Lyra

The city stretched on endlessly, a patchwork of tilted buildings and uneven streets. It was a place where nothing seemed to fit quite right—angles clashed, walls leaned, and windows gaped like missing teeth in a crooked smile. The roads below buzzed with people in a hurry, each moving as if the world might collapse if they stopped. Sometimes, it felt like it did.

From her window, Lyra watched the chaos unfold. A cart rattled by, its wheels wobbling as if deciding whether to obey gravity. Beyond it, a vendor’s crooked stall collapsed under its own weight, scattering fruit across the cracked pavement. No one stopped to help; they just stepped over the mess and carried on.

Lyra sighed and pulled her sketchbook closer. With a soft pencil, she traced the beginnings of a circle. She tried to see beauty in the city, but nothing quite came together. There wasn’t any… harmony, I guess you’d say. No matter how hard she tried to put pencil to paper and draw her vision of a better way, the lines wavered, the edges didn’t quite meet, and symmetry was nowhere to be found. She could never make her visions real.

Her pencil hovered over the page as she stared at the unfinished circle. The image in her mind wasn’t just a fantasy—it felt like a memory she couldn’t quite place. Somewhere, somehow, she was certain such harmony existed. It wasn’t just a dream; it was a promise the world had made and forgotten to keep.

Lyra closed her eyes, letting the noise of the city fade into the background. In her mind, the world was whole. The city and nature were one. Gardens unfurled in perfect spirals, each flower petal a perfect echo of the one that came before. Lakes shimmered with rippling patterns, and the city rose like an intricate puzzle, each piece fitting flawlessly into the next. The city didn’t seem to start anywhere because nature never ended. The integration was beautiful in itself.

She could almost feel the warmth of this imagined world—a place where harmony wasn’t just possible; it was inevitable. In this world, everything was bound as one, every form had intent, and every soul had a calling.

But then she opened her eyes, and the dream evaporated. The sketchbook on her lap looked pitiful by comparison. Her circle was uneven, her lines wobbly. She felt the frustration. She felt it deeply.

“I’ll get it right one day,” she whispered.

Bang! The door to her room burst open without warning. “One day? You’ve been saying that for years,” came a sharp voice.

Lyra groaned. “Hello, Eryx,” she said without looking up.

Her brother strode in, his movements precise and deliberate. He counted out loud the exact number of steps to reach her desk—twelve, no more, no less. He peered over her shoulder at the sketchbook, his brow furrowing. “What’s this supposed to be?” he asked, pointing to her imperfect circle. “An oval convention?”

Lyra turned in her chair, glaring at him. “What do you want, Eryx?”

Eryx didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he began rearranging her desk, lining up pencils and erasers with mechanical precision. “Honestly, Lyra, it’s a wonder you get anything done in this chaos.”

Chaos, she thought. The world seemed to be run by the likes of Eryx—perfect know-it-alls. But if they were as brilliant as they claimed, why wasn’t the world just as perfect?

“It’s my desk,” Lyra snapped, snatching a pencil from his hand. “I like it the way it is.”

He ignored her protest, picking up the sketchbook to examine her work more closely. “If you’re trying to fix the world with circles, you might want to start by drawing them properly.”

Lyra crossed her arms, biting back a retort. She knew better than to argue with Eryx—his logical superiority was his favourite weapon, and he was an argumentative so-and-so, too.

“Do you need something, or are you just here to critique my life?” she asked.

Eryx smirked. “Can’t I do both?”

Before Lyra could reply, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” she said, leaping to her feet—any excuse to get away from this dingbat.

“I’ll save your sketchbook from more crimes against geometry while you’re gone,” Eryx called after her.

Lyra ignored him, bounding down the stairs two at a time. Big head, she thought. Whoever was at the door couldn’t possibly be worse company than her brother.

As she reached the door, a strange feeling settled over her—an unusual but familiar flicker of hope she couldn’t explain. It was as though the universe itself had paused, holding its breath. She didn’t know how or why, but for the first time in a long while, she felt it: the promise of something new, something extraordinary.

Task

Lyra has been trying to draw perfect circles for years, but somehow they always end up a little wonky. No matter how hard she tries, something always seems slightly… off. They are almost perfect circles—but not quite.

Now it’s your turn to help.

On the next page, you’ll find several part-finished circles. Trace over each one as smoothly and steadily as you can. Try to keep your hand relaxed and your movements controlled.

But be warned: as the guides begin to fade, the task becomes trickier. When the dashed lines disappear entirely, you’re on your own. Yikes.

Continue in your sketchbook (or on a spare page) and try drawing a few circles without any guide at all.

The goal isn’t perfection. The goal is to have fun, loosen up your hand, and practise the movement.

And who knows? You might just draw the perfect circle.

Orin

“Oh, it’s just you,” Lyra said as she opened the door, finding Orin standing on the stoop with his satchel slung neatly over one shoulder.

Rude, Orin thought, arching a single eyebrow. “Nice to see you too, Lyra,” he replied dryly.

Orin was one of Lyra’s oldest friends, a constant presence in her life since they were young. They loved each other dearly, but frank expressions were the norm.

“Sorry, Orin,” Lyra said. “I was just interacting with my darling brother.”

“I thought you might want to see something interesting,” Orin said, patting his satchel—the faint clink of tools inside catching Lyra’s attention.

“Do come in, good sir,” Lyra said, stepping aside.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Orin strode past her, his blond hair perfectly groomed, his white shirt crisp and freshly ironed. Everything about him screamed precision—not in an annoying way like Eryx, though. Orin’s orderliness was fussy but endearing.

“Let’s see it, then,” Lyra said, following him into the kitchen. She gestured to the table where one of her many sketchbooks lay open. “I’ve been working on some more patterns, as usual.”

Orin set his satchel down and carefully flipped through the pages. He looked at Lyra and nodded approvingly. “You’ve definitely got talent… and you’re getting better, too. They just need a little… refinement.”

Lyra chuckled. “Let me guess. You brought a ruler?”

“Of course.” Orin beamed, unbuckling his satchel. Inside were a variety of scholarly items, including the mystery object, a compass, a piece of string, and, naturally, a ruler. “Never leave home without it.”

“Well, if it isn’t the great Orin,” Eryx interrupted, leaning against the kitchen doorway. “What’s today’s exciting discovery? A perfectly square haircut?”

Rude, Orin thought to himself again. Why is everyone so rude today? He wouldn’t be so rude if I jabbed him in the eye with my ruler.

Lyra shot him a pointed look, the kind that said, Be nice, Orin. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Nice to see you too, Eryx,” Orin said after a restrained pause.

Eryx sauntered into the room, crossing his arms as he surveyed the table.

“What are you two doing, then? Fixing the world with wonky lines and doodles?”

“Something like that,” Orin replied. “Want to help?”

Eryx smirked. “I’ll pass. I’ve got better things to do.” He reached out to shuffle Lyra’s pencils, but she swatted his hand away.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” she asked, exasperated.

“Okay, okay,” Eryx said, retreating. “Misshapen circles aren’t my thing anyway.”

Lyra sighed as he disappeared back down the hallway. “Sorry about him,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Orin smiled, brushing off the interruption. “No worries. Now, where was I?” He continued rummaging through his satchel with deliberate flair, glancing at Lyra with a sparkle of mystery in his eyes.

He thinks he’s a magician, Lyra thought to herself. What is it this time?

Orin pulled out a nondescript notebook, followed by a ruler, and finally a pencil. He placed each item methodically on the table, ensuring they were perfectly parallel and orderly, as if the alignment itself was part of the presentation.

Lyra crossed her arms, unimpressed. “A pencil? Groundbreaking, Orin. Groundbreaking.”

“Patience,” Orin said, clearly enjoying himself. He paused, drawing out the moment, his hand hovering in the satchel. “Prepare to be… amazed,” he declared, his voice brimming with anticipation. With a theatrical flourish, he finally revealed his pièce de résistance: a gleaming, brand-new protractor.

Lyra blinked, staring blankly at it. Even Boris, the family dog lounging in the corner, rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Behold!” Orin held the protractor aloft like a trophy, grinning and looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. “Well? What do you think?”

Lyra stifled a laugh, shaking her head. “Wow, Orin. Really pushing the boundaries there.”

“Angles are exciting!” he replied.

“Well,” Lyra said with a smirk, “maybe we can measure some angles later. Make a day of it.”

Orin’s grin faded slightly as his gaze fell back on her sketchbook. His brow furrowed as the perfectionist in him took over. “Honestly, Lyra, you’ll never get these designs right without accuracy. Geometry is about precision, not just imagination. It might start in the mind, but what’s the point if that’s where it stays?”

Lyra knew he was right and was just about to admit it when the doorbell rang again. “Wait here, Orin. I’ll be right back.”

Task

Orin knows that imagination is important, but precision—precision—is essential. A design may begin as an idea, but without careful construction, it remains little more than wishful thinking.

What it needs are perfectly straight lines.

Clean. Exact. Deliberate.

Can you help him?

On the next page, you’ll find pairs of dots waiting to be connected. Draw a straight line between each pair. And here’s the catch… do it without a ruler.

Take your time, and try to make every line steady and deliberate—no wobbles.

Then comes the even harder part.

Can you draw perfectly straight lines without any guide at all?

In your sketchbook (or on a spare page), draw one straight line freehand. Then draw a second line parallel to the first, keeping the distance between them consistent from beginning to end.

Can you draw three? Five? A whole page full?

Precision takes practice—and even Orin had to start somewhere.

Zia

“Want to see something cool?” Zia blurted out as Lyra opened the door, skipping over any sort of greeting.

“Oh, here we go again,” Lyra muttered under her breath. Knowing Zia, it was far more likely to be something disgusting than boring. “It had better not be a dead rat again,” she said aloud. Please don’t let it be a dead thing, she thought to herself.

Zia was a relatively new addition to their circle, having moved into the neighbourhood only a few months before. She brought her own brand of chaos, but in a way that was also oddly endearing. Even as the newcomer, Zia had fit right in, and the three of them were now practically inseparable.

Without further ado, Zia bustled past Lyra, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, barely stopping to take off her shoes. “Nice hair, Orin,” she said with a cheeky wink.

Orin’s hand moved towards his ruler. Lyra gave him the look again—Don’t even think about it.

“Thanks, Zia,” Orin replied dryly as he lowered his hand.

Before Zia could say another word, Eryx appeared in the doorway yet again.

“Well, if it isn’t the new gal,” Eryx said with a smirk. “Made any friends yet?”

Zia raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “If only I had your personality, Eryx.”

Lyra stifled a laugh. Orin couldn’t quite manage the same as he sputtered out a mouthful of apple he’d commandeered while Lyra was at the door.

The cogs were visibly turning in Eryx’s head as he tried to think of a comeback. “Whatever,” he muttered as he retreated back down the hallway in defeat.

Zia plopped into a chair and slung her overstuffed backpack onto the table. A faint rattling sound came from within as it landed with a dull thud. As always, it was stuffed with the most random of objects, bulging at odd angles.

Lyra leaned towards Orin with a mischievous smile. “Orin, Zia has something exciting to show us.”

“Oh,” Orin responded, leaning forward expectantly, “what is it, then? Some ancient treasure? A secret map? A time-travelling compass?”

Zia’s enthusiasm wavered as she scratched the back of her head, suddenly looking awkward. Oh no, she thought. I think I might’ve built this up a bit too much.

“Oh, uh… it’s not that big of a deal, really,” she mumbled, eyes darting to her bag as she began backpedalling. “Definitely nothing amazing. I mean… it’s not, like, better than a dead rat or anything.”

Orin raised an eyebrow. “Encouraging.”

Ignoring him, Zia leaned over her bag and began rifling through it. Papers crumpled, something metallic clattered, and Lyra thought she heard the faint squeak of something rubbery.

“Let’s see… nope, not that.” She pulled out a half-eaten sandwich, sniffed it, and shrugged before tossing it onto the table.

“Ew, Zia,” Lyra groaned.

“What? It’s just cheese.”

“Green cheese, Zia? Really?”

Orin looked on in disgust. “How do you even live like this?”

Zia dove back into her bag, emerging moments later with an odd sock, a set of dice, and what looked like a little log.

“I won’t ask,” said Lyra, as Zia glanced up from her bag briefly.

I’ve definitely built this up too much, Zia thought as she continued rummaging. It’s nowhere near as cool as that rusty spork I found last week. Spoon and fork at the same time. I mean… come on, man.

Her hand paused for a moment as she finally found what she was looking for. Oh, gosh. Am I about to bomb on stage here? She winced at the thought, then shook her head, determined to make the best of it—whatever “it” turned out to be.

I know! I’ll say “ta-da” when I pull it out. That’ll get ’em. Taking a deep breath, she psyched herself up. Okay, ready… 1, 2, 3…

“Ta-da!” Zia exclaimed, holding up her discovery with questionable enthusiasm.

Silence.

“Guys?”

More silence. The only sounds were the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional whoosh of cars passing outside.

“Guys… are you going to say something?” she asked, glancing back and forth between Lyra and Orin as she placed it on the kitchen table.

Yet more silence.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad!” Zia protested, her voice rising slightly.

Still silence. Even Boris, lounging in the corner, stared at her with his mouth slightly open. Zia’s shoulders slumped in capitulation. “Tough crowd,” she muttered.

The mystery object was a small, stone tile—pale, whitish, and intricate. It was shaped like a hexagon and engraved with a perfect circle. Their silence was due to its splendour and mystery rather than disappointment.

Lyra finally broke her silent shock and leaned in. “Wh… where did you get that?”

“Found it in a place,” Zia said casually.

Orin frowned. “What kind of place?”

“The kind where you find cool stuff,” Zia replied, slightly relieved they now seemed interested. “What matters is that it’s here, and it’s… awesome?” Zia puffed out her chest as if she’d never doubted it for a second.

Orin’s gaze flicked to Lyra. “It looks like it fits…” he said.

“Fits? Fits what?” Zia asked, looking between them in confusion.

Lyra and Orin didn’t have to say anything else to each other. They knew. They both knew.

“Let’s go,” Lyra said as she snatched the tile from the table and headed for the door.

Task

Zia is not overly concerned with perfect circles or perfectly straight lines. Her shapes tend to stretch, curve and flow—and somehow, that often makes them more interesting.

Her shape would almost certainly be the oval.

Now it’s your turn.

On the next page, you’ll find a series of oval templates to trace. Some are tall and narrow. Some are wide and gentle. Trace over each one slowly and smoothly, keeping your hand relaxed and your line controlled.

As the guides begin to fade, the task becomes trickier. You’ll need to rely less on the template and more on your own control.

Then, in your sketchbook (or on a spare page), try drawing a few ovals of your own. Make some long, some tall, some small, and some wide.

Remember, not every shape has to be perfectly strict. Some shapes find their form through flow.

Playdate

The car door creaked as Lyra climbed into the back seat, her small legs swinging awkwardly over the edge. She glanced nervously at the boy sitting beside her, his blond hair neatly combed, his hands folded in his lap as though he were already a mini-adult.

“This is Lyra,” Orin’s mum said warmly, glancing at her son in the rearview mirror. “Are you going to say hello?”

Orin looked up, his expression reserved. “Hello,” he said flatly, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his dark eyes.

Lyra shifted uncomfortably, brushing a strand of her tangled hair from her face. “Hi.”

And just like that, the introductions were over. Orin’s mum sighed softly, hoping for a bit more enthusiasm, then started the car.

Lyra had been left in Orin’s mum’s care for the day, a favour for Lyra’s parents, who had an emergency to attend to. She was quiet but observant, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings of the car interior and the boy sitting beside her. Orin, for his part, didn’t quite know what to make of this sudden addition to his day. But one thing was clear—this was going to be an interesting afternoon.

The trip was a short one, barely long enough for Lyra to decide whether Orin was boring or mysterious. She didn’t quite have time to make up her mind before the car pulled into a gravel car park, a sign reading “Emerald Forest Nature Reserve” standing crookedly at the entrance.

“We’re here to do some tree rubbings,” Orin’s mum explained cheerfully, stepping out of the car. She handed each child a stack of paper and a bundle of crayons. “Go on, find the biggest, most interesting tree you can!”

Orin walked ahead, his strides purposeful even at his young age. Lyra lagged behind, looking around at the towering trees. The air smelled damp and earthy, and sunlight trickled through the leaves, painting the ground in shifting patches of gold.

“You’re supposed to pick a tree,” Orin called back, his tone already edging on instructive.

“I’m looking,” Lyra replied, sticking out her tongue when he turned away.

After wandering a bit further, her eyes landed on a particularly odd-looking tree. Its trunk twisted dramatically to one side before straightening out, as though it had changed its mind halfway through growing.

“I like this big wonky one,” Lyra declared, grinning as she placed her hand on its gnarled bark.

Orin glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Wonky’s an understatement.”

“Exactly why it’s perfect,” Lyra said with a satisfied nod.

The big, crooked tree stood out starkly among its straight-limbed neighbours, its uniqueness hinting at some kind of greater significance.

Lyra positioned her paper and began rubbing furiously, the crayon moving erratically over the bark contours beneath the paper.

“You’re meant to press evenly,” Orin said, glancing over at her. “That’s how you get a proper imprint.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “It’s fine.”

Still, she slowed down, adjusting her pressure as Orin moved to a tree with intricate bark patterns.

For a while, the two worked in relative silence, their papers slowly filling with impressions. Satisfied with her work, Lyra stood back and took a look at the tree in its entirety. Its twisted branches seemed to stretch deliberately, almost as if pointing the way forward.

Curious, Lyra tilted her head and squinted along the direction the branches seemed to gesture. “Huh,” she murmured, taking a tentative step towards the path they suggested.

“Lyra! What are you doing now?” Orin called, watching her wander off.

“Following the tree,” she called back.

The twisting path beneath her feet led her through a narrow gap in the foliage. Moments later, she stepped into a circular clearing bathed in soft, dappled sunlight. The air felt still here, almost expectant, as though this place had been waiting for her. More importantly, that’s where she found it.

Lyra looked back towards the crooked tree and smiled.

“Orin! Orin!” she called, her voice tinged with excitement.

He glanced up from his papers, frowning slightly. “What?”

“Over here!” Lyra urged, waving him over.

Orin hesitated, clutching his neatly stacked papers, but her tone piqued his curiosity. With a resigned sigh, he reluctantly followed.

What Lyra had found was unlike anything he’d seen before—a large white stone, about waist-high, perfectly smooth and symmetrical. It stood in stark contrast to the rugged stones scattered throughout the forest.

“What is it?” Lyra asked, running her fingers along its surface.

“I don’t know,” Orin admitted, stepping closer. His hand hovered over the stone, almost afraid to touch it.

The stone’s smoothness was uncanny, as though it had been polished by hand, not nature. At its centre was an indentation—a perfect hexagon etched into the surface, its edges sharp and precise, with a circle nestled within it.

“It’s… so perfect,” Lyra murmured, her voice filled with awe.

Orin reached into his bundle of paper and grabbed a blank sheet. “Let’s make a rubbing,” he said, his excitement finally breaking through his usual composure.

In turns, they pressed their paper against the hexagonal indentation, carefully rubbing over the edges to capture its shape.

When they finished, they stood back, comparing their work. “Amazing,” Orin said, mesmerised as he studied the clean lines of the curious shape. Lyra nodded, seemingly speechless—yet her unusual silence spoke volumes.

They left the forest that day with their rubbings in hand, but only this one mattered. For both of them, that single discovery sparked a fascination with shapes, symmetry, and patterns that would stay with them for years to come.

As the car rumbled back towards town, Lyra glanced over at Orin. “Do you think we’ll ever find out what it is?”

Orin shrugged, but his fingers clutched his paper a little tighter. “Maybe… Someday.”

Back Again

Zia stood alone in the kitchen as the front door clicked shut behind her friends. She blinked, staring at the empty space where they had just been.

“What on earth was that all about?” she muttered to herself. “They’ll be back in a minute, I bet. They wouldn’t just go off and leave me.”

She waited, glancing expectantly towards the door.

“Any minute now,” Zia said, glancing at her watch.

The silence stretched as her confidence began to waver.

“They’re not coming back, are they?” she whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. “They’ve left me, haven’t they?”

“Yep,” came a smug voice from the doorway.

Zia spun around to see Eryx leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed and a smirk plastered across his face.

“Just saw them from upstairs,” Eryx continued. “Running down the road. Looked very determined. Guess they didn’t need you.”

Zia’s face dropped as she turned back to her bag, hurriedly stuffing her belongings back inside. “Never showed any appreciation for my spork,” she grumbled under her breath. She grabbed the rest of her things and carried what she could under her arms.

“Better hurry,” Eryx called after her as she bolted for the door, stumbling slightly on the way out. “Don’t want to miss out on the dynamic duo’s latest hijinks.”

Zia didn’t reply, too focussed on catching up as she tore out of the house and down the road.

Eryx paused. His smirk slowly faded, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Wait a second, he thought. What are they all excited and in such a rush about?

“I hope it’s still there,” said Lyra as they hurried down the street.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Orin asked, trying to keep up without breaking into a run.

“I dunno,” Lyra replied. “What if they built something over it? Or someone moved it?”

“Moved it?” Orin repeated with a small laugh. “Good luck with that. It’s massive.”

“And what if it doesn’t fit?” she asked out loud, more to herself than anyone else.

“It’ll fit,” Orin said firmly. “It’s too perfect not to.”

Lyra’s concern lingered, but before she could reply, a voice rang out from across the road.

“Ooh, ’ello! Fancy seeing you two here!”

They turned to see Mrs Bottom, an elderly woman in a green cardigan and matching skirt, shuffling towards them with a warm smile.

“How are you both?” she asked brightly, not waiting for a response. “I was just watching a programme about Mars. Fascinating, it was. Though I have to say, ever so red it is. Not really my colour. I prefer a nice moss green, I do.”

Lyra and Orin exchanged a quick glance.

Mrs Bottom, the narrator in Lyra’s head chimed in. A beloved babysitter from their childhood—always cheerful, always kind. They loved her dearly, but now wasn’t the best time.

Mrs Bottom carried on. “If I were to visit Mars, I’d have to get a whole new frock. Red and green must never be seen, you know.”

Orin managed a polite smile. “I think it’s a while before you need to worry about that, Mrs Bottom.”

Lyra stepped forward, her tone apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Bottom, but we’re in a bit of a rush.”

“Oh, don’t let me stop you, dear,” Mrs Bottom said with a wave of her hand. “Off you pop. Say hello to your mum for me, won’t you?”

“Will do, Mrs Bottom. Nice to see you,” Lyra said, already stepping backward.

“Ta-ra!” Mrs Bottom called, turning to shuffle down the road. She muttered to herself as she walked away, her voice just loud enough to catch snippets. “Young ones. So full of energy. That’s the spirit. That’s the spirit, indeed.”

“Wait up!”

Lyra and Orin turned just in time to see Zia hurtling towards them, her backpack bouncing wildly and random items tumbling out as she ran. Just before she could catch up with them, distraction caught up with her as she skidded to a halt. She stooped to grab something, then straightened, holding it aloft by the tail.

“Whoa—cool! A dead rat!”

“Zia!” Lyra exclaimed, half-groaning, half-laughing.

“What?” she said defensively, tossing it back to the ground as she jogged up to them. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I’d never have caught up with you if it weren’t for Mrs B.”

“Sorry, Zia,” Orin said. “We were just… excited.”

“Excited? About what?” Zia looked between them, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Lyra sighed, already turning to walk ahead. “Come on, we’ll explain on the way.”

“You’d better,” Zia grumbled, stuffing half a chocolate bar into her mouth. She broke the other half in two and gave Lyra and Orin a quarter each. Zia was kind like that—even if she did get the biggest piece.

The three of them left behind the uneven, bustling streets of the city. Gradually, the towering buildings gave way to smaller, scattered structures, their height and numbers dwindling as the landscape shifted. Shortly after, they found themselves enveloped by the quiet, tangled embrace of the forest. Lyra felt herself relax as the air grew cooler and fresher, her sketchbook in hand.

They slowed to a walk, the city fading away as the sounds of rustling leaves and chirping birds took over. The air felt cleaner here, as if the forest was breathing with them. The dirt path meandered through the trees, sunlight casting shifting patterns on the ground.

“Okay, spill it now. What’s going on?” Zia demanded.

Lyra shot Orin a quick look, silently asking where to begin. “The thing,” she said simply. “We think we know where it goes.”

Zia’s earlier grumpiness evaporated, replaced by wide-eyed curiosity. “The weird hexagon thingy?”

“Correct,” Orin replied, his tone very matter-of-fact.

“And?” Zia pressed, nearly bouncing with excitement.

“And we’re going to find out whether it does,” Lyra said, her voice firm with determination as she quickened her pace.

“And where exactly does it go?” Zia asked, panting slightly as she tried to keep up.

Lyra didn’t answer. Her attention was already elsewhere. Without explanation, she sprinted ahead before stopping suddenly. Placing a hand on the rough bark of the wonky tree, she gazed beyond it and shouted back, “Just over there.”

Task

Lyra and Orin found their way back to Emerald Forest with surprising ease, following the winding forest paths and maze-like trails. It wasn’t as daunting as it had seemed, but would you be able to do the same?

The paths are tricky, and there are many dead ends. Can you navigate from the city to Emerald Forest, just as they did?

Draw your path carefully and neatly between the lines, keeping your pencil steady and in the exact centre of the path.

The Glow

“Who’s going to try it?” Zia asked, shifting her weight impatiently as she eyed the stone. True to form, Zia had appointed herself leader despite her involvement being counted in minutes.

“You should do it, Lyra,” Orin said steadily. “You found this place.”

The clearing was just as they remembered—bathed in dappled sunlight, still and expectant. At its centre stood the smooth, waist-high, whitish stone, its symmetry striking against the rugged forest around it.

Lyra took a deep breath and leaned in towards the stone. Clutching the hexagonal tile tightly, she paused for a moment before saying, “Okay, let’s do this.”

Carefully, Lyra placed the tile into the matching indentation on the stone. It slid in effortlessly, fitting with precise perfection—tight, seamless, as if it had always belonged there.

“Well, it certainly fits,” she said, stepping back. “Why, or for what… I have no idea.”

“Me neither,” Orin admitted.

Zia glanced between them. “So… what now then?”

Lyra and Orin exchanged uncertain looks. Whatever they were expecting, they weren’t expecting nothing. No grand reveal, no sudden transformation. It was an anticlimax, and neither of them knew quite what to make of it.

Lyra sighed and reached out to take the tile back—but something inside made her hesitate. Just as she withdrew her hand, nothing became something.

Faintly at first, the tile began to glow—a soft, pulsing green. The light deepened, growing steadily brighter, casting the surroundings in an otherworldly glow. Shadows danced and twisted, and the forest around them seemed to lean in.

“Whoa,” Zia whispered, shielding her eyes slightly as the glow spread from the tile to the entire stone, its surface glistening like liquid emerald. It seemed both natural and technological at the same time—magical yet intentional.

Just as its splendour seemed to resonate with ultimate brilliance, its magnificence reaching an unsurpassable peak, something else happened: it stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug, the glowing light drained away, leaving the stone as lifeless and dull as it began.

Orin and Zia exchanged glances once again.

“What on earth was that?” Zia asked, her voice tinged with a hint of unease.

Orin shrugged, his expression blank. “No idea,” he muttered before turning to Lyra. “Lyra—what was that?”

Fixated by something else, Lyra didn’t respond. Orin turned to her, but she was standing a few steps back, her gaze fixed not on the stone or the tile—but on the sky above.

“Lyra?” Orin called softly.

Again, she didn’t respond right away, her eyes lost in an apparently empty sky. It wasn’t until Zia nudged her shoulder gently that she blinked, snapping out of her trance.

“Lyra?” Orin repeated, his tone now firmer and more insistent.

Lyra shook her head slightly, as though clearing her thoughts. “Sorry… I just—there was something… up there,” she murmured, pointing skyward.

While Orin and Zia were intently focussed on the tile, Lyra’s eye had been caught by something else—a beam of green light in the sky, projecting a radiating emblem in the distance. The emblem was intricate and mesmerising—a pattern of overlapping circles, pulsing softly as if alive. Whatever it was, Lyra couldn’t take her eyes off it.

“Didn’t you see it?” she asked, her voice trembling as she pointed to the sky again.

“See what?” Zia asked.

“The emblem,” Lyra said. “In the sky. Over there, in the distance.”

Zia and Orin both shook their heads. “I was looking at the stone,” Orin said, pointing at it.

“Me too,” Zia added.

“What?” Lyra’s mind raced. “How could you possibly have not seen the massive green swirly thing beamed into the sky?”

“Well, sorry,” Zia said defensively, crossing her arms. “I was a little busy staring at the magical green stone thingy right in front of me… You know, as one does.”

Thud! Zia kicked the stone.

“Zia!” Lyra snapped. “What are you doing?”

“Thought it might need a little kickstart,” Zia shrugged.

“Have you tried switching it on and off?” Orin chimed in. “Or rather… taking the tile out and putting it back in?”

Lyra gave him a look but decided to humour the idea. She carefully removed the tile and then slid it back into place. Nothing. Still dead.

The trio stood in silence, the lifeless stone before them, its once otherworldly glow slowly becoming a distant memory.

“Here, let me try,” Orin said as he took the tile from Lyra. He turned it over carefully, scrutinising every detail, before giving it a rub and a blow for good measure.

Lyra raised an eyebrow. He really does think he’s a magician. Orin tried the tile again with unwavering focus.

Nothing.

“It must’ve run out of energy,” Orin concluded, his voice thick with frustration as he set the tile back down.

“It’s… dead,” Lyra conceded, her voice trailing off. Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, she perked up, her eyes alight with urgency.

“I need to show you what I saw,” she said, quickly pulling her sketchbook from her satchel. “Orin, you hold on to the tile, and I’ll draw it. Maybe if we figure out what it was…”

Orin popped the tile in his pocket as he stood back to give her some room.

Lyra sat beside the stone, her sketchbook balanced carefully on her knees. She flipped to a blank page, and with a determined posture, her pencil flew across the page in a flurry of lines and shapes. The emblem she had glimpsed in the sky was blurry in her mind, but she could feel its importance. Every curve and line felt like it carried weight, like it mattered.

“Almost there,” she muttered under her breath as she neared the final touches. She glanced up briefly at Orin and Zia, who were watching her with curiosity. “Okay, are you ready?”

Zia leaned forward. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Task

Lyra caught a glimpse of something extraordinary—a glowing emblem, intricate and alive with meaning. But it vanished before she could truly take it in, leaving only a blurry memory. Now it’s your turn to help.

Your task is to draw what you think the emblem might have been. Use your imagination and creativity! Was it made up of circles, patterns, or something entirely different?

Later in the story, when the emblem’s true form is revealed, you can compare your drawing with it. How close will your version be to the real thing?

Take your time, and remember: the beauty of the emblem lies in its harmony and balance. Good luck!