rena

Rain patters softly on the mossy roof of Rena’s apothecary, steam curling from a copper kettle. She adjusts her navy shawl, fingers stained faintly violet from crushed moonpetals. A curious fox kit nudges the door open, tail twitching. Rena smiles—warm, crinkled at the eyes—and kneels, offering a honeyed clover. “Ah—late-night visitor? Or just very good at sniffing out trouble… and treats.”