Chapter 8 - Rent Paid in Healing Potions

Elena Briarstone never stayed in one place for long.

It wasn’t that she wanted to keep moving—she liked stability. A warm bed, a stocked lab, a town that didn’t look at her like she was a walking disaster.

But somehow, every time she set up shop, things happened.

Unfortunate, fiery, mildly explosive things.

She had been an adventurer once, back when she travelled with the Valorbound Pact: Jared, Arlen, Kai, Lucien, and Faye.

But while the others honed their combat skills, Elena found her true passion in alchemy. After their party disbanded, she fully committed to her craft, taking her skills from town to town.

All things considered, she is still a registered B-Rank Alchemist—an atypical profession in the Trickster archetype as most would rather draw a real weapon than mix potions and vials.

She had dreams of becoming a famous alchemist, someone whose name would be spoken in awe.

Instead, she became someone whose name was spoken in fear.

The last town had been particularly ungrateful.

It wasn’t her fault that her experimental stamina potion caused uncontrollable energy surges. How was she supposed to know the local blacksmith would end up hammering for three days straight, unable to stop?

Or that the mayor’s prized hound would start running so fast it broke through walls like a living battering ram?

People really overreacted sometimes.

So, once again, Elena found herself on the road, her coin pouch painfully light, her supplies dwindling, and her reputation in flames—literally.

Her notebooks filled up. Her pack grew heavier with rare reagents. But something else lingered—a gnawing quiet between cities, a hollow echo after the laughter and chaos of her old party.

No Jared to ground her. No Lucien to bicker with. No Kai scaring her from the shadows. No Arlen to panic when she reached for the flammable shelf. No Faye to cry to when precious ingredients go foul.

Either way, on to the next town.

Her map was a mess—signs of repeated folding, unfolding rich with smudge ink and torn corners.

Adjusting her spectacles, Elena traced her fingers along a series of marked paths and zigzags—forests where rare herbs are abundant and towns which have barred her for good.

She narrowed her eyes and tapped her quill against a spot which appears free from scribbles.

Breezevale.

She didn’t know much about it. Small town. Far from major roads. Rumoured to have rich soil and strange fogs that rolled in from the nearby Mistwood.

Not the sort of place she’d normally be drawn to—but something about the name tugged at her.

She flipped open her notebook, where a hastily scribbled rumour caught her eye:

“New adventurers' guild forming in Breezevale. Young Guildmaster. Strong magical background. Name unknown.”

Elena blinked, then chuckled under her breath.

A slow grin crept across her face.

“If that’s really you, Bright… well, guess I’m moving in.”

She rolled up the map with renewed energy. No more aimless wandering. No more flammable detours.

Breezevale was calling—and if fate had led Arlen there, maybe it was trying to lead her, too.

====

The road to Breezevale wasn’t short. But with every step, she walked a little faster.

Her thoughts raced ahead of her, already brewing possibilities—potions, salves, concoctions that could earn her a name beyond just another traveling B-rank alchemist.

If Arlen’s guild was real, then maybe it was time to stop drifting and start building something.

By the time Elena crested the final hill, her feet were sore, her coat was dusty, and her mood had lifted entirely.

And then she saw it.

Breezevale, nestled in the valley like a secret waiting to be discovered.

Farms dotted the edges. Chimneys smoked. And at its heart stood a proud, polished structure adorned with a new crest and a bustling crowd. It was a sight familiar to her as an adventurer.

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Not just any guild—But an Adventurers’ Guild.

And right in front of it—barking orders at a trio of confused adventurers and holding a clipboard like it was a sword—stood Arlen Bright. He looked exactly the same—only more serious, focused, and utterly enveloped by the chaos around him.

Elena beamed, resting her hands on her hips.

“Oh, this is going to be fun.”

====

As she got closer to the guild, the activity intensified.

A burly dwarven smith was lecturing a scrawny teen on the proper way to polish a blade. Adventurers came and went, shouting over one another, jostling around the commissions board nailed outside the door. Quest slips fluttered in the breeze.

Unfazed, Elena strolled through the front doors of the guild as if she owned the place.

The air inside buzzed with energy—clanking gear, booted footsteps, laughter, grumbling, the unmistakable scent of roasted meat and spilt ink.

It was turmoil.

Beautiful, fantastic turmoil.

And there, in the eye of the storm, sat Arlen Bright.

Hunched over a mountain of parchment, the poor man scribbled like the fate of the Known Worlds depended on a perfectly sorted filing system. His brow was furrowed and his coffee cup long abandoned—probably cold to the touch.

Elena didn’t hesitate.

She strolled right up to the counter, leaned across it, and smirked.

“Hey, Arlen. I need a lab.”

He didn’t even look up. “What.”

“A lab,” she repeated, cheerful. “You know, a place for alchemy? Mixing, testing, the occasional minor explosion. Figured you’d have room.”

Now he looked up. And stared.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Elena?”

====

“In the flesh,” The alchemist patted her satchel, which gave off a suspicious metallic clink and a faint hiss of escaping gas.

Arlen blinked furiously in disbelief. “What—how—why are you here?”

“Walking, mostly,” she said breezily.

“Breezevale wasn’t even on the itinerary, but then I saw a certain mage flapping his arms like a disgruntled duck and thought, hey, looks familiar. Thought I’d pop in.”

Arlen ran a hand through his scruffy hair, clearly trying to process her sudden appearance while mentally reorganizing his schedule.

Elena reached into her satchel and pulled out a small vial of swirling blue liquid, setting it gently on the desk in front of him.

“You got a spare room, right? I’ll take it. Maybe cook up a few things?”

Arlen looked like his brain had stalled somewhere between paperwork and memory.

“You’re serious.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “My last town was full of cowards, so I moved on.”

She leaned in a little closer, eyes gleaming. “So… you’ve got a guild now. Adventurers. Contracts. Even a tavern, by the looks of it. But I bet what you don’t have is a full-time alchemist.”

Arlen narrowed his eyes. “And let me guess: you’re offering?”

“Mhmm. All I need is a spare room, access to local herbs, and the occasional corpse to harvest. No questions asked.”

He looked at her like she’d grown a second head.

The word corpse rang in his ears like a badly cast echo spell, stirring up a swarm of deeply repressed memories: Elena arguing with a church priest over “recycling policies,” a reanimated lizard skittering across their campsite one horrifying night, and Jared physically hauling her away from a battlefield because she was too excited about the potion potential of a fallen mountain troll’s bones.

“Absolutely not,” he said automatically.

“Oh, come on,” Elena pouted.

“I’m very tidy now. Mostly. And think of the potions. Healing salves. Buff elixirs. Anti-paralytics. Mana potions,” she said the last bit as though it were a bribe and then into a whisper. “You need me.”

“And I need a place where people won’t kick them out for one or two tiny accidents”

Arlen hesitated. She could see it—his brain weighing logic, responsibility, and the memory of the time she turned an entire party’s drinking water purple.

Finally, the mage exhaled, already regretting this conversation.

“You’re paying rent.”

“About that…” Elena hesitated.

He crossed his arms. “No money?”

She winced. “Invested in my craft.”

Arlen pinched the bridge of his nose. He should say no. He should.

But he knew Elena.

If he turned her away, she’d just find some other poor town to terrorize, and at least here, he could try to keep an eye on her.

“Fine. But your rent is paid in healing potions.”

Elena beamed. “Now that, I can do.”

And just like that, she was home.

Arlen regretted agreeing the moment the words left his mouth.

Elena? Here? Permanently?

More memories of their old adventuring days resurfaced like a particularly bad hangover—potions exploding mid-battle, unexpected transformations, and a near-death experience involving a "harmless" stamina elixir that had left Lucien scaling a cliff barehanded for two hours straight.

And yet, when he saw the hopeful glint in her eyes, the same reckless confidence she’d always carried, he sighed and made the deal.

Arlen groaned softly as Elena spun on her heel and started strolling deeper into the guild like it was already hers.

“Wait—where are you going?” he called after her.

“To find my room, obviously,” she replied over her shoulder. “Preferably one with a window, decent airflow, and far away from the kitchen. Trust me on that.”

Rent paid in healing potions.

What sort of genius works up something like that?

====

The next morning, Arlen wasn’t woken up by the pleasant smell from Mira’s kitchen, but from a mindless clattering of objects.

He found Elena knee-deep in the guild’s storage closet, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back in a messy braid, and surrounded by overturned crates.

Vials clinked, satchels spilled open, and more than one mysterious puff of coloured powder hung in the air like lazy ghosts.

She was muttering to herself as she yanked open a jar, sniffed it, and made a face.

“No nightshade, no frostbloom, barely any mandrake… Ugh. Arlen, what is this? A guild or a backwater tavern pantry?”

Arlen, still bleary-eyed, groaned. “It’s an Adventurers’ Guild, Elena. We buy potions. From professionals.”

She emerged from behind a stack of dried mushrooms with an offended look. “Excuse me? I am a professional.”

Then she pulled out a cracked jar of something that looked vaguely but disturbingly pickled. “And if I’m going to stock your shelves with anything better than glorified willowbark tea, I need proper ingredients.”

Arlen pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t exactly have an apothecary in town.”

“Well, we’re fixing that.” She clapped her hands. “If I’m making your potions, I need ingredients. And the good ones don’t just appear—we’re going gathering.”

Arlen blinked. “We?”

“Yes, we,” she said, poking him in the chest. “You’re the Guildmaster. You need to know what grows around here. Field experience, Arlen. Educational.”

She stood tall, stretching with a pop of her spine. “Also, I need someone to carry the heavy satchel.”

He stared at her. She stared back, grinning like she’d already won.

“Fine… But if something catches fire, you’re banned from both Mira’s kitchen and I’ll confiscate your alchemy equipment.”

“Deal,” she chirped. “Unless it’s a necessary fire.”

“No such thing.”

“Agree to disagree.”