Lithi stacked gold coins on the inn table, one at a time, while she read the map she had stolen. Each stack marked a clue to the dragon hoard beneath the twin moons. She had chased that hoard for six years. Tonight, for the first time, she believed she could reach it before anyone else. Then the innkeeper set down her drink and ruined everything. "A man's been asking questions at the market," he said. "Tall fellow. Scars on both hands. Wants to know who's been buying old maps." Lithi's fingers stopped on the coins. She knew the man. Every treasure-hunter did. He never asked twice, and he never lost a trail. If he collected the market clues first, her head start died tonight. She stood. The scaled green gown caught the firelight, and she leaned into the heat instead of away from it. Flame never bothered her. People noticed that. People remembered her. That was the problem now. "How long ago?" she asked. "Started at dusk. He's still there." Dusk was two hours gone. The market closed at midnight. She had one chance to reach the vendors before he did. Lithi swept her coins into a pouch and ran to the market square. Lanterns hung above the stalls. Vendors packed their carts. At the far end, she saw him. He crouched at the spice-seller's stall, pressing a coin into the woman's palm. Lithi did not have time to outrun him stall by stall. So she changed the game. She climbed onto a barrel where every vendor could see her. Then she opened her pouch and poured gold into her hand. "I pay double," she called. "Double for every clue about old maps. Right now. In gold." The square turned toward her. Vendors dropped their crates. They swarmed the barrel, hands out, voices loud. The spice-seller left the scarred man mid-sentence and pushed to the front. He rose slowly. His scarred hands curled at his sides. He understood what she had done. He could match one buyer at a time. He could not match a crowd all at once. Lithi paid. She paid until her pouch hung empty. In return she gathered every rumor the market held. A ferryman who crossed the lake at the dark of both moons. A door hidden under the water. A price the ferryman named to no one but paying strangers. By the time the scarred man reached the barrel, the vendors had nothing left to sell him. He looked up at Lithi. He did not shout. He only nodded once, the way one hunter marks another. "You bought the market," he said. "You didn't buy the lake." Then he walked toward the water. Lithi climbed down. Her gold was gone. Her head start was real again. But the scarred man now knew exactly where she was going. And he had reached the ferryman's road first.