Somewhere deep in the Night Market was a store for the arcane, the occult and the macabre, for people that dared to seek ancient power beyond the mortal plane. In such a place, in the back, away from the prying eyes of customers, was a tiny temple like room for this full time owner/part time warlock to commune with her patron deity. In this room, pleasant with the scent of potion batches simmering in cauldrons, shelves bowed under the weight of arcane tomes, their spines cracked from centuries of carefully documented rituals. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, swaying gently with each slight breeze as the shop doors opened and closed. The flickering glow of candlelight cast restless shadow, illuminating inked sigils carved into the walls that pulsed faintly with enchanted power.

  At the back of the room stood an altar; carved from obsidian stone, yet its surface worn smooth by time and ritual. Symbols of devotion had been etched into its edges, their meaning lost to all but the warlock and the entity that watched from beyond. A shallow brass bowl rested at its center, cradling a flickering blue-green flame, its movements almost sentient, twisting and shifting as if listening.

  The warlock sat before it, draped in layered robes of deep ochre, the fabric embroidered with sigils of protection and pact-bound promises. Gold cuffs gleamed against her wrists, and her braided hair was adorned with beads of bone and lapis, marking her as one who had bargained with something far beyond mortal comprehension.

  The warlock settled into her seat with a slow, measured sigh. Across from her, beyond the veil of reality, her patron waited, lounging in the shape of something humanoid, something almost familiar. Their molten-red gaze flickered, their silhouette shifting like a lazy fire.

  “You always call when you’re irritated.”

  The warlock tilted her head, unimpressed. “I call when I need advice.”

  A low chuckle hummed through the air, thick and warm. “Same difference.”

  She drummed her fingers against the table, gaze drifting toward the parchment in front of her, though she wasn’t really reading it. The patron waited, patient, expectant.

  At last, she spoke.

  “It’s my neighbor.”

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  The patron let out an exaggerated, knowing sigh. “Ah, yes. *The neighbor.* A tale as old as time. What grievous offense have they committed, my dear? Did they kill your familiar? Attempt to curse your bloodline? Steal away your lover, what's her name?”

  The warlock’s expression remained flat.

  “You know her name is Josie, and no…my Night Market neighbor keeps undercutting my prices.”

  The patron muffled a slight laugh, considering the situation. Then they nodded, solemn yet slightly sarcastic. “Truly, a betrayal of the highest order.”

  The warlock scoffed, crossing her arms. “Don’t patronize me.”

  Another chuckle, a bit louder this time.“I would never.” The shadow shifted, one long, clawed finger tapping against the veil separating our world from their astral plane. “And what do you propose we do about this heinous crime?”

  She sighed again, running a hand over her braids. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I’m here.”

  The patron hummed, thoughtful. “A simple resolution, then. We could set their store ablaze. Very classic, primal even.”

  The warlock rolled her eyes. “No, no fire. No violence, not again.”

  “A curse of misfortune, then. Mild. Inconvenient. They’ll wake up to their stock rotting overnight, their scales never quite balancing, their hands always short of the correct change.”

  She raised a brow. “Tempting. But too obvious, I think he would send the authority straight to me.”

  The patron grinned - she knew they were grinning, even if their face did not move in the way a face should. “Ah, subtle, then. Something clean. Ugh.”

  They leaned forward, their voice dropping into something conspiratorial, warm, like an old friend sharing a secret over tea.

  “What if we make them indulgent?”

  The warlock narrowed her eyes. “Indulgent how?”

  “Oh, just a little shift in priorities. Let them enjoy the pleasures of life more. A long nap that stretches into the evening. A single cup of wine that becomes a bottle. Perhaps a new fascination with games of chance, or the company of charming strangers.” The shadow’s grin widened. “After all, how can they compete with you if they are so very… distracted?”

  The candlelight shivered. The blue-green flame flared, twisting with the shadow's words.

  She tapped her fingers against the table, considering. “And this wouldn’t be traced back to me?”

  The patron scoffed, waving a lazy hand. “Please. Wouldn't. Couldn't. We are very good at what we do.”

  She hummed, leaning back in her chair. The solution was elegant yet subtle, just a slight nudge toward ruin, nothing dramatic. Nothing that would call suspicion. But unchecked, would wholly wreck her competitor.

  “…Tell me more.”

  The patron leaned in, their voice soft, indulgent.

  “Oh, we thought you’d never ask. First, we'll need some harpy liver from the three-eyed cat down on 86th.”

  The flame flared wildly as the patron detailed the plan, and after a time, the conversation continued on to more pleasant topics, such as what the new tea was in Tartarus or how Josie's singing career was coming along these days. A fine end to an otherwise mundane day.