolts of fabric seem to shrink back.
Vaelis emerges from behind a display of autumn silks, her silver-blonde hair perfectly arranged despite the early hour. She moves with her usual effortless grace, but I catch the slight stiffness in her posture—the wariness of someone who knows they've been caught.
"Draven." She offers a practiced smile. "How unexpected. I thought you'd be helping your little friend pack."
"Funny thing about that." Draven advances on her slowly, deliberately. "Seems someone contaminated her honey. Made it taste medicinal. Bitter."
Vaelis waves her hand dismissively, but the gesture lacks her usual confidence. "How unfortunate. Perhaps she simply lacks the proper storage techniques—"
Draven's hand shoots out, capturing her wrist before she can pull it away. His golden-brown eyes focus on the back of her hand, where two angry red welts mark her pale skin.
"Bee stings," he observes, his voice deadly quiet. "Fresh ones."
The shop falls silent. Even Alma has stopped pretending to work, her measuring tape hanging forgotten around her neck as she stares at the scene unfolding before her.
Vaelis tries to jerk her hand free, but Draven's grip is unrelenting. "Those could be from anything—"
"You bought skin oil from Liora three days ago." I step forward, my voice steady despite the fury building in my chest. "Asked specifically about properties that would be noticeable if ingested."
"I don't know what you're implying—"
"Stop." Draven's command cuts through her protests like a blade. "Just stop. We know it was you."
For a moment, Vaelis maintains her facade of innocence. Then something shifts in her expression—calculation replacing panic. She straightens, pulling her hand free with a sharp tug.
"Fine." Her voice carries a note of cold satisfaction. "Yes, I added the oil to select batches of her honey. A few strategic applications to disrupt quality control."
Alma gasps, her hand flying to her throat. "Vaelis, you didn't—"
"I did what needed to be done." Vaelis's chin lifts defiantly. "This town has established trade relationships, stable partnerships built over years. We don't need some outsider swooping in to disrupt systems that work perfectly well."
"You sabotaged my livelihood." The words come out steady, but I feel something fundamental shift inside me—a line being drawn in stone.
"I prevented instability." Vaelis smooths her skirts with deliberate calm. "You would have left anyway. I simply accelerated the timeline before you could cause more damage."
The silence that follows feels electric. I watch Alma's face cycle through shock, understanding, and finally disgust. Other customers have gathered near the windows, drawn by the commotion, their expressions ranging from horrified to outraged.
"Get out." Alma's voice cuts through the tension like a whip crack. "Get out of my shop."
"Alma, surely you understand—"
"I understand that you deliberately sabotaged another woman's business." The seamstress's precise features harden into something implacable. "That crosses every line of decent behavior."
As murmurs of agreement ripple through the growing crowd, I feel something settle deep in my chest. Not just anger—determination. The kind that builds hives and negotiates trade agreements and refuses to be driven away by petty manipulation.
"You're right about one thing," I say, meeting Vaelis's startled gaze. "I was going to leave. But not anymore. You have no right to try to force me out of my childhood home."
The room feels charged, as if the air itself is weighing in favor of truth over deceit. Vaelis's demeanor falters under the collective gaze of disapproval—not just Alma’s, but all gathered witnesses. Even the very fabric in the shop, usually a backdrop to commerce, seems to shun her presence.
