He had never been good at horse riding. Julian had accepted that long ago. His talent lay elsewhere. While his brothers hunted, he painted. When merchants arrived asking for someone to document a newly discovered island, the village laughed. "They need an explorer." "They need someone who notices things," Julian replied. The voyage lasted six weeks. The island wasn't rich with gold or spices. It was covered in murals. Every cliff, cave and shoreline held paintings thousands of years old. No one could read them. Julian spent months copying every image before the sea winds erased them forever. Back home, scholars gathered around his canvases. One recognised a repeating pattern. Another noticed the stars. A musician spotted rhythm. The paintings weren't art. They were writing. Entire histories had survived in colour rather than ink. Soon children filled classrooms learning symbols that curved like waves and birds' wings. The island's forgotten civilisation finally spoke again. Julian received medals he neither wanted nor understood. People praised his courage. He smiled politely. He hadn't been brave. He had simply stopped looking for treasure and started looking more carefully. By the time the boat returned, everyone on shore had learned a new language.