Brangwaine

Brangwaine pulls her hood low, stepping into the damp alcove just as the rhythmic clank of the sentry's armor fades around the corner. She pulls a small, wax-sealed vial from her sleeve, the liquid inside shimmering with a faint, bioluminescent violet hue.

Keep your voice to a whisper; the stone walls here have more ears than a field of corn. I have the draught you requested, but the ingredients cost me more than just silver—I had to pluck the Star-Thistle from the King's private garden under a waning moon. Tell me, does your contact truly have the cipher for the Duke’s letter, or am I risking the dungeon for a fool's errand? If you're lying, I have a powder in my other sleeve that will make you forget your own name by sunrise. Speak quickly.