Market day in Mireth was every Solsday — the fourth day of the week, named after the Goddess, because of course it was.
The town square filled with stalls and noise and color. Farmers from the surrounding villages brought produce. Craftsmen displayed their work. A traveling merchant or two set up shop with goods from the capital or, rarely, from beyond Verath's borders. The smell of baking bread and roasting meat and crushed herbs and animal dung all mixed together into something that should've been disgusting but somehow just smelled like alive.
I loved market day.
In my old life, I'd done my shopping online. Click, deliver, done. Efficient. Soulless. Here, shopping was an event. Mother took me every week, partly because I asked and partly because she liked having company while she haggled.
Seraphina Ashveil was a terrifying haggler.
"Three crescents for winter radishes? Tomás, I've bought from you for eleven years. I remember when these were one and a half."
"Costs have gone up, Lady Ashveil. The transport fees from the southern farms—"
"Transport fees haven't changed since last season. I checked. Two crescents."
"Two and a half."
"Two and a quarter, and I'll have my husband bless your daughter's new shop next week. Free of charge."
"...Two and a quarter it is."
I watched this from behind Mother's skirt — not because I was shy, but because it was a good vantage point. Market day was a goldmine of information. Prices told you about supply chains. Conversations told you about politics. The goods on display told you about the world beyond Mireth's walls.
Today, something caught my eye.
A stall near the edge of the square, manned by an old woman I hadn't seen before. She was selling dried herbs and small glass vials of colored liquid. Potions? No — the church had a monopoly on official healing potions. These were probably folk remedies. Legal, technically, but frowned upon by the clergy.
What caught my attention wasn't the products. It was the sign behind her stall, written in shaky but legible script:
JOINT PAIN — MUSCLE ACHES — WINTER COUGH
Natural remedies. No mana required.
No mana required. Which meant no mana crystal costs. Which meant affordable.
I tugged on Mother's sleeve. "Can I look at that stall?"
Mother glanced over, and something flickered across her face — not disapproval exactly, but wariness. "That's an herbalist, dear. We have our own herbs at home."
"I know. I just want to look."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Stay where I can see you."
I walked over. The old woman watched me approach with the amused tolerance adults reserved for children doing something endearing and slightly pointless.
"Hello, young man. Looking for something specific?"
"What do you use for joint pain?" I asked.
Her eyebrows rose. "Got joint pain, do you? At your age?"
"It's for someone else."
"Mm." She reached under her table and produced a small jar of paste, dark green and pungent. "Silverroot and wintermint compound. Apply to the affected area twice daily. Reduces swelling, eases pain."
I knew both ingredients. Mother grew them. But—
"Does it stop the swelling from coming back?"
The old woman paused. Looked at me more carefully. "No," she said slowly. "It manages the symptoms. Nothing stops it from coming back except rest and luck."
"What if you combined it with something that promoted blood flow to the area? Increased circulation to help the tissue repair itself?"
Silence.
The old woman stared at me. I realized, belatedly, that I was doing the thing again — the thing where I forgot I was seven and talked like someone who'd spent too many sleepless nights reading WebMD.
"My father mentioned something like that," I added quickly. "He's the Saint. I'm just... repeating what he said."
The lie was clumsy, but she accepted it with a slow nod. "Your father's a smart man. Blood flow... you might try adding emberthorn to the compound. It's a warming herb. Stimulates circulation. But it's hard to dose correctly — too much and you'll blister the skin."
Emberthorn. I filed that away.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"You're a polite little thing." She squinted at me. "Ashveil boy, aren't you? Got the hair and the eyes."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Tell your father Greta says hello. He healed my hip last winter. Good man. Bit scatterbrained, but good."
I smiled. "I'll tell him."
On the walk home, carrying a bag of winter radishes and a small wheel of cheese, I thought about emberthorn.
Mother walked beside me, greeting neighbors, stopping briefly to chat with the baker's wife about the upcoming Solstice Festival. Mireth was small enough that everyone knew the Saint's family, which meant walks through town took three times longer than necessary because of social obligations.
I didn't mind. It gave me time to think.
Emberthorn for circulation. Silverroot for anti-inflammatory. Wintermint for pain relief. Combine them correctly, and you'd have something that didn't just treat joint pain — it would actually address the underlying cycle.
Father's healing magic was like surgery — powerful, precise, but treating the acute problem. What I was thinking about was more like medication — less dramatic, but sustained, preventive.
The two approaches weren't contradictory. They were complementary.
What if you used a brief application of low-level healing magic — not to fix the joint, but to enhance the body's absorption of the herbal compound? Like using magic as a catalyst rather than a cure?
I was so deep in thought that I almost walked into a lamp post.
"Lucien!" Mother caught my shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"Sorry. I was thinking."
"You're always thinking." She said it softly. Fondly. But with that undercurrent again — that searching look.
"Mother?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
It came out before I could think about it. Unprompted, earnest, sudden. The kind of thing a child says and an adult says and both mean it differently but also exactly the same.
She blinked. Then she knelt down, right there in the middle of the street, and hugged me. She smelled like wintermint and soap and the faint ozone of ward magic.
"I love you too, my little observer," she whispered. "So much."
We stayed like that for a moment. A woman passed by and smiled at us. The cheese was getting squished. I didn't care.
In my old life, I couldn't remember the last time I'd told my mother I loved her. There probably was a last time. There's always a last time. You just don't know it's the last time until it's too late.
I wouldn't make that mistake again.