The bell above the door of "Elara's Emporium" didn't jingle. It croaked, a sound like a depressed frog. The air inside was a layered tapestry of scents: sharp pennyroyal, dusty chamomile, and the ozone tang of spent magic. Jars of unidentifiable things lined the shelves, and bundles of withered plants hung like forgotten sentences from the low ceiling.
Leo was there for the cheapest cleaning supplies he could find. The woman behind the counter watched him over the rim of a chipped mug, steam curling around her sharp features. Her hair was a wild grey cloud, and her eyes were the color of flint. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her gaze a physical weight. It felt less like a look and more like an appraisal of raw material.
"Finch's boy," she stated. Her voice was like gravel rolling downhill. "The dust finally settle in that tomb next door?"
Leo hefted a bottle of vinegar. "It's getting there."
She snorted. "He always was too sentimental for his own good. Thought a little heart could compete with a soulless machine." Her flinty eyes dropped to the ornate tamper tucked in his belt. Her expression didn't change, but the air around her seemed to grow still. "So it's true. He saddled you with his Folly."
Leo's hand went to the cold, familiar metal. "His what?"
"That thing in your head," she said, gesturing with her mug. "Arthur's Folly. A system to build a business with soul. He thought he could codify compassion, scale up integrity." She took another sip, and the steam seemed to carry her sharp sigh. "It's a fast track to ruin. You can't mass-produce a hand on a shoulder, boy. You'll either starve or become what you hate trying not to."
The words landed with the force of a truth he'd been afraid to name. Leo set the vinegar down. "I just need to get open."
"Open and broke are not mutually exclusive," she countered. "I've got a back room. Full of my grandfather's alchemical failures. Dusty. Has its own door to the alley. You can use it."
Hope, thin and dangerous, flickered in his chest. "What's the catch?"
"The catch is that you're a novice with a doomed legacy, and I'm a realist. You'll pay me ten percent of your gross. Not profit. Gross. And you'll sign a paper saying so." She set her mug down with a sharp click. "Consider it your first lesson in the cost of a shortcut."
It was a terrible deal. An anchor chained to his ankle before he'd even learned to swim. But the rent was due, and the Grind was just empty space. This back room, this "junk," was at least something. A starting point. Maybe even a place where Arthur had left more than just dust.
He picked up the stub of a pencil she offered. It felt like a betrayal of some unspoken principle he hadn't even defined yet. Was this the first compromise? Trading a piece of his future for a sliver of a present?
He signed his name. The scratch of the lead was unnaturally loud in the quiet shop.
Elara snatched the paper, scanned it, and gave a grunt. "Key's under the brick by the alley door. Try not to burn the place down with whatever 'magic' that Folly teaches you." She picked up her mug, a clear dismissal.
As Leo stepped back outside, the overcast sky felt brighter. A soft chime sounded in his mind.
[FIRST ASSET ACQUIRED!]
[FOUNDATIONAL QUESTLINE: "A FIRM FOOTING" UNLOCKED.]
He looked back at the apothecary's grim facade. He was in business. He had a partner who thought his legacy was a joke, a debt that would haunt him, and a room full of failed experiments.
He took a deep breath. It was a start. A messy, compromised, and utterly real start.