Flint's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The town records booth stood empty again, but Flint noticed something new—a cork board mounted beside it, covered in expedition markers and route flags left by past explorers. Each colored pin showed where someone had planned to enter the peaks. Mesa's route had a red flag, still bright after three years. He traced the line with his claw, seeing how it curved toward the eastern canyons where the springs were marked. Other explorers had chosen safer paths, staying low and turning back early. Mesa had gone deep, pushing into blank spaces on the map. That's what made her the best. That's what made her worth finding. The board told him something important—he wasn't the first to search, but he might be the first to look in the right places. He pulled out his notebook and sketched Mesa's route, marking where it split from the others. The library might have more expedition reports, actual accounts from travelers who'd been up there. He needed those stories, those warnings about which paths led nowhere and which ones pushed through. The library waited across town, its reddish sandstone walls solid against the afternoon heat. Two columns framed the entrance, and large stone doors stood open. Flint stepped inside and felt the temperature drop. Wooden shelves stretched along every wall, filled with maps and journals bound in cracked leather. A few travelers sat drinking from clay mugs, trading stories about the peaks and the storms that rolled through the high passes. Flint moved to the back section where expedition records were kept. He found Mesa's name in three different accounts—one from a supply runner who'd seen her heading toward the eastern springs, another from a climber who'd spotted her camp near the ridge. The third report mentioned the standing tablet, the carved sandstone where she'd left her mark. Flint copied everything into his notebook, his paw moving fast across the pages. The travelers kept talking, mentioning dry wells and rockslides, but also hidden caves where water collected. This place held the knowledge he needed. Every story here pushed him closer to understanding where Mesa had gone and how to follow. He tucked the notebook into his pack and headed for the doors. Tomorrow he'd start walking toward those peaks. Tomorrow the real search would begin. Outside the library, Flint remembered the tablet from the reports. He asked a trader loading supplies onto a cart. The trader pointed toward the edge of town where the sand met the first rocks. Flint walked until he found it—a carved sandstone tablet standing taller than him, covered in symbols and marks. Mesa's initials were there near the bottom, fresh compared to the ancient carvings above them. She'd found this place, studied it, added her mark to something that had stood for hundreds of years. Flint ran his paw across the surface, feeling the grooves cut deep into the stone. This was proof she'd made it farther than anyone else. This was proof the forbidden peaks could be mapped. He pulled out his notebook one more time and sketched the symbols, the way they curved and connected. If Mesa had left her mark here, she'd left others deeper in the mountains. All he had to do was follow her trail and read what she'd written in stone. The setting sun turned the tablet orange, and Flint headed back to camp. Everything in this town pointed him toward the peaks. Everything told him Mesa was waiting to be found.