The door to the building in front of them was so small that Alfred had to bend down to enter. The structure itself wasn't large and radiated a gloomy, almost eerie atmosphere. The mailbox was broken, the paint on the walls was chipped and pierced, and a strange, unpleasant odor lingered in the air.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Soren asked, his voice low and cautious.
"Yes. Just wait," Alfred replied, adjusting both his and Soren's cloaks over their faces.
He stepped forward and knocked on the door.
A few seconds later, a voice called out from inside, "Who is it? And who are you here for?"
"I am the Cloaked Serpent," Alfred answered calmly, "and I'm here for the herbs."
Soren instantly understood—they were speaking in code.
The door creaked open, revealing no one—just a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.
"Uh... how exactly am I supposed to go down there?" Soren asked, eyeing the stairs with concern.
"Oh, right. One moment," Alfred said. Without warning, he bent down, hoisted Soren over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and stood upright.
"Hey! What do you think you're doing? I'm not a sack of flour!" Soren protested, squirming slightly.
"Shut up, idiot. Want me to drop you down the stairs instead?" Alfred replied dryly.
"No!" Soren said quickly, going stiff.
"Hmph. I thought you'd be heavier. My son weighs at least twenty kilos more than you," Alfred muttered as he adjusted his grip.
"This is so embarrassing," Soren groaned, his voice muffled by Alfred's coat. "You probably carry him around like this too. I bet he's mortified."
Alfred chuckled. "Yep. I'll let you meet him one day. Now quit wriggling."
"At least carry me like a person, not like I'm luggage!" Soren mumbled, sulking.
"Yeah, yeah," Alfred said dismissively, giving Soren's back a playful slap. "We've got stairs to conquer."
And with that, he began descending into the unknown.
After nearly regretting every single second of his life for trusting Alfred, Soren clung tightly to his cloak, ensuring it hid his entire face. They had been descending for what felt like an eternity, and by the time they finally reached the ground floor—about five minutes later—his curiosity had long since died.
Mortified, Soren buried his face deeper into the cloak. He could hear murmurs all around them—voices whispering, some chuckling—talking about how Alfred was carrying a boy like a sack of grain. And judging by their tones, they all seemed to know Alfred.
After walking for another five minutes, Alfred finally stopped. He gently placed Soren onto a wooden seat and took one next to him.
"Here we go. Hey boy, we're here," Alfred said.
Soren slowly opened his eyes and glanced around, trying to take in his surroundings. The room was a large, open space, with heavy wooden beams crisscrossing the high ceiling. The walls, built of rough-hewn stone and aged timber, gave the place a rustic, medieval charm. At one end of the hall, a grand fireplace crackled, its flames casting a warm, flickering glow that lit up the interior in soft amber tones.
Several sturdy wooden tables and stools were arranged throughout the space, though they were placed in a deliberate pattern—each pair separated by about five meters, almost as if meant to maintain privacy or caution. Other participants had already gathered, their identities concealed behind masks or cloaks, lending the room an air of secrecy and tension.
man wearing an owl-shaped mask stepped forward, taking the center of the room.
"Let us begin the exchange. What do we have here today?" he announced, his voice calm and composed.
An elderly woman rose from her seat. She had a head of pure white hair, light brown skin, and wore the traditional attire of the Farsc region. A bunny-shaped mask concealed her face.
"I bring midnight carrots and pepper berries among my medicinal herbs," she said. "As for artifacts, I have one specialized in healing burns."
The transactions began. Participants took turns presenting what they had—some offered rare herbs, others displayed artifacts of various kinds. Some trades succeeded quickly, while others failed after brief negotiation.
Soren watched with mild curiosity. Though the items were fascinating, he either didn't know how to use them or didn't see a need for them. Despite having enough money, he remained seated, observing rather than participating.
"Doctor, what we came for doesn't seem to be here," Soren said quietly.
"Yes, I know," Alfred replied in a low voice. "Let them finish their trading. After the auction ends, we'll meet with the man in the owl mask. Once we give him the payment, he'll take us to the special buyer-seller chamber."
"I see," Soren murmured, nodding in understanding.
Once all transactions were complete, the host gestured for the attendees to leave. They were instructed to exit one by one, each through a different door. Within minutes, the room had emptied—only Alfred, Soren, and the host remained.
"The Serpent requires access to some of the Blessed Ones," Alfred said calmly to the man in the owl mask.
"Follow me," the man replied, his tone curt yet respectful.
He stepped behind a curtain and produced a key with a unique pattern, unlocking what had previously appeared to be just another exit door. It creaked open to reveal a hidden passage.
Soren, now being carried by Alfred in a more dignified and careful manner, was briefly surprised by the reveal—but quickly composed himself. He'd already seen stranger things in the past few weeks.
The passage led into a room bathed in a warm, muted glow. Candles and oil lamps lined the walls, casting flickering shadows that danced across the dark-colored interior. The air was thick with a calming scent—lavender, perhaps—and a profound stillness hung in the space, giving it an atmosphere of secrecy and quiet reverence.
In the center of the room stood a round table, and at its heart rested a white rose crafted entirely from gemstones. In the language of flowers, the white rose symbolized secrecy—an apt emblem for such a hidden place. As Alfred and Soren approached the table, three chairs materialized from thin air, appearing silently as if summoned by the room itself.
Alfred gently placed Soren on one of the chairs and took the seat beside him. The masked man sat across from them.
"I see, Alfred," the man said, his voice calm and slightly amused. "It seems you've returned to your origins."
"Hey, hey, don't bring that up in front of a kid," Alfred replied quickly, glancing at Soren with a warning look.
Soren, however, shot Alfred a sharp side-eye, the kind that clearly said, What and who the heck were you before?
The masked man turned his attention to Soren, tilting his head slightly. "Hmm… let me guess. She looks like an 11 or 12-year-old girl. Shouldn't be out this late. By her posture and clothes, I'd say she's not your child. And with her face hidden, I can't tell much else."
"I'm not a kid, and I'm not a girl! I'm sixteen!" Soren snapped, his tone a mix of frustration and embarrassment as he tried his best to sound mature.
"Don't mind him, Eric," Alfred said with a tired sigh, patting Soren's head as if to calm a feisty cat. "I'm here for business. I've got money—you show the goods."