Ix'tal Shadowmark knocked on the apartment door for the third time. The woman inside had called two days ago, saying she'd found something that belonged to the elder. Something with markings on it. Ix'tal needed those markings—they might hold fragments of the migration routes he'd been trying to piece together for months. But the woman didn't answer. Instead, a note appeared under the door. It told Ix'tal to meet her at the outdoor market on the east side, the one surrounded by heavy greenery and wooden stalls. The note said she wanted payment first. Ix'tal stood there holding the paper, jaw tight. The elder had trusted him with their memories before they died. Now someone was holding the last piece hostage. He folded the note and headed for the market, knowing he'd have to negotiate for what should have been freely given.