Zara Brightvale sat on the stone steps of the violet marble pavilion, turning a glass bead between her fingers. She had come to the fields to sketch ideas for her marketplace — a real trading hub for rare decorative pieces, not just another stall selling practical nonsense. A man appeared beside her bench without introduction, holding a leather folder. He opened it to show a bank draft with more zeros than she'd seen in her life, already made out in her name. He said someone had once funded his own dream with no strings attached, and now it was his turn to pass it forward. Before she could ask questions, he pressed the folder into her hands, smiled, and walked back toward the fields. Zara stared at the paper, then at the purple mushroom fountain she'd been sketching as the marketplace entrance piece. She had the money now. The marketplace could be real.