Khari's map of Blightwave ended at a lie. She knelt on the boarding house floor, ink on her fingers, and stared at the blank space her pen refused to fill. Every immortal in this city glowed faintly in the dark. She did not. She had no magic, only paper and patience, and she meant to chart the realm buried beneath their feet — the one they had all forgotten how to reach. But a map needs a door. She had drawn the surface a hundred times. She had never found the way down. For weeks she had chased whispers. A porter spoke of stairs that swallowed sound. A fishmonger swore the ground breathed at night. None could point to a single true entrance. Khari smoothed the empty parchment and admitted it: rumors alone would not open the earth. So she went to the one person who might remember. Shen Wynn kept rooms above a shuttered shop, the walls stacked with scrolls no one else could read. The immortals had exiled them for studying what was meant to stay lost. That made Shen the only scholar in Blightwave who still spoke of the realm below as fact. Khari climbed the stairs and knocked. Shen answered mid-sentence, a scroll unrolling from one hand to the floor. "You're the mortal who draws what she can't see," they said. Green stones swung from their ears. "Come in before you let the cold think." She spread her failed map across their crowded table. "Everyone gives me stories. I need a door." Shen studied the blank space where the underground should be. Their pale eyes narrowed, not unkind. "Doors down there don't stay put. That's why your kind lost them. And mine." They crossed to a cabinet and lifted out a compass, its brass case worked with old scrollwork. "This doesn't point north. It points to places that have been forgotten." Khari took it. The needle spun, then dragged sideways, tugging toward the floor. "You're giving it to me?" "I'm too well known to use it," Shen said. "They watch me. They won't watch you. You barely register." A thin smile. "Follow it low. When the needle points straight down, dig." She followed it out into the dark streets, past glowing faces that never turned her way. The needle pulled her to a dead-end alley behind an old cistern. There it swung down and locked, quivering. Khari knelt and pried at the flagstones with her knife. Mortar crumbled. Under the third stone, cold air rushed up against her face — air that smelled of stone and something older. A narrow shaft dropped into black. She had her door. She lit a stub of candle and lowered it. The flame fell, and fell, and did not land. She could not see a bottom. Behind her, the alley stayed empty. No rope, no map beyond this hole, and a drop she could not measure. The way down was open now, and she was the only one who knew.