40. VIT Potion

Mirel knowing about the Vitalicious Flowbloom made sense. Alistair had spread the rumor himself, and anyone with a potion class would pay attention to a rare resource that could improve VIT.

Her bluntness was what surprised him.

Falsehand had several safe answers available. He could ask what flower she meant, pretend his earlier question had only been hypothetical, or refuse to admit anything at all. Instead, Alistair watched her face.

Her usual guarded look had slipped. Her hand still gripped his arm, and there was hunger in her eyes, intense enough that she seemed to have forgotten how much she was showing.

That eagerness was a risk, but it also gave him leverage.

“Do you know it or not?” Falsehand asked.

Mirel blinked, then seemed to notice her own hand. She released him and stepped back from the counter. Alistair expected her to recover with irritation or suspicion, but she nodded too quickly.

“I know the recipe,” she said. “And the steps.”

Professional caution caught up with her excitement a moment later. Her mouth tightened, and she looked away for half a breath before forcing herself to continue.

“But I have never brewed it before.”

Falsehand watched her carefully. She could have lied. Many crafters would have, with a material this rare in reach. Mirel admitted the weakness before he even pressed her.

Alistair had never expected to find someone on Emerier with practical experience brewing a potion from a flower rare enough to make armed groups fight over it. Knowing the method was already more than he had hoped for.

“Could you do it?” Falsehand asked. “What are the chances?”

Mirel did not answer immediately. He saw the answer she wanted to give. Certainty would have helped her price, and confidence would have made her harder to refuse. A less honest crafter might have smiled, promised success, and trusted the customer’s ignorance.

Mirel controlled herself.

“I think so,” she said. “I cannot promise it before I see the flower. The method is precise, but it is within my means. The difficult part is the material. If the flower reached full bloom and was harvested properly, the greatest risk is mishandling the extraction.”

“Extraction?”

“The flower does not dissolve into a useful potion by itself. The effect has to be drawn out, stabilized, and bound into a solvent before the rest of the brew can integrate it.”

Falsehand remembered the drunk who had claimed his grandfather had eaten one and broken the five-point upper limit of the stats.

“I suspected as much.”

“You would be surprised how many rare ingredients are ruined because someone thinks eating them or making a simple infusion will be enough.”

Falsehand nodded slowly. “What would you need?”

“The flower, of course. The rest I either have in stock or can prepare quickly. Stabilizing salts, clarified root alcohol, redscale gum, a low heat source, an infusion vessel, and a few binding agents. Nothing impossible.”

“And your price?”

That made Mirel stop. She returned behind the counter and took her time before answering. Alistair let her think. Rushing her now would only make the commission more dangerous.

“A flower should produce two usable doses,” she said at last. “For my commission, I would prefer to keep one.”

The price was steep, but it was not absurd. Alistair had expected pain from the moment he decided to involve a professional. Losing half the treasure was difficult to accept, especially when he did not yet know whether a second dose could help him, but he also understood what Mirel was asking for. A potion like this might be the rarest work of her life.

Falsehand let the silence stretch. “Could I pay in shards instead?”

Mirel’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I’ll give you a quote.”

She reached for a piece of parchment, took a pencil from beside a ledger, and wrote a number with quick, certain strokes. Then she turned the parchment toward him.

Falsehand looked at it. For a moment, Alistair thought he had misread. His eyes narrowed behind the mask. Then he checked the figure again and saw that the price was not written in shards. It was written in cores.

Mirel rested one elbow on the counter. “You can ask the Apothecary in Verevain if you think I’m cheating you. If he knows the recipe at all, he will either refuse the commission or name something similar.”

Falsehand looked at the number one more time.

One dose it was.

Paying that amount was impossible. Even trying to gather it would expose too much and weaken every other plan he had on the island. He had stolen the flower to grow stronger, not to bankrupt himself before dealing with the slaving network.

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“Your commission can be one dose,” he said.

Mirel’s eagerness showed again, though she buried most of it beneath a brisk nod. “Then we have an agreement.”

“Almost,” Falsehand said. “I have another condition.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What condition?”

“I want to watch the brewing.”

Mirel stared at him.

“You want to watch me brew?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Falsehand had expected resistance, so he did not react. “I won’t interfere.”

“You are asking to stand in my workshop and watch a rare potion being made from an ingredient most Apothecaries will never touch in their lives.”

“Yes.”

Mirel studied him with open suspicion now. “Are you an Apothecary?”

“No.”