The woman studied him for a moment longer, then stepped out from behind the counter.

"Follow me," she said.

She moved toward a doorway at the back of the shop, partially hidden behind a shelf stacked with clay jars. Gabriel followed without hesitation. The door opened into a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of char and something metallic beneath it.

The workspace lay at the end.

It was functional. No more, no less. A table dominated the centre, its surface scarred by burn marks and stains that had soaked into the wood over years. Shelves lined the walls, filled with tools and materials arranged by use rather than display. Chalk. Iron filings. Glass vials holding liquids of varying clarity.

Cloth bundles tied with string. A brazier sat cold in the corner, ash swept clean from around its base.

The room was warded.

Gabriel felt it the moment he stepped through the threshold. The air pressed differently here, heavier without being oppressive.

Lines had been carved into the doorframe and filled with something that caught the light wrong. Symbols he recognised but couldn't read marked the floor in places where they wouldn't be disturbed by work.

Not a scholar's den. Not a hedge-witch's nest.

This was the space of someone who did paid work and survived because of it.

The woman closed the door behind them and moved to the table. She didn't gesture for him to sit. There were no chairs.

She turned and studied him again.

Not his face this time. His posture. The way he held himself. The rhythm of his breathing. Her gaze lingered on the space around him, as if the air itself sat differently where he stood.

She didn't comment at first.

Gabriel waited.

"What do you need?" she asked finally.

"An illusion," Gabriel said. His voice was even, stripped of inflection. "Something that will let me pass through Church-controlled territory without being recognized."

The woman's expression didn't change. "Illusions aren't invisibility. They don't erase you."

"I don't need to be erased," Gabriel replied. "Only overlooked."

She tilted her head slightly. "For how long?"

"Until I reach Adaranthe."

That got a reaction.

Not fear. Recognition.

Her hands stilled against the table. Her gaze sharpened, pulling focus in a way it hadn't before. She looked at him differently now, measuring something she hadn't seen at first.

"Adaranthe," she repeated quietly.

Gabriel didn't respond.

The woman let out a slow breath through her nose and folded her arms. "How long do you need the illusion to hold?"

"Until I reach it."

She nodded once, slowly, as if confirming something she had already decided.

"It's possible," she said. "The illusion will sit over you like a second skin. It won't make you invisible. It will blur recognition. Soften certainty. Redirect attention rather than erase you entirely."

She paused, then continued without embellishment.

"It won't survive sustained injury. If you take a blade to the chest or a spell to the face, the illusion will break before you do."

Gabriel listened without interrupting.

"It will fray under heavy warding," she went on. "Consecrated ground will weaken it. Church sanctuaries, reliquaries, places where faith has been worked into stone. The illusion will hold, but it will feel thin. Fragile."

She looked at him directly then, her gaze steady.

"And it will fail if you push whatever pressure is sitting under your skin too hard."

Gabriel's eyes narrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"

The woman didn't flinch. "I don't need to know what it is. Only that illusions don't tolerate things that push back from the inside. If you lean on it, the mask will crack."

Silence settled between them.

The light from the sphere in the front room didn't reach here. The workspace was lit by a single lantern mounted on the wall, its flame steady and controlled. Shadows pooled in the corners and stayed there.

Gabriel absorbed the information without reaction. He had already adjusted his expectations the moment he stepped through the door. Illusions were temporary by nature. They bought time, not safety.

"What's the payment?" he asked.

The woman unfolded her arms and placed her hands flat on the table.

"You can make it in six moons."

Gabriel paused. "What's the price?"

"One you will be able to make when the time comes."

She didn't clarify. Didn't elaborate. Her tone didn't invite negotiation.

No bargaining. No explanation. She did not say willing, only able.

Gabriel met her gaze and held it.

"Agreed," he said.

No hesitation. No attempt to define terms.

The woman nodded once, as if she had expected nothing less.

She moved to the shelves and began gathering materials without ceremony. A bundle of dried herbs. A vial of something pale and viscous.

A piece of chalk that had been worn down to a nub. She set them on the table in order, each one placed with deliberate care.

"Stand in the centre," she said.

Gabriel stepped forward and stopped where she indicated. The floor beneath him was unmarked, but the space felt different. Weighted.

The woman knelt and began drawing.

The chalk moved across the stone in smooth, unbroken lines. She worked quickly but without haste, each stroke placed with precision born from repetition rather than thought. The pattern took shape around him.

Not a circle, but something more complex. Interlocking curves that folded back on themselves. Symbols he didn't recognise marked the edges.

She finished and stood.

She uncorked the vial and poured a thin line along the outermost edge of the pattern. The liquid caught the lantern light and gleamed faintly before soaking into the stone. The smell that rose from it was sharp and cold, like iron left in snow.

The woman stepped back and lifted her hands.

She didn't speak.

The air shifted.

It didn't hurt, but it felt wrong.

Pressure redistributed rather than removed. Something settled over Gabriel's skin, not touching but present. A weight that had no mass. A presence that had no form. The sensation crawled up his arms, across his shoulders, over his face.

It didn't stop.

The pressure wrapped around him completely, layering itself until it became part of him without replacing what was already there. His breathing didn't change. His heartbeat remained steady. But the world reacted to him differently.

The light from the lantern seemed to slide past him rather than settle. The shadows in the corners shifted slightly, as if uncertain where he stood. The air felt looser, less inclined to remember his shape.

The woman lowered her hands.

The pattern on the floor had faded, absorbed into the stone as if it had never been drawn.

Gabriel looked down at himself. Nothing had changed visibly. His hands were still his hands. His cloak still hung the same way. But something about the space he occupied felt softer now. Less defined.

"It's done," the woman said.

Gabriel flexed his fingers. The pressure remained, but it didn't restrict movement. It sat over him like a second skin, just as she had said.

He looked up.

The woman was watching him, her expression unreadable.

"If you reach Adaranthe," she said quietly, "the mask won't matter anymore."

Gabriel held her gaze for a moment, then nodded once.

He turned and walked toward the door.

The woman didn't follow.

Gabriel stepped back into the front room, then out into the street. The bell chimed softly as the door closed behind him. The afternoon light felt different now, less inclined to linger on his face.

He adjusted his cloak and walked toward the inn.

The blades were quiet against his back. The illusion sat over him like borrowed distance. The debt remained unnamed, waiting six moons ahead.

By the time the sun set, he would be gone.

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