Jagna, a fourteen-year-old cartographer's apprentice, was sketching paths in the mountains above the town of Viper's Pass. Her brass compass did not always show north; sometimes it trembled, as if it could hear the earth breathing. Her grandmother said that such trembling warned of the Dragon Road, which was not on any map. Jagna didn't believe in fairy tales until she found a scale as shiny as polished coal, warm as freshly baked bread. - Is it a museum prop? - Asked Nikolai, who was following the eagles over the cliff. Jagna only shook her head, then pressed the shell to her ear. A deafening rhythm pulsed inside, slow and heavy, like the heart of a sleeping whale. The compass on the lanyard turned sharply, the arrow faced east, towards a narrow gap between two boulders. The inscription above the entrance, grated runes, flashed in the sun like wet ink. Nikolai pulled out his phone, but the screen went blank, as if someone had sucked out the light. - 'We don't go into something like this without adults,' he muttered, though his voice sounded more curious than cautious. Jagna pulled her grandmother's notebook out of her coat pocket, smelling of dried mint. On the first page stood a rhyme: He who carries the husk, to him the breath of fire will open. The words matched the rhythm of a quiet rumbling that suddenly sped up, as if something had awoken under a stone. The husk had a serrated edge, identical to the spiral mark carved into the rock. Jagna pressed it against the indentation; the stone trembled and split open, revealing a corridor full of red glow. A hot gust hit them, bringing the smell of smoke, cinnamon and thunder. - 'Now we really should go back,' Nikolai whispered, but took a step forward with her. At the end of the corridor, around the bend, something stirred the air and the walls responded with a deafening echo. The compass snapped off its leash and rolled into the darkness, stopping at something that opened a single, huge, golden eye. The eye blinked, and a whisper sounded in their heads, not using their mouths. Two words, heavy as a boulder, unfolded in her thoughts: Jagna, you brought the key. Thin trickles of lava flowed underfoot, drawing a map that only she knew. - Where... - she began, but a whisper cut through her thoughts, warm and alien at the same time. In response, like the beat of a wing, a sentence floated down: Time to choose, cartographer. Behind their backs, the rocky threshold began to slide, and the clattering, rapid echo of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor.