That night, the howls started outside Arlo’s window. Not wolves. Something worse. Something with too many legs and a voice that sounded like his own mother’s scream. The map, now hidden beneath his shirt, grew warm against his chest. He could feel its pull, a gravitational hunger directing him toward the old cathedral.

And somewhere in the dreaming city, beneath a wounded moon, a door creaked open. The hunt had a new cartographer. And the map was thirsty.

The ritual was simple, which made it horrifying. A single prick of his thumb, a drop of blood falling onto the map’s center. Arlo expected a stain. Instead, the map drank .