Dispatches from Mythikal Spiriticus · Entry 001
From the field journal of Tamsin Quill, Cartographer of Questionable Roads
A road that appears only at twilight leads cartographer Tamsin Quill to the Crossroads of Nine Lanterns—and to a shop whose shelves seem to remember every adventurer who passes through its door.
There are roads you can find on a map, roads you can find by asking a farmer, and roads you can find only after making several poor decisions in the rain.
The Lantern Road is the third kind.
I first saw it at twilight, just beyond the Glasswood, where the silver-barked trees whisper the names of everyone who has ever lied beneath their branches. I had spent most of the afternoon insisting that I was not lost. The trees, being exceptionally judgmental, whispered my name until I admitted otherwise.
That was when the first lantern appeared.
It hung from an iron shepherd’s hook beside a path that had not been there a moment before. Its flame burned violet. No wind troubled it, though the storm behind me had already stolen my hat twice.
I am Tamsin Quill—cartographer, relic appraiser, occasional dragon negotiator, and survivor of at least four inns that later became craters. Common sense suggested I return to the main road.
Curiosity suggested I follow the violet lantern.
Common sense has never purchased me dinner.
The path wound between the trees, each turn marked by another light: emerald, sapphire, amber, and finally an antique-gold flame that chimed like a tiny bell when I approached. The deeper I traveled, the quieter the storm became. Rain vanished from my coat. Mud disappeared from my boots. Even the Glasswood stopped whispering.
Then the road spoke.
“Tamsin Quill,” it said in a voice like gravel rolling beneath a wagon wheel. “Bearer of three unfinished maps, one unpaid tavern bill, and a compass that points toward trouble.”
The compass in my pocket spun so violently that it tore a hole through the lining.
“That last part is hardly my fault,” I told the road.
The lanterns flickered. I choose to believe they were laughing.
At the end of the path stood the Crossroads of Nine Lanterns, a market square tucked between worlds. One street opened onto a city built across the backs of sleeping giants. Another descended toward an ocean glowing beneath a ceiling of stars. A third appeared to lead directly into a bakery, which was easily the most dangerous temptation present.
Merchants called from striped tents. Moon-moths carried letters in tiny silver satchels. A pair of goblins argued over whether a cursed crown counted as formal wear. Above it all rose a narrow shop with midnight-blue walls, emerald windows, violet roof tiles, and antique-gold trim.
Its sign read:
Mythikal Sundries™ — Curios for the Enchanted, Equipped for the Adventurous.
The door opened before I touched it.
A brass knocker shaped like a small dragon peered down at me. “Wipe your boots.”
“They are already clean.”
“Then wipe them confidently.”
I did.
Inside, the shop was larger than the entire square. Shelves climbed into a starry darkness far overhead. Cloaks whispered about the weather in places that did not exist yet. Mugs stirred their own tea. A rack of enchanted hooded garments changed its embroidered symbols whenever I looked away. On a nearby table, a rolled gaming mat displayed a battlefield where tiny armies paused their war to stare back at me.
The shopkeeper was nowhere in sight.
Instead, a black ledger rested open on the counter. Gold letters wrote themselves across the page:
WELCOME, TAMSIN QUILL. YOUR JOURNEY REQUIRES ONE COMPASS, TWO COURAGEOUS FRIENDS, AND A BETTER HAT.
“I liked that hat,” I said.
The ledger underlined better.
Then something beneath the floorboards knocked three times.
Every enchanted object in the shop fell silent.
The brass dragon on the door flattened its wings. Somewhere above us, a bell rang thirteen times, although the tower at the crossroads had only twelve bells.
The ledger’s gold writing vanished. A new sentence appeared, pressed so deeply into the paper that smoke curled from every letter:
THE THIRTEENTH DOOR HAS OPENED.
At the back of the shop, between a shelf of bottled thunderstorms and a display of armor made for very determined rabbits, a doorway shimmered into existence.
It was tall, silver, and completely black inside.
My troublesome compass stopped spinning.
For the first time since I found it, the needle pointed in one clear direction.
Straight through the door.
Naturally, I stepped closer.
After all, an unfinished map is simply an adventure that has not admitted what it is yet.
To be continued in the next Dispatch from Mythikal Spiriticus: “What Waits Beyond the Thirteenth Door.”
The Lantern Road will open again soon. Return for the next dispatch from Mythikal Spiriticus—and explore the enchanted curios waiting at Mythikal Sundries™.