Seraphine watched the woman across the market stall, cataloging everything. The angle of her shoulders. The way her fingers touched each pelt but lingered on none. Most traders would have launched into their pitch by now, but Seraphine stayed quiet, counting breaths, waiting for the tell that would show her what this buyer actually wanted. The woman looked up and smiled. "You're wondering when I'll reveal what I need." She pulled a small cloth from her belt and unwrapped it. Inside sat a cluster of luminescent mushrooms, dried but still faintly glowing. "I already commissioned an altar. Moonlit mushrooms, stones arranged in circles, the whole thing. Cost me three months of contracts." She rewrapped them carefully. "So I know what you want, Seraphine Goldwhisper. You want to stay somewhere long enough to need something like that. To stop reading people and let someone read you." Seraphine's throat tightened. The woman leaned forward. "Now that we both know that, let's talk about these pelts. I'll pay double your asking price if you deliver them to Crosshill and stay there for the month. I need a trader I can trust, and people who run don't lie well when they finally stop." Seraphine forced her face into neutrality, but her fingers had already curled against her palm. The woman stood, tucking the mushrooms away. "The shelter on the north edge, the one shaped like a giant mushroom. Meet me there tomorrow if you want the contract." She walked away without waiting for an answer. Seraphine stared at the pelts spread across her stall, her system shattered. For the first time in years, someone had seen past her walls before she'd even begun to build them. The road had always been her exit. Now it was her delivery route, and Vera Scalewing held the map. Seraphine looked past the market square to where her balloon sat tethered, its red and gold mushroom cap bright against the afternoon sky. She'd paid the dock fee through tomorrow, standard practice. Always keep the exit ready. But Vera had made that escape look like what it was—running. The altar, the shelter, the month-long contract. Vera had built a cage out of the very thing Seraphine pretended not to want. The worst part was how badly Seraphine wanted to walk into it.

Seraphine reached Crosshill three days early, which should have been an advantage. She walked the market district with her pack of pelts, looking for buyers who needed what she carried. But every stall keeper she approached gave the same answer with different words. They had suppliers already. They weren't looking for new arrangements. One woman actually turned her back mid-sentence. By noon, Seraphine understood. Crosshill's traders had closed ranks, and she was on the wrong side of the wall. She set up anyway, near the base of The Spore Exchange where foot traffic was heaviest. The massive mushroom structure loomed overhead, its red cap dotted with cream spots that caught the afternoon light. Seraphine laid out her best pelts on a cloth and hung her trade postmark above them, the elegant curves and celestial patterns marking her claim. She'd paid a silversmith two towns back to make it, thinking it would open doors. Now it felt like a flag planted in enemy territory. A man walked past, glanced at her display, then at the postmark, and kept moving. She tracked his body language—the slight pause, the hand that almost reached for a pelt, the way his eyes shifted to the other stalls before he walked away. He wanted what she had. He just didn't want to be the first to break the silence. Seraphine pulled the baby dragon doll from her pack and set it at the corner of her display. Vera had tucked it in with the contract, no explanation given. The bright blue scales and oversized eyes looked ridiculous next to the serious pelts and professional postmark. A girl stopped, maybe seven years old, and stared at the doll. Her mother tried to pull her along, but the girl pointed. "Can I touch it?" Seraphine handed it to her. The mother's shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're the new trader," she said. Not a question. Seraphine nodded. The woman touched one of the pelts, testing the fur between her fingers. "These are good quality." She didn't buy anything, but she stayed for three full minutes, asking about the tanning process, the mountain beasts, the best way to preserve them. When she left, two other people were watching. By evening, Seraphine had sold nothing, but she'd had six real conversations. One man promised to return tomorrow with his partner. A woman took her name and asked about custom orders. Another trader, older and scarred, stopped to examine the postmark and said only, "Vera sent you." Not a question either, but not hostile. Seraphine packed up her unsold pelts and kept the dragon doll visible on top of the pile. She'd wanted to read these people fast enough to crack their defenses in a single conversation. Instead, she'd learned that trust here wasn't hidden in tells and gestures—it was built in minutes and returned visits, in letting a child hold a toy and a mother ask questions she already knew the answers to. She still didn't have contracts, but she had something harder to fake. She had shown up, set her mark, and stayed put while they decided what to do with her.