Luckborn

The morning broke gray and overcast, the sky smeared with streaks of silver cloud that threatened rain. The village of Tarnbrook stirred in slow, deliberate rhythms: goats bleated from pens, shutters creaked open, and someone swept a porch with a rhythm that echoed across the still air.

Otter stood outside the inn, the straps of his pack cinched tight, the salamander's box cradled in his arms. One by one, the others emerged. None of them looked rested. Otter hadn't slept more than a few hours himself—his thoughts gnawed at him all night. Even when exhaustion claimed him, his dreams were broken and shapeless.

But Jasper looked the worst of all. He came out last, eyes shadowed, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on the ground.

Otter considered asking if he was okay. But the answer was plain enough.

Instead, he said, "Crookpine's not far, right?"

"Couple hours," Jasper muttered.

"You know the way?"

He shrugged. "Not really. Never went to see the Hermit. Didn't think it'd be that hard to find him."

Otter glanced at Erin, who raised an eyebrow. No one said it aloud, but they all had the same thought: It was probably going to be harder than Jasper thought.

"Let's ask for directions," Erin suggested. "I'll check with the innkeeper."

She ducked back inside and returned moments later. "He said to talk to Old Aldwyck. Jasper, know where he is?"

"He has a shed on the other side of the river. He'll be there if he's not out cutting wood."

They set off through the village, crossed the small wooden bridge, and came to a low shed where a man was stacking bundles of kindling. He looked to be in his sixties, with a patchy beard, hands like cracked leather, and a grin that hadn't worn out despite the years.

"Well, I'll be," he said. "Jasper Thorne in the flesh. Thought you'd finally run off and joined the circus."

Jasper managed a tight smile. "Not quite, Mr. Aldwyck."

"What can I do you for?"

"We need to find the Hermit of the Hollow."

"Risky business, traipsin' out there without a proper guide. Crookpine doesn't like strangers. Not the woods, nor the man who lives in 'em."

"We're not looking to stir trouble," Erin said evenly. "Just need a bit of help."

Aldwyck scratched his cheek. "Well, if you've got Jasper with you, that counts for something. The Hermit—he doesn't care much for outsiders, but he's helped folks from Tarnbrook before. I can walk you partway, get you past the stream crossing. You'll want to be careful near the sinkholes."

Jasper perked up slightly. "Thanks. That'd be a big help."

The old man waved a hand. "Don't thank me yet. Let's see if the woods let you through."

They followed a winding deer trail south of Tarnbrook, where the trees grew older and closer, their limbs braided overhead like knotted arms holding up the sky. The forest floor was soft with moss and half-rotted leaves, and the hush of the canopy seemed to muffle their steps, like the woods were listening.

Aldwyck led them at an unhurried pace, his walking stick tapping rhythmically against roots and stone. Every so often, he muttered about landmarks—a leaning oak, a cairn of mossy stones, a vine-strangled stump like a twisted throne.

After a long stretch of silence, Milo fell into step beside him.

"You said the forest might not let us through," Milo said. "What did you mean by that?"

Aldwyck didn't answer right away. He tapped his stick once, twice, then said, "I meant what I said."

"Are you saying the forest is... alive?"

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The old man gave a lopsided smile. "Wouldn't say it thinks like we do. Wouldn't say it doesn't. Crookpine remembers. It has moods. Some days, it welcomes you. Other days… it doesn't."

"Is it magic?" Otter asked.

"Everything's magic if you go far enough back," Aldwyck said, eyes twinkling.

"Have you ever seen it do something?" Milo pressed.

Aldwyck paused. "Heard music once. Sweet and sad, like a fiddle in a fog. I followed it. Woke up beside a dead buck with flowers in its mouth. Wasn't spring." He glanced sideways. "Didn't follow music again after that."

The group exchanged wary glances but said nothing.

The trees seemed to lean closer the deeper they went. The air grew damper, the moss thicker. The wind had vanished—only the occasional rustle of distant leaves reminded them the world still moved.

Eventually, Aldwyck stopped at a fork in the path, marked by a crooked post with no sign attached. "This is as far as I go. Follow the left fork until you see a stump with orange mushrooms on top. Keep east from there. You'll know when you've found the place."

Jasper nodded. "Thank you."

Aldwyck tipped his head, but his expression was serious. "Mind your words with the old man. Don't lie, and don't touch anything unless he says you can. He's strange, but not cruel. Mostly."

He turned to go, then paused. "If the woods go quiet—really quiet—you stop walking. Let the forest settle."

Then he vanished into the trees, his parting footsteps already swallowed by the moss.

Otter tightened the straps on his pack and looked at the others. "Well. That was encouraging."

"Do you think he was messing with us?" Milo asked.

"I hope so," Erin muttered. "But I doubt it."

They pressed on.

The forest deepened, light filtering through moss-covered branches in shades of muted gold. The air smelled of wet bark and pine resin. They passed the stump with the orange mushrooms—plump, almost luminous—and veered east.

Before long, they stepped into a small clearing where, half-swallowed by ivy and tree roots, stood a crooked little hut. Its walls were made of dark wood and river stone, patched here and there with mismatched boards. The roof sloped sharply, draped in moss like a weathered cloak. Strange charms hung from the eaves—bones, feathers, glass beads, and bundles of herbs that clicked faintly in the breeze.

A fence of twisted branches circled the clearing, more symbolic than functional. A narrow path led up to the door, where a rusted bell dangled on a fraying rope.

No smoke came from the chimney.

No light shone through the windows.

Jasper stepped forward first. He hesitated just outside the fence, then unlatched the gate, which groaned as it swung inward.

Otter's gaze drifted to the hanging charms. One of them was made from a small, cracked mirror, tied with red thread and thistle thorns. It spun lazily, catching the light in odd flashes.

Jasper reached the door and knocked.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then came the sound of movement—creaking wood, a heavy drag, a metallic clunk.

The door cracked open.

An eye peered out—piercing and pale, set deep in a weathered face surrounded by wiry gray hair and a tangled beard. It blinked several times. Then a voice like dry leaves croaked, "What?"

Jasper cleared his throat. "We're looking for the Hermit of Crookpine Hollow."

"And you've found him. But he's busy. And he don't like people. That's why he's a hermit after all."

Otter smiled.

The door opened a bit more, and the man stepped outside. "Do I know you? You look familiar."

"I'm Jasper Thorne. I grew up in Tarnbrook, but we've never met. Not that I know of."

"Thorne?" The old man scratched his beard and Otter swore he saw something moving around in it. "Ain't the blacksmith there named Thorne?"

"That's my father, sir."

The hermit scowled. "I'll have none of that 'sir' business. You can call me Randy. Now, what do you want?"

"Well, uh, Randy. We've sort of inherited a strange creature and were hoping you could tell us something about it. I heard you were an expert on such things and was hoping you could help."

Randy the hermit perked up at that. "What kind of critter?"

Jasper turned to Otter, who removed the box from his pack and opened it. He stepped forward to show the old man what lay inside.

Randy's eyebrows rose, and his eyes began to glitter. "Well, this changes things. Come on in."

He pushed the door wide and led them all into his tiny house.

***

Inside, the hut was a marvel of organized chaos.

Bundles of dried herbs hung from every rafter. Jars of strange powders and pickled…things lined a wall of cobbled-together shelves. A cauldron hung over a low firepit in the center of the room, bubbling with something that smelled vaguely of mint and mushrooms.

Otter didn't see a single chair, only a few stools, a fur-covered bench, and an old trunk. In the center of the room was a small table. From the scattered remnants of both food scraps and apothecary tools, Otter assumed it served as both eatery and work table.

Randy cleared off the table with a quick swipe of his arm and gestured for Otter to put the box on it, which he did. Then he opened it again, revealing the sleeping amphibian. Its body remained coiled in a loose spiral, its colors dulled by the hibernation spell, but its chest rose and fell faintly. Faint blue steam drifted from the tiny slits behind its frilled head.

Randy let out a slow, reverent whistle. "Well, I'll be a scalded squirrel."

"You know what it is?" Otter asked.

Randy didn't answer right away. He leaned down, eyes scanning every detail, fingers hovering but never quite touching. "Not exactly. I've seen sketches of something similar. Mentions in old bestiaries, mostly written off as myth or misidentification." He reached for a long crystal lens and held it up to the creature's scales. "Tell me how this fella came into your possession."

So Otter told him the story.

"Interesting. That just might do it," the old man muttered when the story was finished.

"What might do it?" Otter asked.

"I think what you got here is an honest-to-goodness real-life fire-born Salamander."