3. The Map, the Shop, and the Pleading Eyes
“My little master, we’re in town,” the coachman rasped,
voice rough as stone as he eased the carriage onto sun-warmed cobblestones.
Gwen looked up from his scroll, a smirk tugging at his lips,
eyes bright with anticipation. “Good work. Stay close—we’ll need you this
afternoon.”
He swung the door wide and strode out like the street
belonged to him.
Heracles and Amelinda followed, both watching Gwen’s tall
frame cut through the sunlight. The noon glare lit his short curls bronze, a
fleeting halo that made him look like the gods themselves had spotlighted his
arrival.
“Keep the horses ready,” Gwen called, voice easy but commanding.
“Yes, little master,” the coachman replied, giving a stiff
nod before steering the carriage away.
The three stood in the heart of a bustling square. Perfectly
cut cobblestones stretched beneath their feet, worn smooth by generations of
steps. Ochre, pale blue, and rose-dust facades leaned together, their paint
faded but glowing in the sun.
The air buzzed—warm bread from a baker’s stall, sharp
leather from a cobbler’s shop, the sour tang of fish drifting from somewhere
unseen.
At the fountain’s center, doves scattered cake crumbs from
laughing children. Amelinda lingered on the sight, her lips curving with a
memory—she’d once fed doves here, dreaming of a life bigger than buckets and
scrub brushes.
Her gaze flicked to Heracles, measuring herself against his
quiet power.
“No time for daydreaming,” Gwen cut in, light but insistent.
He veered into a narrow alley without breaking stride. “We’ve got a shop to
find.”
Heracles followed, scanning the storefronts and shadowed
windows. Something about the town’s stillness pressed on him, secrets lurking
where sunlight couldn’t reach.
Gwen pulled his Hippocoon letter from his pocket and flipped
it over. A map shimmered in golden lines, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. At
its center, a red dot blinked.
“Right here,” he said, tapping the glow. “All-for-You Shop.
That star doesn’t lie.”
Amelinda leaned closer, wide-eyed. “How does it even do
that?”
“Invitation maps,” Gwen said, pride curling through his
voice. “Only first-years can see them. Once you’ve gone, the magic fades.”
“Clever,” Heracles muttered, fingers brushing his own
scroll—a weight he couldn’t put down.
The alley narrowed, walls slick with moss, the air damp and
metallic. Shuttered windows sagged overhead, exhaling a chill that smelled of
rust and mildew.
A gust stirred. A low hum rode the air, too soft to be
speech, too close to ignore.
The map’s glow sharpened, pulling them forward.
After a few turns, the alley ended at a crooked shop. The
wooden frame leaned as though tired of standing. Paint peeled back to gray
splinters; a sign dangled from a rusted chain: All-for-You Shop, faded
script swaying on its own breath.
The double doors sagged on warped hinges, one corner gnawed
by rot. Fogged windows blurred the interior except for a flicker—dust, or shadow,
or something that moved when they didn’t. A scent drifted out: old timber, damp
cloth, and sweet herbs left too long in a shrine.
Gwen’s grin sharpened. “This is it.”
Amelinda frowned at the doors. “You sure? Looks like it’s
been dead for years.”
“It’s the place.” Gwen held up the map. The golden lines
pulsed once, as if nodding. “No mistake. Let’s move.”
They stepped closer. A sharp chime rang inside, cutting the
stillness like a warning bell.
The doors groaned open. A figure glided out, clothes tailored
and faintly shimmering like starlight caught in fabric. His gaze swept over
them, cold and unreadable. A smile curled—thin, sharp, dangerous.
Heracles’s jaw clenched, hand brushing the scroll in his
pocket as if to anchor himself.
Gwen’s grin faltered. His fingers twitched, bravado dimming
for the first time.
The stranger passed without a word, swallowed by shadow. The
echo of the chime lingered, metallic and hollow, fading slowly into the alley’s
damp air. Heracles’s gaze snagged on the far edge, where a flicker of movement
stirred.
A figure stood there—a girl cloaked in a hooded cape, her
face hidden beneath the shadows. Her head tilted slightly, as if studying him,
and for a heartbeat, her eyes caught the lamplight—glinting with a golden
sorrow, sharp and pleading, like a soul trapped behind invisible bars, crying
for help.
Before he could speak, she shifted, the edge of her cape
whispering against the stones, and melted into the fog, leaving only the faint
rustle of fabric behind.
“Did you see that?” Heracles muttered, his pulse quickening.
Gwen glanced back, frowning. “See what? Mere shadows, friend.”
Amelinda’s eyes lingered on the empty alley, fingers
tightening around her scroll. “I… thought I saw something too.” Her voice was
soft, uncertain, threaded with unease.
The map in Gwen’s hand pulsed once, a gentle glow urging
them onward. “Come on,” he said, shaking off the chill crawling up his spine.
“We’ve got a temple to find.”
But Heracles couldn’t shake the weight of those eyes, burning with silent anguish, a plea for rescue he didn’t yet understand.
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