Cyomang came north on a longboat through the mists of Saarivalkea, a land of brief cool summers, long White Sea winters, and coasts that never quite feel remembered. He is not here for timber or fish. His trade is the weird and otherworldly: relics that hum, stones that dream, things pulled from places that should not have doors. He makes landfall at Kallionvartio, the rebuilt fortress-hold on its rocky island, where palisades and scarred stone watch the fog. The keep is his first foothold, not his last. Before he plants a stall or signs a charter, he means to walk the nearby cliffs, pine moors, and storm-cut islands, mapping veins and ruins that might yield inventory worth the voyage—old war-caches from the Three Dooms, sea-caves the mist hides, wrecks no honest captain claims. Only when his packs are strange enough, and his name known to the right kinds of buyer, will he settle at Kallionvartio and open a trade hub for the uncanny: a quiet door in a loud port, where Saarivalkea’s half-forgotten things can be bought, sold, and never quite explained.