The fragile peace in Edward's safe house was a candle flame in a hurricane. Destined to be extinguished. While Sarah was discovering the horrifying truth of the Core, a simpler, more brutal truth was playing out. In the dark, greedy heart of the Ashen Market. Everything, and everyone, had a price.

The news of Edward's spectacular return to Sunstone City had spread through the underworld's networks. With the speed of a plague.

Not just the story of his daring rescue. The story of Seraphina's intervention. The open schism between the Royal Guard and the Inquisition. And with that news came the Inquisition's official response.

They were furious. Humiliated. Their perfectly laid trap had been sprung. Their prey had escaped. And they had been made to look like incompetent, thuggish bullies by a teenage princess. Their fury was a cold, righteous, and utterly implacable thing.

And so, they did the one thing they knew would be effective. They raised the bounty.

The previous bounty on Edward's head was tripled. Then it was tripled again. The number that now appeared on the hidden, encrypted bounty boards of the underworld defied belief.

A sum that could buy a small kingdom. A private army. A fortune so vast, so life-altering, it could tempt a saint to commit murder.

And the denizens of the Ashen Market were no saints.

The mood in the market shifted. The awe and fear that had surrounded Edward's name was now tinged with a new, sharper, more dangerous emotion. Avarice.

The glances he now received were not just of wary respect. But of cold appraisal. He was no longer just the resident monster. The untouchable god-killer. He was a walking, breathing lottery ticket. A pile of gold so large it was worth any risk to claim.

The betrayal, when it came, was not from a powerful faction. Or a sworn enemy. It came from a place of petty, festering resentment.

His name was Grimald. An old, bitter artifact trader. He ran a dusty, forgotten stall in the market's outer ring. He dealt in low-level, semi-cursed trinkets.

Edward had a single, brief interaction with him weeks ago. A negotiation over a flawed cloaking charm. It ended with Edward calling the item "overpriced junk" and walking away. A minor, insignificant slight.

A moment Edward had forgotten.

Grimald, however, had not forgotten. He was a small man in a world of giants. A creature of envy and spite. He had watched with a sour, curdled jealousy as the newcomer had risen from nothing to become the market's most powerful figure.

And now, that same boy was worth a fortune.

The temptation was too great. The combination of greed and resentment was a poison. It corroded what little honor the old trader might have once possessed.

Grimald owned one, single, truly valuable possession. A relic from a bygone age. An artifact he had kept hidden for decades. A "Resonance Compass." A small, intricate device of brass and silver.

It did not point north. It was designed to attune itself to the unique energy of a dimensional portal. Then, no matter where it was taken, it would always point the way back. A key. A homing beacon. A tool for finding the unfindable.

Late one night, Grimald performed his act of treason. He calibrated the compass to the unique, chaotic frequency of the market's main entrance portal.

Then, he used a single-use teleportation scroll. An item he had been saving his entire miserable life. To transport himself to a pre-set location on the outskirts of Sunstone City.

He emerged in a dark, windswept alley. The unfamiliar, clean air of the outside world was a shock. He looked at the Resonance Compass in his trembling, gnarled hand.

The silver needle was spinning wildly. But it was pointing, with an unwavering certainty, back towards the hidden location he had just come from. He had found it. The location of the Ashen Market's front door.

His contact was waiting for him. In a dimly lit, disreputable tavern. A low-level Inquisitorial agent. A "fixer" who specialized in dealing with the scum of the underworld. He was dressed in the simple clothes of a merchant. But the cold, holy aura that clung to him was unmistakable.

Grimald, his heart pounding with fear and exultation, slid the still-pointing Resonance Compass across the sticky table.

"There," he rasped. His voice was a triumphant, greedy croak. "The location of the heretic's nest. The front door to the Ashen Market. Now… my payment."

The Inquisitorial agent picked up the compass. His eyes gleamed with a cold, professional satisfaction. He reached into his coat. He produced a heavy, leather-bound case. He opened it. Inside, nestled on black velvet, were credit chits from the Imperial Bank. Their value made Grimald's withered heart seize. It was the bounty. It was real.

Grimald reached for the case with a trembling, greedy hand. His life of squalor and resentment was over. He was a rich man.

The agent let him take it. He watched as the old trader clutched the case to his chest. A look of pure, ecstatic greed on his face.

Grimald turned to leave. His mind was a swirl of fantasies. The respect he would command. The lavish life he would lead.

"The Grand Inquisitor thanks you for your service," the agent said. His voice was as smooth and as cold as a tombstone.

Grimald paused at the door. He turned back with a smug, dismissive smile. "Tell him it was a pleasure doing business"

He never finished the sentence.

The agent moved. A blur. A thin, silver stiletto, a consecrated blade for silent, holy work, appeared in his hand. He lunged. The blade slid between Grimald's ribs with a soft, wet thunk. It pierced the old trader's heart before he could even register the attack.

Grimald's eyes widened. A final, profound look of shock and betrayal. He looked down at the silver hilt protruding from his chest. Then back up at the agent's cold, smiling face. He opened his mouth. Only a pained, gurgling sound came out.

He collapsed to the floor. The case containing his blood money clattered from his lifeless fingers.

The Inquisitorial agent calmly wiped his silver blade clean on the dead man's cloak. He picked up the case of credit chits. And the Resonance Compass.

He looked down at the pathetic, cooling corpse of his informant. His expression was one of utter, professional disinterest.

"And he detests loose ends," he concluded to the empty, silent room.

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