The forge street blazed with sparks and clamor, but Rhys passed through it without pause. He didn't haggle, didn't linger. His stride was calm, steady, his hood drawn low. To others, he was just another bidder leaving the auction, blending into the stream of players hungry for trade.
The alchemy row glimmered next—rows of potions, herbs, and shimmering dust. Merchants shouted loudly, scents clawed at the air, but Rhys's gaze barely flicked their way. His focus was elsewhere. Deep inside, his [Tamer of Ancients] pulsed faintly, a subtle pull that whispered whenever something tied to the past lay nearby.
Scroll markets followed, high spires lined with shelves and contracts. Again, Rhys walked on. He wasn't here for tomes or weapons. His goal was rarer, quieter—remnants of creatures older than kingdoms, fragments overlooked by those who only saw profit in what glittered.
