Luckborn

Since leaving Drowmere, Riven had drifted from village to village, town to town—working odd jobs when he had to, stealing when he could, and practicing his magic when no one was watching. He was no longer the helpless, wide-eyed whelp others had kicked around. No more being used. No more begging.

He was the master of his own destiny.

Or so he told himself.

As he yanked one boot free from the sucking grip of the swamp, mud slurping at the leather, he couldn't help but scoff.

No. Not even close.

He was not in control. He hadn't been since he'd come near this godsforsaken marsh. For days now, he'd felt it—an invisible pull, like a hook buried in his chest. No logic, no reason. Just a compulsion that grew stronger the deeper he wandered.

He didn't want to be here. The biting flies, the sulfur reek, the sawgrass that sliced open your skin if you so much as brushed against it—he hated it all.

But still, he trudged on.

A gust of warm, fetid air coiled around him, thick with the scent of wet rot and decaying vegetation. The reeds stirred, though there was no wind.

Riven stopped. Slowly, cautiously, he turned in a full circle.

The sensation had changed. The faint tug in his chest had become something heavier, more insistent. Like gravity itself had reoriented—pulling him toward a fixed point, unseen but undeniable.

He wiped sweat from his brow and forged ahead, pushing past low branches and stepping over tangled roots slick with moss and water. His wrisplay buzzed once, then flickered off.

"Piece of junk," he muttered, tapping it twice with his fingers. The screen stayed dead.

He didn't try again.

The mist thickened around him like a living thing. The ever-present buzz of insects faded, replaced by silence that wasn't truly silence—just absence. The world closed in, narrowed to fog and shadow.

Then came the sound.

Click. Clickity-click.

Soft. Rhythmic. Strange.

Familiar.

Riven froze.

Another click. Then another. A slow, deliberate cadence—like speech with no words.

Figures stepped out of the mist. Three of them. Kaosborn.

Each twisted by mutation, grotesque in shape. One was impossibly thin, its arms too long, fingers dragging across the mud. Another hunched like a broken marionette, its jaw unhinged, teeth jagged and too many. The third moved like mist made flesh, crowned with thorny ridges and bearing two pale, glowing eyes.

Riven's breath caught.

He'd heard the stories his entire life—the warnings, the nightmare tales whispered to children in the dark. Kaosborn are death. Kaosborn are madness. Kaosborn cannot be reasoned with.

His hand twitched toward his belt where his dagger waited, more for utility than protection. He didn't draw it.

He couldn't.

Because something in the way they watched him felt… different.

One of them let out another click.

It echoed inside him—deep, resonant, like a memory struck across his bones. The sound didn't frighten him.

It called to him.

The fear he expected, the terror he'd braced for, never came. Instead, he felt… seen. Like he'd stumbled into the presence of something that recognized him. Something that already knew him.

The tension thickened, humming in the air.

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Then the largest of the creatures tilted its head…and stepped aside.

Not a challenge. An invitation.

Riven blinked, heart pounding. "What is this?" he whispered. "You want me to follow?"

The clicking returned—softer now. Not aggressive. Beckoning.

He considered turning back. Considered blasting one apart and fleeing into the trees.

But he didn't. He stepped forward.

The Kaosborn turned as one and began to lead him deeper into the swamp, into the mist, into something he couldn't yet name.

And Riven followed.

They walked for what felt like an hour, though time bent strangely within the mist, stretching and compressing like a breath held too long.

Riven said nothing. He trailed the hunched, twitching figures ahead of him, drawn forward by a thread of something he couldn't name. The tug in his chest—the eerie pull that had started as a compulsion—was now a faint tingle at the edge of his soul. Faded, but still present. Still guiding.

Something was coming. He felt it. A moment. A choice.

Eventually, the Kaosborn stopped at a massive, moss-choked tree. Its roots curled and coiled like serpents. One of the creatures raised a claw and raked it across the bark.

A shimmer rippled outward—like disturbed water—and the illusion peeled away.

Hidden beneath the twisted roots was a passage, narrow and damp, just wide enough for a man to enter.

Inside, a low fire crackled weakly in a shallow stone basin. Its smoke spiraled upward and vanished into the shadows. Beside the flame, slumped against a damp stone wall, sat a robed man. His porcelain mask was cracked down one side, a jagged line splitting his features. Dried blood streaked across his cheek. His breathing was shallow, raspy.

The Kaosborn nearest the entrance gave a sharp chitter and gestured.

Riven stepped forward warily, eyes sweeping the small, hidden hollow. He could smell blood and scorched fabric, hear the subtle rasp of the man's lungs straining with each breath.

The man turned his head slowly. His eyes met Riven's through the fracture in the mask—red-rimmed, yet sharp with awareness.

"You're not one of mine," he rasped. "Not yet."

Riven said nothing.

The man exhaled through clenched teeth. "I was waiting for death. But Kaos sends me a boy."

"I'm not a boy."

"No…" The man's gaze sharpened. "No, I see that now."

He shifted, wincing as he tried to sit straighter. His left arm, hidden beneath his robe, was clearly broken—twisted at a sickening angle.

"How did you find me?"

Riven nodded toward the Kaosborn waiting outside. "They brought me."

"Fascinating," the man muttered, his voice tinged with pain. "I'd offer you tea, but"—he chuckled dryly, then coughed—"I'm not quite the host I used to be."

Riven took a step closer. "What happened?"

"A fight," the man said, jaw tightening. "Unexpected. A Guild team—mid-tier, too cocky, but better armed than I gave them credit for. I underestimated them. Paid for it." He let out a bitter laugh that turned into another cough, flecking blood onto the edge of his mask. "Lost some of my children. Took a blade through the ribs. Unpleasant."

Riven's eyes narrowed. "So you control them?"

The man tilted his head, expression thoughtful. "No one controls Kaosborn. But they can be… guided. Led. We commune. I speak—they listen."

"So you're Kaos-Touched?"

The man's lips twitched behind the cracked mask. "Perhaps. But not in the way you think."

Outside, the Kaosborn stood in eerie stillness—watching, waiting, their glowing eyes just visible beyond the threshold. Riven looked at them again, and his skin prickled.

"Tell me," the man asked, voice low. "When you saw them… were you afraid?"

"I didn't run."

"Not what I asked," the man murmured. "But telling."

Riven didn't respond. He wasn't sure he could. There had been fear, yes—sharp and instinctive—but there had also been something else. A strange resonance. As if the rot and ruin clinging to the Kaosborn wasn't foreign, but… familiar. Like a note struck on a hidden string inside him.

As if he understood them.

The man nodded slowly. "You were brought here for a reason."

"What reason?" Riven asked.

"To choose."

That single word landed like a weight between them.

The man leaned forward, firelight catching in his eyes. "The world is unraveling. The gods grow silent. The order they built is rotting at the roots. You can go back to that—cling to the crumbling walls—or…" His voice lowered to a whisper, sharp and dangerous. "You can evolve. Stop hiding. Stop surviving. Start shaping."

Riven crossed his arms. "How?"

"Join me. Learn from me. I will show you what the others won't. What they can't. Together, we can birth something new."

Riven studied him in silence. He felt the weight of the moment, heavy with implication.

This man—this thing—claimed to guide the Kaosborn. That alone defied everything Riven had been told. But part of him believed it. Believed that such communion was possible because he had felt it. This pull, this quiet thread in his soul, this hunger.

But Riven had learned caution. And power didn't always mean trust.

"My name is Riven," he said slowly. "And I'll stay. For now."

The man inclined his head. "I am called Maern. You may call me Brother, if you choose."

Brother.

The word hit him like a shockwave. Something inside him twisted, strained—yearned. He nearly dropped to his knees from the sudden pull.

And in that moment, he knew.

This wasn't just a meeting. It was a turning point.

This was the reason he'd come here.

This was the beginning of a new family.

Maern's breathing grew ragged again, the flickering firelight painting harsh shadows across his pale, sweat-slicked skin. His broken arm remained cradled awkwardly to his side, and the cloth at his ribs was now dark with fresh blood.

"You won't be teaching me anything if you die in the night," Riven muttered.

Maern managed a humorless smile. "Then perhaps you should see to that."

"I don't know healing magic."

"A shame, then."

"But there are herbs in this mire that can slow infection. Some that numb pain. Others that draw out fever." Riven had seen some of them on his way here. He was sure he could find enough to make a poultice.

"Ah, resourceful. Excellent. That will be a good start." Then he passed out.