Sir Hiss and the Forged Treasure Map

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Night lay heavy over the rooftops of Old Verdaccio, that crooked city where lies reflected like lantern light on damp pavement. It smelled of rain, of ancient legends, and of stories better left untold. Yet these were precisely the nights Sir Hiss loved. He tightened the collar of his gold-buttoned coat, the faint creaking of the delicate button chain in his ear. His slitted eyes glittered in the light of the full moon, which stretched across the sky like an open curtain. In his scaly hand: a rolled map. Fragile. Promising. And false. At least, that was how he had once designed it. Sir Hiss was no ordinary gentleman. He was an archivist of detours, a flâneur of forgery, a master of disguised truth. Many years ago, in a moment of deceptive creativity, he had created a work of art: a treasure map that led to nothing but a drafty trapdoor beneath the Fennstieg sewers. It had probably been intended for a certain Baron Bartholomäus, a vain drunkard with the memory of a chipped brick. The Baron was gone – but the map remained. And now he, Sir Hiss, held that same map in his hand again. He had rediscovered it in an old box, hidden among moldering manuscripts, old promissory notes, and half a biscuit from 1821. Why he had taken it, he didn't know. Perhaps because time sometimes played its own jokes. Perhaps because the paper had somehow felt different under his fingers. Or because the silence in his new apartment had prompted him to get back on track. The map led through three alleys, two courtyards, and an abandoned musical theater. There, it read, written in gold-ornate letters, lay the final resting place of Captain Nebblich, infamous privateer of the Greendew Isles. His treasure—the legacy of a lost age. But Sir Hiss had invented this story. Every comma. Every blot of ink. And yet there was something that didn't fit. A mark he had never made. A symbol at the edge of the map—three crossed scales, scratched with a fine claw. And suddenly, Sir Hiss wasn't sure the map was still entirely his. The musical theater was empty. The stage was dusty, the red curtains moth-eaten. But the trapdoor was there. And open. Below: darkness, silence—and a hint of sea salt. With a smile that made his fangs gleam, Sir Hiss stepped into the depths. His boots touched old stone, moss, and damp steps. The air was heavy, yet familiar. Something whispered down there. Not voices. Memories. At the end of the corridor stood a chest. And on the chest: a second copy of the map. Only... more perfect. Younger. More authentic? Sir Hiss placed his own forgery next to it. And saw how the lines overlapped, identical – except for one single addition. In fine handwriting, it read:"He who invents the path, walks it twice."