Aston paused outside the shop. It didn't advertise. It didn't shimmer with charm-glow or broadcast any invitation glyph. But its wooden door was open, and an old wind-chime rang gently above it—made from bleached spirit-shell, not metal.

He adjusted his posture—slight forward lean, left shoulder slouched, the mark of a traveler who'd carried too much weight for too long. A personality carved from road dust.

Then he stepped inside.

The scent hit him first.

Dried herbs. Spirit bark. Core ash. Binding wax. And—beneath all of it—a faint trace of dried venom. Like a flower that had never bloomed properly.

The interior was dimly lit. Bundles of dried leaves hung from the rafters, arranged in intricate configurations that weren't just aesthetic—they were symbolic. Protection. Concealment. Anti-scrying.

A young attendant—a boy no older than fifteen—glanced up from behind the counter. His gaze lingered for only a second before falling again.

"Welcome," he said in a practiced tone. "Please don't touch the white-sealed containers. They're volatile."

"Understood," Aston said with a slight nod.

He moved through the shop slowly, as if browsing. As if unsure what he was looking for.

But he wasn't unsure.

Behind the counter stood a side door—warded subtly with smoke runes.

And sitting beside a locked drawer behind the counter… was a crate.

Old wood. Silver thread seal.

He had found his mark.

But he would not move yet.

Aston selected a bundle of dried snakegrass bark and brought it to the counter. "Something mild," he said. "For sleep."

The boy behind the counter gave a short nod. "Snakegrass bark works for shallow rest. Steep it with five petals of fireroot if you want something deeper."

Aston kept his expression mild. "Just trying to forget the road for a night or two."

The boy reached beneath the counter, his hand passing just a few inches from the crate sealed with silver thread. He didn't touch it—but Aston caught the way his fingers hesitated before brushing against the drawer nearby. A subtle shift in weight. Nervous, maybe. Or trained.

Aston let his eyes drift around the room as the boy wrapped the bark in thin parchment. There were no other customers, but footsteps passed occasionally outside the window slats—enough to set a rhythm to the village's morning.

"I heard this place had good mixes," Aston said, letting a bit of weariness seep into his voice. "Passed through Hollow Vale before. All dust and excuses there."

The boy didn't look up. "Most people don't pass through Westridge. They get here by accident. Or on purpose."

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A faint pause.

Then, he slid the parcel over. "That'll be six copper coins. Exact change preferred."

Aston paid without comment and let his fingers brush the table for half a second longer—long enough for Nova to take a resonance sample from the wood. The material was old, saturated with scent and aura both.

"Busy lately?" he asked casually.

The boy shrugged. "We get who we get."

Aston nodded, stepping back with the wrapped bark in hand. "I'll be around a few days. Might come back if this works."

"You do that," the boy said, already glancing back down at his ledger.

—

Aston stepped outside into the thickening morning mist and took a slow breath.

[Analysis complete: Spirit trace consistent with recent crate enchantment. Seal integrity is intact. Package likely unopened.]

[Owner aura: non-hostile but trained. Assistant unknown skill level. Runes within the side room show minor fluctuation—indicative of active scry suppression.]

He walked down the slope, the shop vanishing behind him like mist on a mirrored path. He made no move to glance back. Not yet.

Instead, he circled the outer street slowly, cataloguing angles. There was a second window on the west wall—shuttered but cracked slightly. A reflection in one of the rain-barrels showed the side alley. The back had a small exit gate behind the vine-choked shrine wall.

One way in. Three ways out.

[Recommended surveillance position located: Rooftop line across western slope, above tannery chimney.]

Aston nodded silently.

He returned to the inn by noon, moving like someone without much direction. Gray greeted him with a single flick of the tail before melting into the shadows under the bed. Mirage drifted down from the ceiling beam, blinking once.

"Not yet," Aston murmured. "We wait."

—

That afternoon, he made two more loops around the town.

Never the same route. Never the same angle.

He sat for twenty minutes near the plaza fountain, watching as the herbal shop's door opened once. A robed woman entered. She left with nothing.

Nova recorded the visit. No visible core gear. Moderate aura compression. Unknown intent.

Twice, Aston watched two men in travel leathers linger near the tavern, glance toward the shop, and then vanish into the fog-bound alleyways without entering.

A sign of contact runners?

Possibly.

By evening, Aston was back in the corner of the tavern, sipping weak tea and chewing stale bread. No one bothered him. No one asked.

He was becoming invisible.

—

That night, after the mist rolled in thicker and most of Westridge dimmed its lamps, Aston stood on the rooftop Nova had marked.

The tannery's chimney exhaled low smoke that hid his silhouette. Mirage perched a few meters higher, silent and translucent. Gray waited at street level, unseen by any eye.

Below, the shop remained closed.

The crate was still there. The assistant had gone home. No lights burned behind the runes of the side room.

Aston narrowed his eyes.

The relay tag was ready—silent in its case, activated the moment he touched it.

But time was nearly gone.

He had until dawn. No longer.

If Linna didn't appear, he'd tag the crate regardless.

He adjusted the relay tag's position in his coat and glanced once more toward the shuttered shop window.

Gray's quiet rustle below was the only sound.

Aston dropped from the rooftop with silent precision.

The next move had to count.

Or else, there would be no second night.

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