A small bell chimes overhead as you step inside. The shop is cramped but tidy, shelves lined with jars, rope coils, folded cloth, and bundles of herbs tied with twine. A faint scent of dried cedar lingers in the air — comforting, but with an edge of dust and disuse.

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The shopkeeper gives you a polite nod, though her eyes flick toward the windows more often than toward you. “Commander,” she says softly. “Most folks stay indoors when the fog rolls in this thick. But if you’re out and about, you’ll want to keep yourself stocked.” She gestures toward a modest array of supplies on the counter. Rations, simple tools, and a few worn essentials.

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Outside, the fog presses against the glass like a living thing.