A pitch-black curtain still hung over the outpost's sky, making the firelight in the square seem all the brighter. This was a crossroads, with the central square at its end. Nearly ten thousand people crowded around the square, and many stood beyond the crossroads itself.
The torches were not the only things giving off light. Their flames also illuminated the glittering ground, where countless crystalline grains of powder covered the brick paving.
Rod and the two adventurers hid at a street corner, getting as close to the crowd as they could. They could faintly hear people murmuring, apparently questioning this supposed "miracle cure."
They did not entirely believe the claims about the potion.
But the soldiers' threats and promises had brought them here nonetheless.
Their gazes settled on the center of the square, where the lord sat slumped on a raised platform.
Beside him stood an enormous cauldron, so wide it would take five adults joining hands to encircle it. It had no lid, and steam rose from within. People could guess that the potion to free them from the plague was brewing inside.
"I've run a tavern in this outpost for seven years, and I've never seen so many people!"
Rod exclaimed, "I can't even imagine how busy my tavern will be once they're free of the plague! Ha, I'll have to tell them all about how I came up with that errand service, and how many places I scoured to find all that fine liquor for them!"
"He doesn't look well. Even from this far away, you can see how unevenly he's breathing."
The halfling blinked. "He's probably injured."
"Can making potions injure you?" asked the warrior beside him.
"That depends on the potion. Back home, making magic items is dangerous work—our manor has been blown up seventeen