Petra Null counted her coins three times, and three times the answer was the same: not enough. She wanted the merchant guild's ruling charter, the paper that would make every trader in Liverrot pay her a cut. The charter's price sat like a mountain. Her purse held a molehill. She had spent nine years scraping toward that mountain, and the seller wanted his gold by week's end. She sat on the raised deck of her stilt house, boots dangling over black swamp water. The scarf slipped from her neck. She tugged it back over the green scales that patched her skin. Golden eyes narrowed at the coins spread on the wood. Copper, silver, three lonely gold pieces. She had no jewels to sell, no silk bales, no spice crates. Just a house on posts and a woman who never let a coin go easy. Below her, the swamp shifted. A ridge of gray broke the surface. Petra leaned forward. It was not a rock. It was a shell, cracked and moss-lined, wide as a wagon. A tortoise the size of a boat dragged itself onto the mudbank beneath her ladder. Its stone plates were carved with old marks. Petra had heard the tales. Traders paid fortunes for the plates of ancient shell-beasts. Ground down, they were said to heal any sickness. Her heart hammered. Here was her mountain, breathing in the mud. She climbed down slow. The tortoise did not run. It could not. Its steps were older than the town. Petra pressed her palm to the warm stone shell and felt it move under her hand, alive. She thought of the buyer's scale, the charter, the years of scraping. One creature. One fortune. All she needed was to end it. She drew her knife. The tortoise turned its head. Its eye met hers, wet and dark and patient. It did not blink. It did not fear her. It had watched the swamp swallow a hundred greedy people and had outlasted them all. Petra held the knife for a long moment. Her hand shook. Then she lowered it. She could not do it. Not for want of nerve. She knew a killed beast rots fast in swamp heat, and she had no way to haul plates that heavy before the buyer's deadline. The math failed. The prize was real and utterly out of reach. Petra climbed back up the ladder empty-handed. She sat with her three gold coins and her mountain still unclimbed. But she had learned two things. The swamp held treasures worth fortunes. And the buyer's deadline was five days off. She would not make it selling scraps. So she made a choice. She would go to the guild seller herself. She would ask him to wait, or she would find another way to pay. Either answer would corner her. Petra wound her scarf tight and started packing.