Six moved to her wardrobe, a tall cabinet carved from Black Forest timber and adorned with protective runes. Inside hung an array of outfits—elaborate gowns for rituals, leather corsets for certain... activities, and practical garments for everyday use.
Today called for discretion.
She selected a simple ensemble: a cream-colored blouse with long sleeves, a brown leather vest that cinched at the waist, sturdy traveling trousers tucked into knee-high boots, and a hooded cloak in muted green. She braided her dark hair and tucked it beneath the hood, transforming herself from Six the Witch into an unremarkable young woman who might be anyone—a merchant's daughter, a traveling herbalist, a schoolteacher, a church goer.
The transformation was deliberate. The trading post attracted all manner of folk, and Six preferred to conduct her business without drawing attention. A witch openly shopping for exotic ingredients invited questions, and questions invited trouble.
Before leaving, she checked on Lemmy one final time. The fairy remained unconscious, curled on the velvet cushion like a golden flower folded in on itself. Her breathing had deepened into true sleep, and the pulsing glow of her core had steadied into a gentle rhythm.
"Guard her well," Six instructed her enchanted toys. Most were still sleeping, but a few stirred at her voice—the riding crop cracking one googly eye open, the pearl necklace rattling softly in acknowledgment.
"Yes, Mistress," they murmured in drowsy unison.
Six reinforced the barrier around the cage with an additional layer of warding, then stepped out of the gingerbread cabin into the morning light.
The Black Forest surrounded her home like a protective embrace, its ancient trees blocking out much of the sun and casting everything in perpetual twilight. Six navigated the twisted paths with practiced ease, her boots finding purchase on roots and stones that would trip an unfamiliar traveler. The forest knew her, and she knew it—a mutual respect born of years of cohabitation.
The journey to the trading post took the better part of two hours. The path wound through the forest, crossed a shallow stream via a moss-covered bridge, and eventually emerged onto a well-traveled road that connected several of the Heartland's smaller settlements.
Millbrook Trading Post sat at the intersection of three major roads, a sprawling collection of permanent shops and temporary stalls that catered to travelers, merchants, and locals alike. It was neutral ground—a place where humans, demi-humans, and the occasional monster could conduct business without fear of violence. The post's founder, a retired adventurer named Old Garrett, enforced this peace with an iron fist and a legendary battleaxe that hung above the main tavern's bar.
Six entered the trading post through the eastern gate, keeping her hood up and her eyes down. The morning crowd was already thick—farmers hawking vegetables, blacksmiths displaying weapons, clothiers calling out prices for bolts of fabric. The air smelled of roasting meat, fresh bread, and the underlying musk of too many bodies in too small a space.
She made her way to the apothecary district, a cluster of shops specializing in herbs, minerals, and magical components. Her first stop was Madame Thornwell's Emporium, a cramped but well-stocked establishment run by a wizened old woman with knowing eyes and grasping fingers.
"Moonpetal essence," Six said, keeping her voice low. "Three vials."
Madame Thornwell's eyes glittered with avarice. "Moonpetal, moonpetal... that's rare stock, dearie. Fifty zenny per vial."
Six didn't bother haggling. She counted out a hundred and fifty zenny from her purse and slid the coins across the counter. Madame Thornwell produced three small vials filled with luminescent silver liquid and wrapped them carefully in cloth.
"Anything else, dearie?"
"Giant's toenail shavings," Six said. "One cup's worth."
The old woman's expression shifted—avarice replaced by regret, which meant she genuinely didn't have the item. Madame Thornwell never looked regretful when she could make a sale.
"Giants, dearie? Haven't seen giant parts come through here in... oh, must be three years now. Maybe four." She shook her head, her wispy white hair swaying. "The giants moved deeper into the mountains after that business with the Hero's Guild. Hunters can't reach them anymore. Supply dried up completely."
Six frowned. "Do you know anyone who might have some in stock? Another vendor, perhaps?"
"You could try Blackwood's place, two stalls down. He deals in the exotic stuff. But I wouldn't get your hopes up, dearie. Giant parts are scarcer than dragon scales these days."
Six thanked her and moved on. Blackwood's place was indeed two stalls down—a darker, more cluttered shop that smelled of formaldehyde and old leather. The proprietor was a thin man with a nervous disposition and eyes that never quite met yours.
"Giant's toenail shavings?" He laughed, a reedy sound that grated on Six's nerves. "Lady, I haven't seen giant anything in years. You'd have better luck finding a virgin in a brothel."
Six visited three more shops with similar results. No one had giant parts. No one knew anyone who had giant parts. The consensus was clear: giants had become effectively inaccessible, and any existing stock had long since been depleted.
Frustration mounting, Six decided to try her backup option.
The entrance to the witch's underground black market was hidden behind a fortune teller's tent on the outskirts of the trading post. The fortune teller—a charlatan who preyed on gullible travelers—was actually a gatekeeper, screening potential customers before granting access to the real business below.
Six approached the tent and spoke the passphrase: "The moon bleeds silver on the thirteenth night."
The fortune teller, a heavyset woman with too much makeup and not enough talent, nodded and pulled aside a rug to reveal a trapdoor. "Mind the third step," she said. "It's loose."
Six descended into darkness, her eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light provided by floating witch-lights. The underground market was a network of tunnels and chambers carved into the earth beneath the trading post, accessible only to those who knew the passwords and could pay the entry fee.
Down here, the merchandise was decidedly less legal.
Cursed artifacts. Forbidden grimoires. Poisons and potions banned by every kingdom on the continent. Slaves, both human and otherwise, displayed in cages along the walls. Six walked past them all without a second glance, her focus fixed on finding what she needed.
She visited the monster parts dealer first—a corpulent man who sweated constantly and smelled of decay. His inventory was impressive: basilisk eyes, manticore venom, chimera hearts preserved in enchanted jars. But when Six asked about giant's toenail shavings, he shook his head.
"Had some about two years ago," he said, wiping his brow with a stained handkerchief. "Sold out in a day. Haven't been able to restock since. Giants just aren't getting hunted anymore."
The rare ingredients vendor gave her the same answer. So did the exotic materials merchant. So did the back-alley dealer who specialized in items "too dangerous for the main market."
No one had giant parts. No one could get giant parts. The supply simply didn't exist.
Six emerged from the underground market as the sun reached its zenith, her mood sour and her pouch lighter by several hundred zenny—she'd purchased the other ingredients she could find, but the core component remained elusive.
She stood in the middle of the trading post, crowds flowing around her like water around a stone, and considered her options.
She could wait, hoping that a supply of giant parts would eventually become available. But that could take months, even years. She could try to hunt a giant herself, but that was a fool's errand—giants were notoriously difficult to locate, and even more difficult to kill. A single giant could crush a dozen witches without breaking a sweat.
No, she needed a more direct approach.
She needed to find a giant.
And for that, she needed a Diviner.
Six made her way to the western edge of the trading post, where the more... specialized services were offered. Here, away from the main thoroughfares, practitioners of obscure and often unsettling arts plied their trades. Necromancers offered to commune with the dead for a price. Blood witches sold curses guaranteed to ruin your enemies. And Diviners—true Diviners, not the charlatans in the fortune teller's tents—offered glimpses into the past, present, and future.
The Diviner Six sought operated out of a small, unassuming building wedged between a tattoo parlor and an abandoned butcher shop. A simple sign hung above the door: "Pythia's Sight - Answers for Those Who Seek."
Six pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The interior was dim, lit only by dozens of candles arranged in seemingly random patterns throughout the room. The air was thick with incense—not the cheap, cloying stuff sold to tourists, but genuine oracle smoke, harvested from the sacred groves of the southern continent. It made Six's head swim pleasantly.
"I've been expecting you," a voice said from the shadows.
Six's eyes adjusted to reveal a woman seated behind a low table covered in bones, cards, and crystalline orbs. She was old—impossibly old, her face a roadmap of wrinkles and her hair a cascade of pure white. But her eyes... her eyes were young, bright, and terrifyingly sharp.
"Pythia," Six said, inclining her head respectfully. One did not disrespect a Diviner of Pythia's caliber. Not if one wanted to leave with all their organs intact.
"Six the Witch," Pythia replied, a smile creasing her ancient face. "Cultivator of the Dominator Queen path. Recently advanced to... my, my. Level seventeen. How impressive." Her smile widened. "And you've acquired something quite special, haven't you? Something golden and winged and full of delicious potential."
Six's jaw tightened. She shouldn't have been surprised—Diviners saw everything—but it was still unnerving to have her secrets laid bare so casually.
"I need your services," Six said, deciding to skip the pretense. "I'm looking for a giant. Somewhere in the Heartland Continent."
Pythia's eyebrows rose. "A giant? How wonderfully ambitious." She gestured to a cushion on the floor across from her. "Sit. Let us discuss terms."
Six settled onto the cushion, crossing her legs beneath her. "What's your price?"
"For a standard location divination? Five hundred zenny." Pythia's young-old eyes glittered. "But for you, Six the Witch... for you, I think I want something else."
"Name it."
Pythia leaned forward, her white hair falling around her face like a curtain. "A favor. Unspecified. To be called in at a time of my choosing."
Six's instincts screamed at her to refuse. An open-ended favor to a Diviner was a dangerous thing—they could see the threads of fate, and they knew exactly when and how to pull them for maximum effect. Agreeing to such a bargain was like handing someone a knife and asking them to hold it to your throat.
But she needed those giant's toenail shavings. She needed that potion. And she needed it soon, before Lemmy's first trial seal finished breaking and the fairy became... unpredictable.
"Agreed," Six said. "One favor. Within reason."
Pythia's smile was knowing. "Within reason," she echoed, and Six had the distinct impression that the old woman's definition of "reason" differed significantly from her own.
But the deal was struck.
Pythia reached for one of the crystalline orbs on her table, this one larger than the others and filled with swirling mist. She cradled it in her gnarled hands, her eyes drifting closed as she began to chant in a language older than the kingdoms, older than the races, older perhaps than the continent itself.
The candles flickered. The incense smoke swirled. The mist inside the orb began to move with purpose, coalescing into shapes and images that only Pythia could interpret.
Minutes passed. Six waited, her patience thin but her discipline strong.
Finally, Pythia's eyes snapped open.
"There is one," she said, her voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "A giant, living alone in a cave system in the Ironspine Mountains. Three days' journey northeast of here, if you travel swiftly." She paused, her expression growing thoughtful. "He is old, this giant. Ancient, even by their standards. And lonely. Very, very lonely."
"Dangerous?" Six asked.
"All giants are dangerous. But this one..." Pythia smiled cryptically. "This one might be willing to negotiate. If you approach him correctly."
She reached into a drawer and produced a small piece of parchment, upon which she drew a rough map with quick, practiced strokes. Mountain ranges, valleys, rivers—and a small X marking the giant's location.
"His name is Gorath," Pythia said, handing Six the map. "And he hasn't had a visitor in over fifty years. I suspect he'll be... receptive to company."
Six took the map, studying it carefully before tucking it into her vest. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Pythia said, her young-old eyes gleaming with something that might have been amusement, or might have been warning. "The path you're walking, Six the Witch... it leads to places even I cannot see clearly. That fairy you've captured—she is a nexus point. A convergence of fates. What you do with her will echo through history."
Six stood, brushing off her trousers. "I intend to make those echoes very loud indeed."
Pythia laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. "Oh, I don't doubt it. I don't doubt it at all."
Six left the Diviner's shop with the map in her pocket and a new destination in her mind.
The Ironspine Mountains. Three days' journey. A lonely old giant named Gorath.
And then, finally, she would have everything she needed to brew the Big and Small potions.