Underground Street, Grove Apothecary.
Grove listlessly sent off a Brotherhood thug with blood streaming from a head wound, recorded his purchase on credit in the ledger, then lazily settled down behind the counter. He warmed himself with a bottle of cheap liquor while watching his wife tend the shelves.
Never mind the occasional street robberies and petty thefts. Even when everything went smoothly, running an apothecary in the Lower City District offered little profit. Yet Grove, a man skilled at getting along with everyone, had still put down roots in this famously chaotic place and done business safely for over a decade. That was no ordinary feat.
Besides the connections his father had built before his death, his good relationship with the Black Street Brotherhood was another reason. These days, in Underground Street, he counted as someone of standing. Which blind fool would dare give him trouble?
Whenever he thought of that, Grove felt a little smug. He surveyed his shop with even greater satisfaction, taking a sip of warm liquor now and then.
Dad, this business of mine is doing much better than yours ever did when you were cheating and swindling people, right?
The shop's door was pushed open, setting the bell behind it ringing.
A cold wind seeped in from the street as well.
A customer.
The cold made Grove shiver. Reluctantly, he raised his head from behind the counter. Please don't let it be some petty thief. They've been at it nonstop for over a decade.
"Winter's just begun, and medicinal herbs are in short supply. We're running low on cold remedies! If you insist on buying some, the price won't be cheap—"
Grove was repeating the same spiel mechanically when he saw the customers and froze.
The one who had opened the door was a