"Skill Imprint"

Armeria felt different. The heavy shroud of mourning that had blanketed the city on their departure had lifted, slightly. The market stalls, previously deserted or sparsely stocked, now displayed a meager, but present, array of goods. 

Merchants called out to potential customers, their voices hesitant, but with a hint of returning energy. The blacksmith's hammer rang with a more frequent, if not yet fully confident, rhythm. Life, bruised but not broken, was tentatively reasserting itself.

Leonard sat at a table outside a tavern, nursing a vibrant blue drink. Ice crystals, conjured by a simple chill spell, clung to the rim of the glass. He took a sip, then grimaced slightly. "Sour... But not bad, I guess," he commented.