The Northbank Antique Market was a sprawling labyrinth of gray stone alleys, smelling of damp earth, centuries-old dust, and the stale aroma of cheap incense. Issac Monroe navigated the crowded thoroughfare with a look of casual indifference, his eyes sweeping over the stalls with the practiced gaze of a man who had seen the true treasures of the United Dominion. Most of the tourists were wide-eyed, clutching their wallets as they marveled at "dynastic" pottery and "ancient" bronze mirrors. To Issac, however, the place was a graveyard of manufactured lies.
Every corner of this market was saturated with clever fakes—pottery aged with acid, wood carved yesterday but stained to look like it had survived a millennium. It was common knowledge among the local power players that the entire distr
