For three hundred years, no one had climbed the steps to Hessa Mourne's temple. She sat in its silent hall, a gaunt goddess of forgotten stories, and waited for a mortal to find her. Her ink-stained hands had not written a word in centuries. She needed a successor, someone to carry her lost domain back into the world. But no one came. No one even knew her name. The problem was simple, and it was killing her purpose. Her temple had no marker outside. No sign told travelers what waited within. The weathered carvings on its walls had faded past reading. Seekers passed the stone steps and never guessed a goddess lived above them. Hessa dragged herself to the entrance. Cold air met her. Below, at the foot of the steps, sat a rough stone bowl, split by deep cracks. Once, worshippers had filled it with offerings. Now it held only dust and dead leaves. She stared at it and understood. That empty bowl was the reason. A shrine that asks for nothing tells travelers nothing. She went down the steps. Each one drained her. At the bowl, she knelt and pressed her cracked palms to the cold stone. She had no worshippers left to pray, so she gave the only thing she owned. She poured her own forgotten stories into the bowl. Ink bled from her fingers and pooled in the cracks. The stone drank it. She spoke the names of tales no living person remembered, and the bowl grew warm. Something moved in the dust beside her. A beetle climbed from beneath the bowl. It was huge, longer than her hand, its shell gleaming gold and green. Its armored back caught the light like polished metal. Hessa froze. The creature did not flee. It circled the bowl once, then climbed onto the rim and spread its legs wide. The ink in the bowl rose up the beetle's shell. Lines spread across the gold like writing. The creature lifted into the air. It flew a slow circle above the temple steps, low and bright, a living sign no traveler could miss. Hessa watched it settle on the bowl again and go still, a guardian now, marking her door. She sat back on the cold stone. Her hands were empty. She had spent the last of her stories to make this beacon, and giving them away had left her weaker than before. But the bowl glowed. The beetle shone. For the first time in three hundred years, her domain had a mark the living could find. By dusk, footsteps sounded on the path below. Someone had seen the light. Someone was climbing toward her. Hessa gripped the temple wall and pulled herself upright. A seeker was coming at last. Now she had to be ready to test whether this one could be worthy, before her fading strength ran out.