Rowan tugged his pack straps tight and leapt over the last root. The forest ended so suddenly that it felt like someone had sliced it away with a giant blade. One step he was in the forest, the next he was blinking under an enormous sky that stretched wider than he thought the world could be.

Golden hills rolled into forever, tall grasses swaying like waves on an ocean. As the breeze shifted, the slopes shimmered with honey-gold, then a silvery green, as if the land couldn’t decide what color to be.

Bjorn walked a few paces ahead, his boots grinding over the dirt path and kicking pebbles. His axe rested lazily across his shoulder, its polished blade flashing with quick sparks from the morning sun.

“At last!” he groaned, throwing his arms up. “No more thistlebats. No more clingy bramble vines.”

Rowan tilted his head. “I kind of liked the bramble vines.”

Bjorn shot him a side-eye look. “You mean the ones that tried to eat your boots?”

“I said they were interesting,” Rowan corrected, ruffling his already-messy hair. “Not that they were friendly.”

Rowan slowed as they reached the crest of the hill. His jaw dropped. “Whoa…”

The valley below burst into color like someone had thrown a paintbox across the earth. Bright tents fanned out in spirals, striped banners rippled in the wind, and tall merchant wagons stood like towers among the chaos. It looked less like a camp and more like a carnival that had fallen straight out of the sky.

Rowan’s eyes lit up. “A festival!” he shouted, already bolting downhill, his pack bouncing against his shoulders. “Come on, Bjorn, let’s go!”

Bjorn sighed, shaking his head as he trudged after him.

With each step they took, the louder the world became. Sounds stacked on top of each other—bright flutes, clattering wheels, shouts of laughter, the snap of banners in the breeze. Music skipped through the air as if it had legs of its own. The smell of baked apples and sizzling meat curled around Rowan’s nose, and his stomach growled so loudly that Bjorn laughed and glanced sideways.

“Don’t laugh,” Rowan muttered, pressing a hand to his belly.

“I didn’t say a word,” Bjorn rumbled.

They had reached Whistlebend Crossing, and the dirt path had swelled into a river of people. Fur collars brushed past silken sleeves stitched with seashells and feathers. A tall man with a green braid strutted by, balancing walking sticks carved into curling animal tails.

Overhead, two flute players sat cross-legged on a wagon roof, their tune so light and energetic it seemed to hop across the beams of sunlight. Next to them, a spinning wind toy whirred and clicked in perfect rhythm, scattering little flashes of rainbow light onto the crowd.

Rowan stopped dead in the middle of the path. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. His eyes darted everywhere at once, trying to absorb every color and every sound.

Bjorn, meanwhile, moved more carefully. His hand rested against the handle of his axe, and though he said nothing, the deep crease in his brow made it clear that he was noticing things Rowan wasn’t.

“Look!” Rowan tugged on Bjorn’s sleeve, pointing eagerly. “That tent’s stitched out of old ship sails! And that cart, don’t tell me it doesn’t look exactly like a giant turtle!”

Bjorn gave the cart a long look. The turtle blinked, and someone had painted its wooden eyes so cleverly that, for a second, Rowan could’ve sworn they were real.

The market spread out in spirals, each ring a world more dazzling than the last.

The first circle smelled like heaven, steam curling up from leaf-wrapped breads, skewers of candied fruit that glittered with sugar, cones piled high with roasted nuts still snapping from the fire. Rowan’s stomach gave a dramatic growl, and he pressed his arms over it as if to muffle the noise.

The next circle shimmered with treasures that didn’t seem to belong to any single place Rowan knew. Glass orbs glowed from within, tiny blinking creatures darting in lazy circles as if swimming through starlight. Windcatchers spun in lazy whirls even though the air was perfectly still, their ribbons twinkling with bells.

“Storm peppers!” shouted a woman, flapping a fan that snapped with tiny sparks of lightning. “Hot enough to make your tongue whistle!”

Not two steps away, a young man flipped golden coins into the air. They ignited mid-spin, each burst of fire drawing gasps and cheers from the circle of children gathered around him. “Higher! Higher!” they shouted, as he tossed the coins so high up, they left streaks of flame against the sky before tumbling back into his waiting hands.

Rowan turned in a full circle, taking it all in. “It’s like every corner of the world came here to trade stories!”

Bjorn’s gaze scanned through the swirl of color and smoke. “And probably every kind of trouble, too.”

As if to prove Bjorn right, a cluster of cloaked figures slipped through the crowd. Their masks were strange and unsettling. One carved from smooth bone, another from knotted driftwood, a third nothing more than rough bark with eyeholes. One of them turned suddenly. Its hollow gaze locked with Rowan’s before the figure melted back into the sea of people as if it had never been there.

A chill prickled up Rowan’s neck. He hugged his cloak tighter. Don’t stare back. Don’t stare back. But curiosity tugged at him like a hooked line, urging him to follow.

They drifted past stalls where bird-shaped whistles trilled real songs when blown, and glass bottles fizzed with bottled lightning, sparking blue whenever someone shook them. A merchant in a broad straw hat struck a polished nut against a wooden plank—TANG! The sound rang so clear and deep it vibrated in Rowan’s chest like the toll of a distant bell.

Bjorn followed closely, with the sound of heavy footsteps behind him.

“Relax,” Rowan said over his shoulder, trying to shake the tension from his voice. “It’s just a market.”

A nearby vendor barked out a laugh, slapping his knee. “Just a market, eh? Try some of Gunter’s redcaps, boy! One wrong bite and you’ll be bleatin’ like a goat for a week!”

Rowan chuckled nervously, pretending not to imagine himself sprouting horns, and kept walking.

The next part of the market shone like a thousand sunbeams trapped in glass. Animals made entirely of crystal drifted lazily through the air. A beetle whirred past, its emerald wings scattering little shards of rainbow light. Overhead, a lion hovered, its translucent mane alive with sparks that danced and popped like golden fireflies.

“Whoa…” Rowan whispered, his eyes wide. “How are they even floating?”

A slender woman with violet hair gave him a sly smile. “Airshards,” she said, tapping a crystal on her wrist. “They come only from the Zephyron Isles. They hum when the wind blows hard enough.”

As if to prove her words, a soft vibration tickled Rowan’s ears. One of the glass lions drifted close, sparks rippling through its mane until it glowed like a crown of tiny stars.  Rowan’s fingers stretched toward the glowing sparks, but Bjorn’s hand closed firmly around his shoulder, holding him back. 

“Don’t,” Bjorn warned. “Don’t buy anything unless it comes with a guarantee.”

Rowan smirked. “What about a guarantee of being awesome?”

Bjorn rolled his eyes as he followed a path that curved into a quieter lane, where the noise of the market softened. An older woman sat cross-legged on a woven blanket, surrounded by maps spread out like a patchwork quilt. Some lay inked on parchment browned with age, others scratched across curling strips of bark, and others etched deep into slabs of polished stone that shimmered faintly in the light.

“Maps of forgotten places,” the woman said, her voice as dry and hushed as wind through tall grass. She tapped a long finger against one of the parchments. “Or maybe…they’re waiting to be found.”

Rowan knelt to study the strange collection. His gaze snagged on one map in particular. Jagged cliffs cut across its surface, sharp and dark. Beside one ridge, marked carefully in ink, was a single star.

Something about it called to him. A faint memory stirring, like a word on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach.

“Looking for something?” the woman asked, as if she already guessed the answer.

Rowan leaned closer, eyes fixed on the star marked on the map. “I’m searching for the Unity Koro,” he said. “Or a sign of where they might be.”

The older woman’s finger drifted to the very spot where Rowan’s hand hovered. “Some say the gods scattered the pieces across the world,” she murmured. “Waiting for someone, brave enough or perhaps foolish enough, to gather them again.”

Before Rowan could speak, a sudden gust tore through the lane. The maps leapt up in a wild flurry, parchment wings beating against the air. The woman’s hands darted as quickly as birds, pinning them down with smooth river stones.

“Careful,” she warned, a sly glimmer in her eye. “The wind here has a habit of—”

“There you are!” Bjorn interrupted, louder than the crackle of the campfires. He marched over and clapped a heavy hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “Come on. Let’s find food before your stomach brings the tents down.”

They slipped back into the crowd and soon found a quieter corner, settling onto a log near one of the larger campfires. Travelers had gathered in a loose circle, their dusty boots stretched toward the flames, and each traveler tightened their cloak against the chill. At first, their voices stayed quiet, but as the fire crackled down into steady embers, the stories began to rise like smoke.

“I’m telling you, it howled like a beast,” rumbled a broad-shouldered man, soot streaked across his cheek. “We thought it was only the wind down in the gorge. But something moved in that cave. And it wasn’t the air.”

“Dunmor Hollow?” piped a freckled girl, her wild crown of red hair bouncing as she leaned in. “They say the echo there can drive you mad! My cousin went last season. Came back with hair white as frost!” Tugging at her own hair for emphasis.

Across the circle, a tall woman in a blue cloak stirred the kettle without looking up. Steam curled around her face as she spoke in a calm, steady voice. “The Unity Koro was never in Dunmor. That’s a dead path. The true trail leads north, beyond Brindlecap Ridge. Every morning, the gulls circle the same spot, as if guarding something.”

Rowan leaned forward so far that the firelight danced in his eyes. “Guarding what?”

The woman only shrugged, her ladle gliding in slow, patient circles. “Could be a treasure. Could be a trap.”

A low rumble rolled from the far side of the fire. “Brindlecap Ridge is a bluff.”

The crackle of the fire swallowed the words, leaving the circle hushed, everyone waiting to see what would come next.

The deep voice rumbled out of the shadows, belonging to a man who looked more like a cliff than a traveler. His skin was rough and weathered like stone, and bits of moss clung to the worn sleeves of his coat. His eyes were the color of wet clay. When he spoke, it was like boulders grinding together..

“I’ve seen it myself,” he said. “Nothing but wind and feathers. If the Koro was ever there, then it’s gone now.”

“You’re wrong,” a girl’s voice cut in. She sat cross-legged beside a carved staff, long black hair tied back with a neat ribbon. Her eyes burned with certainty. “It was in Rivenrest. My sister saw it. She saw it in a shallow pool of water behind the Shimmer. Then the Shadowlands came, and half the valley vanished.”

Across the fire, a boy in yellow robes pulled a spinner from his bag. With a quick flick, he sent it humming into the air. The little toy whirled in tight circles, releasing a whistle that cut through the quiet. “I don’t care where it was,” he said with a sly grin. “Whoever finds them first becomes the King of Althoria. That’s what matters.”

Rowan let his gaze wander around the circle. These travelers had come from far-off lands, each carrying stories, scars, and secrets. Some had seen things he could barely imagine. And yet, here they all were, like sparks from the same fire, drawn to the same legend.

The voices softened. One by one, the travelers leaned back, letting the crackle of the fire settle over them. Somewhere deeper in the market, a flute began to play. Its tune drifted through the air like curling smoke, weaving around the ring of firelight. 

Rowan tilted his head back, watching the embers float away like orange stars. His chest buzzed with the weight of the stories. So many paths, all leading toward the same mystery. His hand slipped into his pocket, eager to see where the compass would point them next. But his fingers brushed only fabric. He patted the other pocket, and Rowan’s heart sank. 

“No…” The word escaped in a whisper, filled with panic.

The compass wasn’t lost. Someone took it.