I hold the jar in both hands like it’s made of spun moonlight and forbidden pleasure. Slender thing, the elvish glass, faintly glowing, slightly warm. No label. Just the whisper of sothing ancient and smug inside.
Don’t ask how I got it. Don’t.
They say this stuff wipes scars like soap wipes sin. Even the deep ones. Even the branded ones. Even that one. The one the dwarf insists only makes extra randy and does absolutely nothing for crotch rot or divine fertility shielding. Bastard. Like he’d know. Like he rembers anything past the third ale.
I run my thumb across the lid. One little dab and I could be clean. No more temple marks. No more auction brands. No more mories spelled in raised flesh and faded ink.
I could be a blank slate.
A blank, pretty, unbranded, unbruised slate.
I bite my lip.
The Dragon’s not here. Good.
I stare at the jar and pretend I’m not trembling.
I almost open it.
Fingernail under the seal, breath caught sowhere between chest and throat.
Almost.
Then I stop.
Shit.
One stupid tear sneaks past my lashes and slides down my cheek like it knows sothing I don’t.
I close my eyes. Deep breath. Gods.
I pack the jar away. Tuck it down into the pouch like I’m hiding sha and not alchemy.
“Fuck. Not today.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Salt and dust and old habit.
Another sigh. Bigger this ti. Like it might clear out the ache.
“Get a grip on yourself, girl,” I mutter.
I tighten the strap. I square my shoulders. I keep walking.
Much later—different night, different fire—the Dragon’s voice cuts through the crackling silence.
“What happened to that elvish ointnt?”
I grin. Or at least my mouth does. Not the rest of .
“Used it on my heels,” I say, stretching my bare foot toward the fire like it’s proof. “Cracked sothing awful after we crossed those dunes. Felt like walking on salted pottery.”
He snorts. “And the rest?”
“Sold it,” I say with a shrug. “That stuff’s worth a fortune. Didn’t feel like hoarding beauty cream while we’re scraping for fig bread.”
He nods. Doesn’t press.
Good.
I stare at the flas while he curls tighter around the hoard we don’t talk about, and I pretend that nothing inside is still sealed tight in a pouch at the bottom of my bag.
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