The sun dipped low, hitting the water’s rim and turning the calm lake into rippled gold. Warmth settled into Atlas, easing his tired frame after miles on uneven ground. His coat - woven from pale blue hide threaded with soft gleams like pearl and dawn light - held onto each last bit of glow, making him look sharp, nearly glowing. Beside him, Dorada stepped slow but steady. Her dark-tan horsehide, streaked with rich muddy shades, tied them down to the cracked dirt near water. Then she pushed at his side, face showing calm comfort. "We take a break here," she said softly, looking at the shaky old pier stretching out over the water. They moved forward slow. The building looked ancient, its timber worn out from years outside. Yet when they hit the first plank, Atlas stopped dead. Just under twenty yards forward, near where the pier flared out a bit to make room for docking, an odd thing broke the dull row of boards. Sitting on a squat, sturdy timber - some worn-out stump meant for fastening lines - was this strange object. It had been a root. Yet this wasn’t just some random bit of junk from the woods. The root curled in on itself, bent into knots, hardened by time until it turned nearly black - but somehow kept that wild, unlikely shape it grew with. A flawless coil hugged itself tightly, almost like a tiny DNA twist made out of old stone bark. Nobody dropped it there by accident - it’d been set down careful, right smack in the middle of the stump’s top. The air near the thing seemed thick - not from anger, yet filled with a deep stillness that listened. Dorada sucked in a quick breath, her patchy ears flicking. "Drop it, Atlas - feels off. Way too clean." Though Atlas had old-timey, angel-like hues that made him seem above everyday life, he couldn’t shake his constant urge to poke into mysteries - so when faced with this odd sign, his gut pushed him forward. His built-in sense of concern didn't let him walk away without knowing more. “That means something,” he murmured, moving ahead carefully. "That's exactly what worries me," Dorada countered, planting her hooves firmly. "A sign for what? A boundary? A warning? We are travelers, not seekers of roadside magic." The dock creaked under Atlas’s feet with each move forward. In the dim light, the twisted root gave off a soft shine, pulling mist from the water nearby. Old for sure - could’ve drifted in, later picked up - or maybe it sprouted right here on its own. Whatever the case, it sat there like something given freely, like a clue placed just outside a door. Atlas stayed quiet, ears tuned for a hint of magic on the breeze or traces of people nearby. Not a sound came through - just the constant beat, splash after splash, of waves hitting the wooden posts below. Should I move closer, look into it, or stay back? He glanced over at Dorada, her golden eyes squinting slightly, wary. Staying apart made sense - they both required sleep, shelter too - but walking off from what seemed deliberately left there nagged him deep down. That coiled shape, twisting endlessly, like moments repeating or forces never fading, tugged hard on whatever still wanted to help inside him. He made his decision. "I will not touch it, but I will see what rests beneath it. This dock is abandoned, Dorada. Whatever this is, it is meant to be found." He moved at an easy pace toward the pole. As he drew near, down went his huge head, strands of pale bluish hair swaying just above where the base met soil. A quiet, curious puff of air drifted from him onto the coil. The wood felt totally dry, kind of cold, yet held a soft scent - like damp ground mixed with clean rainwater. Not charred at all, or marked with magic symbols either. Just a twisted bit of root that looked like it was hiding something. His snout nearly touched the wooden pole. He shifted forward, balancing on one side to get a better look past its corners - maybe spotting engravings or secret words tucked out of sight. Nothing showed up. Yet when he tipped his head sideways, he noticed the twisted root wasn't merely set on top of the pole - it sat exactly so it covered one small dent in the timber below. Just a faint scratch, really - intentionally packed with some kind of stuff. Atlas craned his neck, then took a slow whiff of the stuffing - dried moss hit him first, followed by smashed mint, along with just a hint of sugary honey. That smell? Immediate recall: folks left it as a quiet gift to travel without trouble, sort of like luck slipped into leaves. It wasn’t a caution, but more like an offer meant kindly. Not set up to catch you - just sent out with good hopes instead. A rush of surprise eased through his body, loosening the tightness that had gripped his back. Sitting taller, he moved slow - so as not to jostle the twisted root - a thing once puzzling but now feeling sort of like a nod from unspoken welcome. He looked at Dorada, a soft grin playing along the corners of his fancy mustache. "We're good," he said. "Just some magic meant for folks passing through - someone's rooting for us down this road." Dorada slumped a little, even if she still looked unsure. "So we take what they're offering," she remarked, stepping beside him where the planks held firm. Yet keep fingers crossed their idea of trouble-free travel means no swarm-filled evening." They camped close to the rim, where the smooth lake caught the glow of the climbing moon. Above, the twisted root stood still on its perch - not loud, yet speaking of unseen help that had steered them across hushed, untamed land.