The roar of the capital plaza surged through the jagged portal, carrying yells and the clatter of dropped tankards. Hunters, their cheeks hollowed from watered-down restorative drafts, stumbled through the shimmering rift. They stared open-mouthed at the wooden counters piled high with impossible produce. Sun-apples glowed like furnace coals, Shield-Pumpkins bulged with waxy green rinds, and the brassicas unfurled leaves of violet silver, crisp with subterranean vigor. “Fresh stock, directly from the black loam!” Vordigar’s voice rattled the cobblestones. He stood beside a timber stall he had hewn from petrified beams, talons shifting crates with practiced ease. He barked rates and flicked a light-fingered street rat away with the barbed tip of his tail. “One radiant head of greens mends a compound fracture! Two purge blightrot! Infinitely superior to the swill peddled by Guild apothecaries!” Word carried across the stones as street vendors found their potion stalls deserted. Mercenaries in dented mail surged forward, untying leather purses. They took bites of sun-apples, pink color rushing into gray skin as severed tendons knit before their eyes. Others hauled Shield-Pumpkins beneath their arms, knocking on the rind with knuckles to test the dense magical rind. Tavran watched with his chin tilted, hands clasped behind his embroidered coat. A scarred vanguard fighter wept as a sour currant closed an oozing wound that had resisted fifty gold pieces worth of alchemical tincture. *Let the cartels choke,* he thought, adjusting his cuffs. *Let their hoard rot. Ysadell's plots will flourish on their ruined monopoly.* He stepped back across the threshold into Floor 101, where the air smelled of rich loam and smoldering ash. The Seed of Resurrection rested in its furrow, a dull orb pulsing every few heartbeats. Beside a wooden rake lay a chipped steel hilt, its crossguard scarred and its blade sheared off near the ricasso. He lifted it, the metal cool against his calloused palm. He ran a thumb over the cross-hatched wire wrap. He remembered the dry clatter of her training sabers, the tilt of her head when she accused him of overthinking simple swordplay. A tightness gripped his throat. His aristocratic composure slipped for a breath, replaced by the hollow sting that had shadowed him since the day of the breach. He pressed the metal into his palm until the steel dug into bone. *You will breathe again, you infuriating woman. No matter how many wagons of gold this pit requires.* He let out a sharp exhalation and set the broken weapon back into the furrow. “Merely an iron souvenir,” he muttered, dusting his sleeves. “Master Vael, if you have a moment.” Vordigar stepped away from the stalls, clawed boots thudding against the flagstones, a ledger bound in boiled leather tucked under his elbow. “The returns defy belief. The merchant houses have shut their doors in a panic. We have collected enough gold to bury an ox.” Tavran turned, raising an eyebrow. “Expected. Their potions were always overpriced. Tell me, how much have you personally amassed from your commission?” Vordigar shifted, horn plates grinding against his shoulder pauldrons. “A considerable share. You see, when the Cataclysm Lexicon bound me to this labyrinth, it seized my spiritual deed. Standard protocol for an apex guardian.” Tavran pinched off a yellowed leaf from a tomato vine. “Naturally. First-year theory at the Lyceum.” “There is an indemnity clause,” Vordigar said, claws tapping the leather ledger. “If an inhabitant pays the full valuation of their binding rune, the contract dissolves. Every silver collected from sun-apples and winter greens brings me nearer to that ledger release. Our interests run parallel: gold for your seed, freedom for my soul.” Tavran adjusted his collar. “Pragmatic, Vordigar. Very well. Keep selling, but ensure the central tribute takes priority over your personal buy-out.” The chatter at the perimeter dropped into sudden stillness. The buyers ceased their bargaining. Through the gateway came the heavy tread of plated sabatons and the rank smell of preserved vinegar and grave dirt. A file of mercenaries pushed through the portal, polearms leveled to part the crowd. Behind them walked Baron Malcor, velvet cloak swept back to reveal enameled steel, his lips pulled thin. Four hirelings trundled a cart carrying an unvarnished pine box, streaks of wet cemetery soil clinging to its base. The iron seal on the lid bore the crest of the fallen vanguard: Ysadell's rest, violently disturbed. Malcor halted ten paces out, eyes drifting across the rows of iridescent foliage before fixing upon Tavran. He tapped the wood with the toe of a polished boot. “Good day, Tavran. Your produce wrecked my warehouses by noon, but balance has a way of asserting itself. A splendid subterranean plot you have raised here. Hand over the deed to these tiers, the harvest, and your demonic beast. In exchange, I leave you the splintered box and what remains inside.”

The Price of a Soul