Lira Sunflare ran up the wooded slope before dawn, notebook bouncing against her hip. A stranger's letter named this ridge as the place where a pink, dragon-winged butterfly had been seen at sunrise. She had chased the legend for years. She would not let other searchers trample it first. She reached a split boulder wrapped in moss, the marker the letter described. Ferns grew thick around its base. Above it, a hollow oak leaned like a doorway into the canopy. But she was not first. Boot prints crushed the ferns. A torn snack wrapper clung to a branch. Someone had snapped low limbs for a clearer view. Lira's chest tightened. The quiet the creature needed was already broken. She pulled the small carved owl from her pack, its pearl finish catching the gray light. She set it on the split stone. Anyone who knew her work would know the mark. This place was claimed, watched, hers to protect until the others gave up and left. She sat against the oak and opened her notebook. She wrote one line about wings the color of inside-shells, then crossed it out. Voices drifted up the slope. More searchers, closer than expected. Lira closed the notebook. She had won the race to the spot, but not the silence. Now she had to drive the noise away before sunrise, or the legend would pass over this ridge and never return.