Luckborn

Otter had trouble getting to sleep. Not for any particular reason, but the thoughts in his head spun around and around, preventing his mind from truly letting go.

He heard his mother softly snoring and slipped out of the room and back into the kitchen. He padded over to a window and opened it, the swollen wood creaking as he did. The breeze washed over him, carrying with it all the smells of the docks.

He retrieved his journal from his backpack, which he'd unceremoniously dumped in a corner, sat at the table, and began to write. It was never truly dark this time of year in Brighthaven, and enough lanterns swayed on posts along the streets that he didn't feel the need to light a candle.

He wrote:

Don't underestimate Milo.

Learn Levi's backstory. What's up with the family business?

Blackwood's curriculum development

Read more on Kaos containment protocols.

Try not to get stabbed.

He'd found it helpful to make lists this year. Sometimes his thoughts got so jumbled and disjointed, he couldn't make heads or tails of them until he put pencil to paper. Then he could sort through them.

After he wrote them down, he stopped chasing them around his brain and could usually settle himself enough to fall asleep. But tonight, one of the items on his list called to him.

Blackwood's "curriculum development" request was a weighty thing. The more he thought about it, the more Otter realized what an important responsibility it was. Making sure new students were welcomed to the Academy, at least by the staff, instead of being ostracized, was integral to their success.

Blackwood had asked to write about all the times he'd felt lost over the last year, so turning to a clean page, he did just that.

It was strange. He could recall every moment with clarity, from overhearing whispered conversations in the hallways to the look on the clerk's face when he tried to register for courses. But the feelings he'd attached to those moments were gone. Ever since giving them up, these moments had no hold over him.

After an hour of writing, he reread what he'd written, half expecting the old ache to creep back in. The tightness in his chest, the doubt in his gut. But nothing came. The moments were still sharp, still real—but they were quiet now like echoes sealed behind glass.

He closed the journal and sat back in his chair, absently turning the pencil between his fingers.

His mother's snoring continued in soft, rhythmic bursts. Outside, the dock bells rang the hour. Thoughts finally settled, he went back to bed and fell fast asleep.

***

The sun had barely cleared the rooftops when Otter sealed the small envelope with a dab of wax from the kitchen candle. Inside was the journal page he'd written the night before.

He'd written honestly. Not dramatically, not for effect, but with the kind of clarity that came when the sting had faded and the bruises had settled.

He addressed it carefully and tucked it into the post chute at the edge of the square. By noon, it would be en route to Aurelia.

That done, he adjusted the strap on his satchel and turned toward a narrow side street near the docks. He wanted to stop by Marlowe's Maps & Miscellany. Marlowe was an old sea dog, retired from his days of plying his trade on the waves. Now, he collected old maps, star charts, ship blueprints, and captain's journals. Basically, anything on paper or parchment with a nautical theme. Otter had a fondness for the place, and though he could never afford to buy anything, he often gave Marlowe some of his sketches.

The bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the stacks and shelves of dusty old papers. The shop was dim, lit by streaks of morning light filtering through stained-glass windows and the occasional flicker of an everlamp tucked between shelves. The magical lamp was an oddity in itself. Mainly because they were expensive. Marlowe once told him it was worth the investment because a stray candle flame would destroy his entire inventory. Which was true, Otter supposed. Still, in Brighthaven, magical items were a rarity.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Stacks of books leaned at precarious angles. Some were shelved; most were not. Scrolls and charts hung in rolled clusters from the ceiling, and a carved wooden globe spun slowly in a draft only it could feel.

A gray cat watched him from atop a pile of atlases, one eye narrowed suspiciously.

"Hello?" Otter called softly.

There was no answer.

He stepped deeper into the shop, eyes scanning for anything interesting. Otter still had some silver tucked away and decided he might splurge a little… if he found something he liked. While this wasn't a bookstore in the traditional sense, there were plenty of books and bound tomes. As long as they were somehow connected to Marlowe's former career, he'd carry them—The Cartographer's Riddle, Myths of the Third Deep, Salt-Blooded Beasts and How to Avoid Them.

He doubted he'd find anything about Kaosborn in here, but maybe there were aquatic ones he could learn about.

Tucked between two much larger tomes was a thin, leather-bound volume with a faded symbol etched into its spine—a spire, split down the middle. The leather was dark blue, almost black, and the title had nearly rubbed away, but the letters were still just legible:

Fragments of the Spire: Unverified Accounts of the Southern Collapse

Otter's fingers hovered over it for a moment before he picked it up.

The book was surprisingly light. The pages inside were uneven, hand-cut, and yellowed with age. No publisher mark. No author name.

He flipped through it quickly—half-expecting blank pages or someone's poetry journal—but instead found a mix of odd diagrams, half-translated field notes, and a few scrawled entries in multiple hands. There were margin notes arguing with one another. One page was written upside down. Another had a pressed flower tucked inside.

Whatever this was, it wasn't a published history.

It was a record. A collection.

He didn't know what it meant yet.

But he knew he needed it.

Otter looked toward the front counter, still unmanned, and left a handful of coins and a small written note:

For the book with the broken tower on the spine. If it's rare, come find me. – Otter.

Then he slipped the volume into his satchel and stepped back into the morning sun. As he walked away, a curious thought struck him. His wrisplay hadn't buzzed. There was no notification from his Luck's Whisper ability when he'd found the book. Did that mean something? Was there nothing special about the book? Had he wasted his money? Or was it silent because he'd been actively looking for something? Had he found it because of his Perception or Investigation skill? There was no way to know. Not without a more sophisticated System Interface.

He stared at his wrisplay, willing it to vibrate. Hoping that his thoughts would trigger a new objective. But nothing happened.

His mother took the following day off from work.

When Otter came downstairs in the morning, the kettle was already on the stove, her work boots were tucked under the bench, and she was halfway through a stack of laundry like it was any other morning—except she didn't dress to leave.

"We've got one day," she said. "Might as well spend it doing something worth remembering."

They started with the market.

The morning fog lingered as they made their way down the cobbles. Marla led him through shortcuts he didn't realize she knew about. He'd always considered them his secrets, but he was learning his mother had secrets of her own.

When they reached the stalls, she nudged him toward familiar faces with knowing glances and a light touch on the shoulder.

At one vendor, she let him haggle for dried fish.

"You're too polite," she whispered. "Look bored. Disinterested. Like it's the third-best fish you've seen today."

At the next one, he took her advice. He leaned on the stall as he cast his gaze across the wares. He stifled a yawn, and glanced toward the next stall. The vendor scowled, then dropped the price by two dregs.

Marla gave him a nod. "Almost like you were raised by someone with brains."

They ate hand-pies from a street cart—crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, filled with spiced greens and shredded meat. Otter burned his tongue but didn't complain.

At home, they repaired the back door latch.

It had been sticking since the previous winter. Marla held the hinge while Otter tightened the bolts, both of them working in rhythm without needing to talk.

She hummed softly as she steadied the door. A lullaby, he realized—one she used to sing under her breath when she thought he wasn't listening. He didn't remember the words. Just the tune.

After lunch, they cleared the table and pulled out an old game: Tide & Talon. Most of the pieces had been replaced with colored stones and glass beads he'd found in the canals over the years. The rules were simple to learn, but the strategies could take a lifetime to master.

"You remember how to play?" she asked.

"Do you remember how to lose?" he shot back.

She raised an eyebrow.

The first round was close—he won by a narrow margin. She let him think it was skill.

The second round, she wiped the board with him in eleven turns.

"Luckborn, huh?" she said, resetting the tokens. "Well, you didn't inherit your mother's tactics."

Later, as the sun dipped low and the air turned cool, they walked the docks.

Not far—just to the end of the pier where she used to take him on quiet evenings. The same one where she'd taught him to tie knots, to gauge wind, to listen for the change in tide by the sound of the ropes.

They sat on an overturned crate, watching the fishing boats ease into port.

For a while, they said nothing at all.

Then she spoke, almost casually. "He'd be proud, you know."

Otter didn't look at her. "I don't remember him very well."

"I do."

He didn't tell her his father was still alive, imprisoned somewhere. What good would that do? But one day, when he had more information, when he had a plan to rescue him, maybe then he'd tell her. But for now, he just enjoyed her company.