Grimwald Shadowcap stopped at the mouth of a crooked alley in Filthcreek and pressed his thumb against the gold ring on his finger. The skull design bit into his skin. One eye gone, one relic to find, and a whole rotten city to sift through. He turned the ring slowly. When the skull's empty sockets aligned with a faint pull, he followed it. The ring was a poor compass, but it was his. He had bound it himself to the absence behind his eyelid, so it tugged toward hidden things. Faint things. Today the tug was thin as a hair. A shape sat on an overturned crate near a leaning doorway. Old robe. Long beard. Pipe smoke curling up like a question. Cuckoo Smurf watched him pass, then spoke without turning his head. "Crystal cave," the old prophet said. "Mouth glows blue. There's a pup outside. Black and brown. You'll know." He drew on his pipe. "I sound mad. I know how I sound." Grimwald stopped. The ring twitched, sharp now, toward the direction Cuckoo had nodded. He had spent three days drifting on a thread. This was a knot. He set his staff and weighed the old smurf's calm against the memory of the last voice he had trusted too quickly. He chose. He walked the way the ring pulled. Two turns later a small dog stood in his path, tail wagging, and beyond it a low arch glimmered pale blue between wet stones. The cave was real. His blind search was over. Now he had to go inside, and he did not yet know who else already knew he would.