Ioren passed under the First Gate in Yasha’s Step as evening descended. The massive red gate crafted of solid, intricately carved Temuli redwood, was the first to be erected in Danet, and stood as a beacon of hope and safety for the dozens of Finder groups returning to the Step every day. One such group stood just inside the gate, comparing the day's finds with one another. The Vanguard officer on duty grimaced at the sight as Ioren walked by on his way to the bazaar.

Yasha's Step was a semi-established town at the foot of the Continental Spine, the enormous mountain range that bisected the Danet-Havan supercontinent. To the east of the Step was the passage beneath the mountains to the state of Temul, and to the west lay the vast expanse of Danet. It was a strategic location that allowed for control of transcontinental commerce and taxation by the crown, as well as defense of Havan against any incursions of Danetian anomalies, like Greys.

Officially, Yasha’s Step was a staging ground for Vanguard missions to clear hostile anomalies from points of interest and various scouting excursions into Danet. Unofficially, however, it was now home to scores of scavengers - who called themselves “Finders” - that sifted through the remains of cleared locations, hoping to find rare treasures and ancient Danetian artifacts overlooked by the clearing Vanguard party. Of course, wherever valuables could be found, there would be merchants not far behind.

Ioren entered the bazaar and eyed the line of caravans with a smile. The only feeling better than finding treasure was seeing the crowns pour out of the bags of merchants.

The bazaar was, at its most basic, two parallel rows of merchant wagons on the southern end of town. Between the two rows was a crowded walking path covered by a canopy of hanging tarps clipped to rows of poles. During the day, sunlight would stream through the myriad of multicolored tarps to dye the shaded passersby in elaborate hues. Now, during the evening, oil lamps illuminated the faces of haggling Finders and haughty merchants with a warm orange glow.

At the far end of the street, Ioren caught sight of a red and green flag flying above a horse-drawn wagon and started toward it. Though all merchants were extorting scum, it helped to know which were better than most.

As he approached the sailed wagon, Ioren caught the eye of the proprietor and waved slightly.

“Hello, Rys," Ioren called to the plump mustachioed merchant.

“Mister Ioren Cedars. I'm surprised to see you alive today. What have you brought me?"

“Straight to business, as usual," Ioren replied as he slipped off his backpack and placed it on the table in front of Rys's wagon. "Why are you surprised to find me alive? No confidence in me anymore?"

"It's nothing personal, but you scavengers that go out to that wasteland alone don't usually last very long. Small mistakes become serious when nobody is there to help you."

"Rys, if I hadn't known better I'd think you were concerned for me!" Ioren shot back with a rye smile. "No, I'm not finished with this place yet. Too many unexplored wonders beyond every horizon. I've never even been into a keep! Imagine the elaborate treasures hiding in those massive sealed castles."

"Death does not often wait for you to finish," Rys replied. "But while we are alive, we should make some money, don't you agree? What do we have today?"

Ioren pulled two small wrapped parcels from his backpack and laid them on the counter. Rys eyed them curiously as Ioren untied the rope seals and pushed them forward.

“Firestarter, standard artifact, slight damage to the exterior,” he explained of the first item. “That’s nothing new, of course. But this,” he continued as he unwrapped the second item, “This I’ve never seen before.” He pulled the cloth aside revealing a small white porcelain cylinder wrapped in painted bands of red, brown, and blue. Each end was perfectly sealed without a crease, and the colored bands were flush against the white porcelain beneath, as if they had been molded into the cylinder rather than painted on.

“Does it do something?” Asked the merchant.

“Not that I’ve been able to ascertain,” Ioren replied. “I’ve tried twisting it, shaking it, even talking to it. No response.”

Rys picked up the strange and beautiful object and examined it all around.

“I can give you fifty crowns for the firestarter as usual. Ten for this unknown item.”

“C’mon,” Ioren pleaded. “You know a noble will snap up anything new in an instant. Even if it’s decorative.”

“Perhaps, but the artifact trade has slowed recently. Most large houses own several Danetian treasures at this point, and now that the petit nobility is acquiring them the interest is beginning to wane. The rush may be over soon, my friend.” A look of mourning flashed in his eyes.

"A lesser noble would easily pay a hundred crowns for this," Ioren insisted.

"You are welcome to make the trek back to Rolakkhad and sell it yourself," Rys retorted.

Ioren frowned. Even if he wanted to return to Havan, the state of Rolakkhad was over a hundred miles away.

“Alright, you win,” Ioren relented while calculating his expenses in the back of his mind. He averaged ten crowns a day on rations, gear replacements, and repairs, so sixty would be enough for around six days. That meant 432 more hours in Danet. It would have to do.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

As the merchant counted out the crowns, Ioren asked if he had seen any Royal Emissaries around recently.

“Two arrived this morning,” he answered. “They’re staying at the White Birch, naturally.” Rys stopped counting for a moment and leaned in to whisper to Ioren, “Just between you and me, I’ve heard they’re buying up artifacts in a frenzy these past few days. Seem to be preparing for something.” He leaned back again. “But that’s just what I’ve heard.”

Ioren scooped up the crowns and placed them into a sack on his belt before thanking Rys and waving goodbye. He secured his coin pouch beneath his cloak and proceeded through the northern exit of the bazaar, toward the residential district.

“Residential” was a generous term for the slums of Yasha’s Step. Because of the difficulty in transporting building materials from Havan, and the poor quality of anything gathered in Danet, most homes here were either improvised adaptations made to the previous derelict structures, or temporary tents setup against crumbling walls to break the desert wind. Of all the residents of the slums, the most comfortable were the rats.

The sole exception to this trend stood proudly in front of Ioren. The White Birch, a three story inn built of immaculate white quartz hauled in from a quarry in Rolakkhad. Ioren was too young to remember, but his mother said they used over a thousand oxen to haul all of the materials through the tunnel from Temul.

Ioren approached the pristine double doors at the front of the inn. Inlaid with spotless panes of glass in intricate spirals, the doors looked more like art than a functional portal. As he stepped forward, the Vanguard officer at the door blocked his entry with a long spear.

“No entry for scavs. Beat it, kid.”

Ioren grumbled as he reached into his cloak for his coin pouch and procured a silver ten-crown piece.

“I just so happen to have a key,” he replied to the officer. The man swiped the piece and pocketed it in a single motion before removing his spear.

“You make any trouble in there and I’ll post your head on a pike,” he warned.

“Yes, yes. I know the routine,” Ioren replied as he pushed his way through the heavy doors into a beautiful open room. Dozens of candles flickered atop the chandeliers that lined the ceiling, reflecting their light off the gold leaf accents adorning the columns and walls. A painting depicting the Red King atop an armored horse was displayed prominently at the head of the room across from the front doors. To Ioren’s right, an elderly man with thick spectacles stood up in surprise.

“State your business,” he demanded curtly.

“Two emissaries are staying here. I’ve a meeting with them,” he replied with bluffed confidence.

“Very well,” the servant answered. “Only one is in. You may find him in the drawing room.” The servant motioned to the purple-carpeted staircase on the right that wound up to the second floor.

Ioren nodded and turned away before swallowing hard. Royal emissaries were official representatives of the crown and held the power to act, in all capacities, as an extension of the king’s will.

A sweat stain the shape of his hand stained the metal door as Ioren pushed his way into the drawing room at the top of the stairs. To his right positioned next to the door was an armored knight in full regalia. The shield slung across his back was emblazoned with a red eye, the sigil of the Red King. In the center of the room lounging across two padded couches was a pale man in white and gold robes reading from a thick volume. His long hair was braided into a complicated pattern that fell from his shoulders to rest on his chest in front of the book. Moving only his eyes, he gazed lazily to the entrance of the room.

“A scavenger? What a surprise,” he mused as he snapped shut his book. The emissary rose from the couch and gestured to the seat across from him with a practiced grace. “Please, sit down. I’ve been dreadfully bored since my colleague left. He adores indulging in the Danetian pleasures of the flesh - a bit too much, if you ask me.”

Ioren nodded slightly before stiffly walking to the couch. He looked down at his clothes before staring again at the spotless white couch.

“Oh don’t worry about sullying the fabric. Stains bestow character,” he assured Ioren, who sat down nervously. “I am Emissary Alastair of Capira, in service of His Majesty King Redden of Iv, Uniter of Havan,” he said with an outstretched palm.

“Ioren Cedars, of Temul,” Ioren replied, placing his hand atop Alastair’s palm in response.

“To what do I owe this honor, Master Cedars?” Alastair asked as he returned his hand to the sleeves of his robe.

“I found an attractor today, near the Black Beach,” he sputtered, inwardly cursing his nerves. The fake conviction from earlier had drained from him entirely.

“Ah, a business proposition. Here I was hoping for conversation. In vain, I suppose. Yes, the crown is always interested in purchasing attractors. Let’s see it.”

Ioren slipped his backpack from his shoulders and opened it, revealing the wrapped contents within as he retrieved the slim rod.

“Why do you wrap your implements?” Alastair asked suddenly.

“Keeps them quiet while I’m moving. Don’t want to make any more noise than I need,” Ioren replied.

“Very crafty,” said Alastair, clearly amused. “How long have you been traveling Danet, young man?”

“Just about eight years now. My mother took me on my first trip when I was eleven,” Ioren answered as he placed the wrapped attractor onto the thin glass table between the couches.

“Your mother is a scavenger as well?”

“She was in the Vanguard until she disappeared on a scouting mission three years ago,” he replied. The two fell silent. Ioren shifted uneasily in his seat, fingering the pitch black ring on his left hand. His mother's last gift to him.

“My condolences. Danet is an unforgiving land,” the emissary finally offered. He quickly flipped open the fabric around the silver rod on the table, and after a brief inspection, covered it again. He reached into a deep pocket in his robe and procured three golden 100-crown coins and placed them on the table. “There will be no negotiating with His Majesty. You understand?”

Ioren had to restrain himself from swiping the immense sum from the table in haste. This was half a year’s worth of funds, handled as if it were a mere formality. He nodded and slowly picked up the coins one at a time. They surprisingly felt like every other coin, despite their brilliant sheen.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he added quickly.

“Excellent, now that matter is settled,” Alastair said as he reclined into the couch. He folded his hands and studied Ioren a moment before continuing. “You’ve piqued my interest, Master Cedars. If you would be so accommodating, I have a proposition for you.”