The shaman's shop smelled like a combination of wet dog, expensive incense, and maybe burnt food.
It was tucked into a basement in the old district, a place where the skyscrapers of the modern world felt like a distant memory.
Zhāo Yàn was currently leaning against a shelf full of jars containing things Yàn Shū really didn't want to identify. Yàn Shū himself was perched on a very tiny, very unstable wooden stool, clutching his notebook like a shield.
"He is late," Zhāo Yàn muttered, checking his diamond-encrusted watch. "The Ice King is making us wait. Typical."
"He said he was coming," Yàn Shū whispered, jumping slightly as a bead curtain rustled. "I just hope he doesn't bring his legal team."
