Before the next page in Hermeitis's grimoire, there is another story. Not written by a wizard, but spoken by a villager who strayed too far past the tree line.
They say he's an old friend of Hermeitis-a kindly mage with a strange grin and stranger hobbies.
But the boy who wandered into his lair would tell you otherwise.
This is the tale of Fenwick Merryweather-where the jars still breathe, the tea speaks in memories, and the smoke never rises.