"We don't sell Aldorin here."

The apothecary's voice was quiet, his expression shadowed with a sad, knowing look.

Those words sealed Sova's fate. She felt the weight on her shoulders press down harder, suffocating.

"Something else that can heal the wasting?" Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. She couldn’t force hope into the question, not when she already knew the answer.

The apothecary hesitated, then shook his head. His voice was soft, almost pitying. "Only Aldorin can heal the wasting."

Sova gave the apothecary a single nod, her fingers tightening around the empty medicine pouch at her belt. She couldn't afford to crumble, not now. With a deep, weary sigh that carried all the exhaustion of her failed second to last resort, she turned toward the door.

The laboratory. South.

She lifted her chin, the movement more defiance than determination, and braced her shoulders against what came next. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped into the brittle sunlight, already calculating how many hours it would take her to reach the research compound. And what it would cost her to get inside.
The fertility examination costs 100 credits.

She had exactly 74 credits after months of relentless work, nights spent mending torn linens, days hauling water for the market stalls. It wasn’t enough. She’d have to take out a loan for the rest, another debt to bury herself under.
But she had to try.

Her fingers curled into her palms. She might be fertile. Her little sister was proof their mother had been, maybe she’d inherited those genes. Maybe, just maybe, her body could be worth something.

The thought settled like a stone in her gut. The fertility examination was her only way out. Get examined. Get auctioned. Get bought. The credits from the sale could save her family. But more than that, she could beg the noble who claimed her for the one thing locked behind gilded doors: Aldorin.

It wasn’t rare. Not really. The aristocrats dosed their children with it like candy, a preventative measure against even the mildest fevers. But for people like her? For the Wasting? The medicine might as well have been myth. The apothecary’s hollow stare said it all, some cures weren’t meant for the wrong side of the city walls.
She clenched her jaw, fingers digging into her palms until her nails left crescent marks.
Fine. Let them bid.
Let them take her body.
Let them pay for the privilege of her fertility.
Simple. Transactional.
So long as they gave her the cure.