You’re alone in a narrow strip of forest—wedged between a fence line and a tangle of blackberry vines—when you spot it.
A bronze glint, low on the trunk of a gnarled maple.
You press your hand to the medallion.
The shadows seem to lean in.
A creak above. A rustle. And then a voice—raspy, deliberate, and strange:
“The fewer my friends, the sharper my wit. What am I?”
You take a step back. Squint upward.
A porcupine dangles from a branch like a bristly chandelier. She blinks down at you, her quills shifting like whispers in a crowd.
“No answer? That’s all right. You’ve only just begun.”
You try to speak, but she drops from the branch, landing with a surprising thump and a slow waddle forward.
“I am the puzzle no one wants to hug. I am the truth wearing barbs.”
You clear your throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask, but answers may prick.”
“Why do you think I can talk to you now?”
She freezes. One long breath. Then:
“When the sky cracks open and color spills down, The locks unclick with the light. Touch the token, break the sound— And speak to beasts by right.”
You blink. “So… it’s the aurora?”
“The lights are the song. The medallion’s the door. The words were always there— Just muffled in the floor.”
You stare at her. “You only talk in riddles, don’t you?”
“Would you rather a lie wrapped in plain cloth, Or a truth tangled in thorns?”
You sigh and try again. “What happens if I find all the medallions?”
“When the last light clicks and the wheel spins thrice, When the bear forgets and the vole rolls dice, Then gather your coat and your shadowy shoes— The old world will cough, and the new one will choose.”
You… are not sure what to do with that.
“Best write it down,” she adds, sniffing a fern. “Riddles rot when left to memory.”
She turns, quills swaying like brambles in a breeze.
“Find the marmot. He thinks he knows things. But he cheats at chess.”
And with that, she vanishes into the undergrowth, tail like a crown made of needles, leaving you standing in a swirl of blackberry leaves and confusion.