Grab some real gear, adventurer.

The Free Market, or “Black Market” as the lawful prefer to sneer, is no ordinary bazaar. It slithers like a serpent through the bowels of the belly of Ryton — a tangle of crooked alleys, collapsed cellars, and shuttered courtyards forgotten by most urban maps. Here, flickering lanterns swing from rusted hooks, cloaking stalls in murky half-light where even the stars dare not look.

The air is thick with the scent of exotic spices, blooded leather, burnt incense, and something else—something sweet and rotting just beneath the surface. Folk here won’t trouble you, not unless you come armored in law or too clean in conscience. A knowing glance, a shared silence, a coin changing hands — these are the unspoken rules.