The tips of her fingers were cold. Before dawn, on a hillside, Elara crouched alone. The grass at her feet was wet with night dew, and a chill crept up through the soles of her shoes. Still, she did not move. Her left hand's fingertips remained gently pressed against the earth. "...Come." A low voice, barely a whisper. No answer came. Elara bit down on her back teeth. Her fingertips were thinly coated with earth-pattern ink—a compound of crushed monument crystal and tree sap from the Selvatura Mountains, which served as a medium for earth-pattern magic. It was meant to be a bridge to resonate with the natural magical patterns carved into the earth itself—the earth-patterns. That was how it was supposed to work. Something faint seemed to be felt. Deep beneath the ground, like the breath of some enormous sleeping creature, a subtle pulse. But each time she lifted her fingers, that sensation scattered like mist. Again, it had failed. She stood, brushing grass leaves from her deep green cape. Fine night dew glistened in her jet-black short bob, and the pale blue mesh woven throughout caught the faint pre-dawn light. When she straightened her spine, her slender frame stood rigid within the cape. At one hundred seventy centimeters, she stood a head taller than most girls her age. A small ancient earth-pattern tattoo marked her left wrist, and depending on the angle of the morning light, it would sometimes glow faintly as if answering the patterns on the ground. But not this morning. (Not enough concentration. Or maybe... I really don't have the talent.) A sigh rose white into the air. Beyond the hill, Melvina Village came into view. A pastoral settlement of about three hundred twenty people, clinging to the slope of the hillside at the western edge of the Whispering Forest. A few wisps of morning smoke had begun to rise, and the muffled voices of sheep drifted from the direction of the shepherding guild's shed. In this village lived a person famous as the "eccentric map-maker." Elara's grandmother, Evelyn Casta. And the reason Elara had come to the hill alone to practice earth-pattern magic was due to that grandmother's influence. The Solenia Monument Institute—the highest academy of learning in the study and education of earth-pattern magic, pride of the academic city positioned in the central-east of the Eldria continent—issued monument-seal licenses that she did not possess. To be recognized as a map-maker, three years of academy completion and a practical examination were required. Without a monument-seal license, no technique, however refined, amounted to anything on paper. Yet Elara could not explain why she continued to practice. She simply felt something each time her fingertips touched the earth. There was an inexplicable certainty within this technique passed down directly from her grandmother. Whether it was a nameless art or unproven talent, this sensation alone felt real. That pride, mixed always with the frustration that "in reality, it has no value whatsoever," dwelt within her practice. Impatience dulled concentration. Without concentration, the technique scattered. Each time it scattered, impatience grew. She knew it was a vicious cycle, but she could not stop it. As she descended the hill, Elara adjusted the leather case on her shoulder. It contained a complete set of map-making tools, a specially made item she could not part with. Drawing maps was as much a part of her life as earth-pattern magic—or perhaps even more so. Near the village entrance, her feet suddenly stopped. In a gap in the stone wall along the roadside, a small flower bloomed. White, delicate, a flower that should not bloom at this time of year. Elara gazed at it for a moment. Perhaps it was the influence of the earth-patterns. In this area near the Whispering Forest, plant ecology sometimes became a little strange. (Odd place to bloom.) It meant nothing in particular. It simply caught her eye. She continued walking. ＊ The Casta house was a two-story stone building standing on a hill in the village. The window frames were old, and on rainy days, the outside air seeped faintly through the corner room on the second floor. Yet for Elara, this had been home since birth, and even the drafts were part of "this house's smell." When she opened the door, an elderly woman named Mava from the neighboring house stood there, her face drained of color. "Miss Elara! Perfect timing. Evelyn—" "...What happened?" Elara's voice changed. Before Mava could finish, she was already running up the stairs. Her grandmother's room was at the back of the second floor. When she pushed open the door, morning light filtered through lace curtains, and there on the bed lay Evelyn, small and still. White hair. Thin skin. An aged body past seventy. She was breathing. But her complexion was terribly pale. "Grandmother." The word came out. Just that. Elara knelt beside the bed. Evelyn's hand rested on the blanket. It moved slowly. Something glinted at her fingertips. With a soft clink, a small iron key fell to the floor. Elara reflexively picked it up. It was cold and small. The edges were slightly worn from being held for so many years. Evelyn's lips moved. "...In the attic..." With only those words, her eyes closed. Elara stared at the key. She had known of its existence before. Not hanging from her grandmother's neck, not stored in a key box, but always kept close to her body—this key. She had known it fit the attic door. And she had never once touched it. Fear of trespassing, she thought, was the accurate word. There was a place her grandmother kept locked, and she should not enter it. Not as a matter of logic, but simply as a feeling. Respect for her grandmother's will, one might say prettily, but in truth it was simple awe. Evelyn was someone close yet distant. She had taught Elara earth-pattern magic, taught her how to read maps, yet spoke little of herself. Now that door was about to be opened. By her grandmother's own hand. Elara stood. ＊ The stairs to the attic were at the end of the hallway. Usually there was only a storage door, behind which a ladder was hidden. When she inserted the key and turned it, the door opened more easily than expected. The smell of dust descended. Elara climbed the ladder slowly. When her head cleared the ceiling's edge, her vision expanded. ...It was vast. Far larger than she had imagined. Bookshelves stacked along the roof's slope lined the walls. Candlestands. Bottles of dried earth-pattern ink. Metal tubes that appeared to be surveying instruments. Several sheets of old parchment, bound together with cord. Elara finished climbing the ladder completely. She approached the first bookshelf and took up a bundle of documents. A thick stack of paper, with "Solenia Monument Institute, Archaeology Division, Review Results" printed on the cover. Below it, stamped in red ink in large letters: "REJECTED" Elara flipped through the bundle. It was a copy of a thesis. The author's name read "Evelyn Casta." The date was from forty-five years ago. The content was an investigation record concerning the Great Disappearance—the event when Arathun vanished from the map in a single night eight hundred years prior, known in Eldrian history as the Vanari Kors. (I didn't know. That grandmother had conducted such research.) At the next bookshelf, there were bundles of notebooks. Notebooks without covers, patched together. When she opened one, it was filled with dense writing. Her grandmother had carefully written rebuttals against the clauses of the Ruin Sealing Edict—the law enacted about one hundred twenty years after the Great Disappearance, forbidding unauthorized entry to related ruins. "This restriction has no basis." "The sealing is merely monopolization of research." "Who, what, and why are they hiding?" And on one page, those words were written: "Truth is carved into maps, and the earth speaks." Written in normal pressure. Elara turned the page. The same words appeared in another notebook. This time pressed hard, traced over many times. Turning further, in faint pencil: the same words again. Different dates. Over more than ten years, they had been written repeatedly. (She was thinking about this all along. All this time.) Elara's eyes turned to the back of the shelves. At the very back, wedged among other documents, something protruded. Its edge was visible. Brown, with the texture of weathered paper. Without thinking much of it, she reached out her fingertips. That was when it happened. A chill ran through her. "Huh?" A sound escaped her. The moment her fingertips touched the edge of the parchment, an electric current seemed to run through her entire body. The earth-pattern ink remaining on her fingertips had reacted. It had resonated. Elara reflexively pulled back, but stopped her hand mid-motion. She could not stop. She drew out the parchment. It was folded in half, and when she unfolded it, it was a large map. Weathered and worn in places, but the earth-pattern ink had not faded. More than that—light seeped from the fold lines. A faint blue light. The resonance response of earth-patterns. Simply by touching it, she felt connected to the earth. In the practice on the hill, that sensation had only scattered, but through this parchment, it remained stable and continuous. Slowly, the entire map began to emerge. A route. Ancient geography slightly different from the current terrain of the Eldria continent was depicted, and above it, a single path of light was carved, glowing. (This is...) The path to Arathun. Elara was slightly surprised that this phrase had surfaced in her mind as absolute certainty. The map bore no such inscription anywhere. Yet the earth-patterns spoke it. She stared at the map in a daze for some time. Then she sneezed. Before she could even say "achoo," her hand moved violently. It struck the corner of the shelf, and a bottle of earth-pattern ink beside it swayed. Elara hurriedly shielded the parchment while catching the bottle with her other hand. She barely caught it. But her thumb smudged slightly with ink. Black stains dotted her fingers. Elara almost whispered "oh no." Then—"I'll be scolded." She instinctively looked around. No one was there. Of course not. Her grandmother was on the bed downstairs, and she was alone in this room. (What am I doing?) She almost laughed. But at the same time, something deep in her chest ached. She had thought "I'll be scolded." The natural emptiness of that thought struck her chest with unexpected force. Elara pressed the back of her hand against her eyes. She had not meant to cry, yet somehow the back of her nose grew heavy. (Don't cry. There are things I need to investigate now.) She collected herself and unfolded the parchment again. This time, she examined the reverse side. A different pattern of fine lines was carved there. A small crescent-moon-shaped design was impressed in the lower right corner of the parchment. Elara froze the moment she saw it. She had seen this shape before. A memory from childhood surfaced. Her grandmother's workshop—not here, but a small room at the end of the first floor—from when Elara was seven or eight years old. Evelyn had been mixing something, and Elara was there, getting in the way. By chance, some earth-pattern ink had gotten on Elara's cheek. Her grandmother had laughed and left the stain, then refined the shape with her fingertip. "This is your pattern," she had said, drawing a crescent moon on Elara's cheek. Someone had been there that day. A boy from the neighboring house. Orion. A little older than her, always watching things with observant eyes. The two of them sneaking into her grandmother's room was common. That day too, Orion had leaned against the wall, silently watching Evelyn's work. She remembered him looking slightly surprised when her grandmother drew the crescent moon on Elara's cheek. Elara narrowed