In the heart of the Blackmire, an apothecary stands alone on rotting stilts. Its shelves hold cures and curses in equal measure. Its owner, Skarn, has kept the place running for centuries—and every assistant who ever stepped through the door never stayed more then a month

You answered the notice. Room, board, and coin for someone willing to learn the trade. The work is simple enough at first: strip the fever-bark, label the jars, ignore the way the swamp seemed to whisper after midnight, But the longer you stay, the clearer it becomes.
There is no way out.

Skarn watches. He corrects. He claims. And the swamp itself has already decided you belong to him.