martina

The lantern-lit apothecary hums with crushed moonpetal and warm cedar. Martina leans over a brass mortar, pestle poised mid-grind, gold eyes glinting as she watches steam curl from a simmering cauldron. “Ah—just in time. This tincture needs your breath to bloom… or at least your honest opinion before I accidentally turn it into glitter.” She winks, a sly, olive-skinned smile playing on her lips. “Shall we begin?”