Minor Potion of Demon Slaying

A slender glass vial, not much taller than a finger, holds the Minor Potion of Demon Slaying. Its liquid is a deep, glittering red, thick as syrup, swirling with tiny ember motes that catch lamplight and glance off the copper bands around the neck. The cork is sealed with red wax, pressed with a sigil that glows faintly when warmed by sun or candle, a sign of its makers' blessing and wary caution. A parchment label clings to the shoulder, cracked at the corners, bearing the potion's name in careful script and a line of runes that age has pitted but cannot erase. Lore ties the bottle to a long line of demon-fighting apothecaries, guardians who learned to bind fear into a draught and to temper it with heat and ash. They spoke of demons as stories you could bottle, then uncork at the moment you needed to remember you're not alone in the dark. When poured, the potion's scent is sharp—iron, herbs, a whisper of nightshade—and its texture is smooth and viscous on the tongue, leaving a warm, almost feverish glow that spreads through a warrior's limbs. On the belt, it sits in a leather sheath or tucked into a pocket, easy to grip when the road grows louder with the skitter of claws and wings. In practice, the Minor Potion of Demon Slaying is a tactical tool as much as a talisman. It grants a brief window in which demon wards waver and demonblades draw more easily blood, allowing a fighter, a guardian, or a thief to press an advantage against demonic foes. It's not a cure-all; its power fades with time, but that short breath of certainty can decide an ambush's outcome, turn a ruin's edge into a crossing, or let a hunter finish a demon before it bridges the distance with impossible speed. The item weaves into larger stories—the caravan routes that survive by barter, the towns that cling to the last light before the demon-haunted wilds, the orders that trained generations of alchemists to temper fear with a dose of courage. In a sun-baked plaza outside the border's last gate, a smiling clerk counts coins for a cluster of travelers. Saddlebag Exchange hums with the clack of crates and the hiss of a kettle, an odd ecosystem where wares travel further than people. Here, a bottle of Minor Potion of Demon Slaying changes hands for about two silver, a price that makes sense for a thing that can turn a single fight. The seller, an itinerant apothecary, notes that supplies shift with the road: fewer in winter, more under demon-sieged skies. As dusk settles and the road grows quiet, the potion's ruby glow remains in the traveler's palm—a reminder that sometimes a single drop can tilt the balance against a demon's dark tide. Under the lanterns, merchants trade stories as freely as remedies, and you hear again the quiet faith that a small bottle can carry a community through a night of claws. That is its quiet power.