The spice quarter of the market hit you like a wall.
Heat, smell, color everything intensified. Brass jars stacked to the ceiling, glass vials glimmering like treasure, sacks of dried herbs spilling over onto worn wooden tables.
"This is the fun part," I said, shifting the potato crate to my other hip.
Seraphine inhaled once, eyes half-lidded. "Better," she murmured. "The vegetable aisle was depressing."
We stopped at one of my regular stalls, a long stand draped in red cloth, jars arranged with almost military precision.
A demon with copper skin and faintly glowing eyes stood behind the counter, grinding something in a mortar. Her name was Halra.
"Afternoon," I said. "We're looking for void-salt, star anise, real saffron, and your best neutral-flame chili. Not the weak stuff you sell tourists."
Halra glanced up, already smirking. "Maeve. Back so soon? Did you burn through your stock already or just terrify your students into seasoning properly for once?"
"Bit of both."
