The map tube felt heavier than it should have, like the weight inside wasn't just paper but responsibility. Lina clutched it as she stepped back into the alley. The air seemed different—warmer, charged, as though the city itself was paying attention.
She had questions stacked in her head like books about to topple.
Why had her grandmother never told anyone?
How dangerous were these "hidden paths"?
And what would happen if she didn't follow the butterfly next time?
The mark on her wrist pulsed again—faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the shop. The old man, Mr. Finch, had already gone back behind his counter, bent over a stack of yellowed papers. It was as if their conversation had been nothing unusual, just another Tuesday in a world where maps led to impossible places.
Back on the sidewalk, Lina sat on a low stone step and slid the map out of its tube. It unrolled stiffly in her lap, the parchment crinkling. Even without touching it, she could see the glowing lines again—the Veilroot. They curved and twisted, splitting off in tangled branches, some ending in glowing dots, others fading into darkness.
There was no "You Are Here" arrow, but one of the glowing lines was pulsing faintly. As she leaned closer, she realized it matched the exact rhythm of the tingling in her wrist.
She traced it with her fingertip.
The pulse in her mark grew stronger.
A sudden thought hit her—maybe it wasn't just pointing in a vague direction. Maybe it could lead her to an exact spot.
She rolled up the map again, shoved it back in the tube, and stood.
The pulsing tug guided her down side streets she'd never paid attention to before—past cracked brick walls covered in ivy, past a shuttered bakery with a faded "OPEN" sign still hanging crooked in the window, past a courtyard where laundry swayed like tired flags.
She began to notice things she normally wouldn't. A pigeon on a railing that shimmered faintly before flying away. A streetlamp that flickered in a deliberate rhythm—three short flashes, two long—as though signaling to someone. A door that had been painted over a hundred times but still showed, faintly, a spiral pattern underneath.
Her chest tightened.
Magic was hiding everywhere.
The tug in her wrist grew stronger until she stood at the entrance to a narrow underpass beneath an old railway bridge. The tunnel was lined with graffiti—dragons, eyes, feathers, and curling shapes that looked oddly like the markings inside the tree hollow she'd seen the day before.
She hesitated.
The underpass was dim, the air smelling faintly of metal and damp stone. On the far wall, tucked in the shadows, was a faint outline.
A spiral.
Her pulse kicked up.
Lina crossed the tunnel, heart pounding. The spiral wasn't spray-painted like the rest of the graffiti—it was carved into the wall, glowing faintly gold. It was small, only the size of her hand, but when she touched it, the mark on her wrist flared with light.
The ground beneath her trembled.
The air shifted—dense, heavy, like the moment before a storm.
And then the spiral began to turn.
Not just glowing—turning, as if it were the lid to a hidden lock. Stone grated against stone, and a seam formed in the wall. Slowly, a narrow doorway appeared, its edges glowing faintly. Beyond it was nothing but blackness.
Lina's first instinct was to step back.
Her second was to remember Mr. Finch's words: Follow the tingle. And when you see the butterfly—run toward it.
Sure enough, a familiar flutter of wings broke the silence. The glowing butterfly emerged from the shadows, hovering just inside the doorway.
Lina's fear melted into something sharper—curiosity, determination.
She stepped forward.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the air changed completely. The heavy city air vanished, replaced by a crisp, fragrant breeze. The blackness unfolded into a forest that was somehow both night and day at once. Stars glittered overhead, yet golden sunlight streamed between the silver-barked trees.
The ground beneath her boots was springy with moss. Strange flowers glowed like lanterns along the path.
The butterfly darted ahead.
She followed.
The path wound deeper, past pools of water that reflected not the sky above, but scenes from somewhere else—crowded markets, distant mountains, a child chasing a kite. It was like peering through tiny windows into other worlds.
She wanted to stop and look at each one, but the butterfly kept moving, so she pushed on.
After what felt like both minutes and hours, they reached a small clearing where an arch of woven roots rose from the earth. In the center hung a cluster of glowing threads, swaying gently, almost like a spider's web made of light.
The butterfly landed on one of the threads. It vibrated softly, sending a ripple through the web.
A voice, distant but clear, spoke from nowhere:
"Seeker marked. Gate recognized. Path prepared."
Lina's breath caught.
The glowing threads began to spread apart, revealing another view beyond—this one of a river flowing through a canyon lit by crystal formations. She could smell the water, hear the rush of the current, feel the cool spray.
She took a step forward—
—and the ground beneath her cracked.
A sharp sound like splitting wood echoed through the clearing. She staggered back as something dark rose from the moss. At first she thought it was a shadow, but then it moved, solid and deliberate.
It shaped itself into a tall, angular figure, its form made of black stone veined with red light. Two narrow slits glowed where its eyes should be.
The butterfly zipped into the air, hovering defensively in front of her.
The figure spoke, its voice deep and jagged like grinding rock:
"Unauthorized crossing. The path is not yours."
Lina swallowed hard. "I'm a Seeker," she said, though her voice shook. "The mark says I can pass."
The figure tilted its head, studying her. "The mark is new. Unproven. The Winged Realm does not yet claim you."
She glanced at the glowing web and the open path beyond. "Then what do I have to do?"
The stone guardian stepped aside, pointing a jagged hand to a narrow side trail she hadn't noticed before. "Prove yourself. Bring the key of first light. Only then may you pass."
Before she could ask what that meant, the figure dissolved into dust, scattering into the air like smoke.
The butterfly circled her head once, then darted toward the side path.
Lina gripped the map tube tighter and took a deep breath.
The gate would have to wait. First, she had a key to find.
And she had a feeling it wouldn't be as simple as unlocking a door.