Luckborn

The storm had dulled to a steady hiss—rain still falling beyond the thick stone walls, but muted now, like a distant memory.

Inside the ruin, the companions did their best to peel off wet, muddy layers of clothing and spread them out to dry. Otter had his pack and checked to see if anything was broken inside. Mainly the salamander's box. Fortunately, it was intact. It seemed it was made of some tough stuff. Everything else was a sodden mess. But without a fire or the means to make one, there wasn't much they could do.

"Well, now I really need to learn a fire spell," Milo muttered to himself. He sat cross-legged, wringing out his sleeves for the third time. A puddle was slowly forming around him, soaking back into his socks.

Jasper leaned against the nearest column, arms folded, eyes fixed on the archway that led deeper in. "You could at least pretend to be warm. Might trick the universe into meeting you halfway."

"It's not warm that bothers me. It's wet."

Otter stood at the threshold of the doorway that led deeper into the ruins. The hallway beyond their little chamber stretched away at a slight decline, the far end swallowed in black. No torches. No sconces. No signs of light. In the dim light coming from outside, he could see that the walls bore faded carvings, shallow channels, and dust that had settled undisturbed for decades—maybe centuries. "What do you think is in there?"

"More dust and stale air," said Milo.

"Could be some valuable artifacts," offered Jasper.

"That's kind of what I was thinking." Otter leaned forward, trying to peer farther into the dark. It didn't work.

"Whatever it is, we won't find it. Not without a light source," said Erin, always the pragmatic one.

Otter sighed. She was right. And all their supplies were still in the wagon. They'd have to wait until the storm passed. So he turned to the merchant who was huddled against the wall with his wife and child. "I suppose introductions are in order." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Otter."

The man took the offered hand. "Tomas. This is my wife, Elira, and my son, Nym. Thank you for stepping in back there. I'm not sure what those men would have done."

"I'm glad we came along when we did. Bandits have no place in the Realms."

Sage, kneeling near the boy, checked his forehead. "His temperature is normal. That's a good sign."

Rell still hadn't stirred. He was bound, gagged, and slumped in the corner, snoring softly. No one had checked on him in over an hour, and no one was particularly interested in doing so.

"How long do we wait?" Milo asked after a while.

Otter finally turned from the hallway. "Until the rain slows. Until we can reach the wagon. We'll get the lanterns. Rope. Food. Then we make a proper go of it."

Otter sat down, finally letting himself rest.

He glanced back toward the arch again. The stone around it had been carved with care—lines and angles that held meaning once, though that meaning was lost to him. This was what adventuring was all about.

But that would have to wait.

Otter checked his wrisplay. He'd earned 100XP from running off the bandits. Then he

Sage was asking Tomas about their travels: where they came from, where they were going.

"From Dorran's Cross," Tomas said. "My father ran a textiles cart on the southern loop for twenty years. After he passed, I took it over. Figured it was time to show Nym a bit of the trade. Elira handles the ledgers."

"What were you carrying?" Sage asked.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Spools of colored thread," Tomas said. "Mostly dyed linen. Some bolts of silk from farther east, bartered through the riverfolk. I've got a set of hand-tensioned bobbins and a crank-loom in the back—was going to demonstrate weaving patterns at the autumn fair in Aurelia."

"Sounds valuable," Milo said.

"Valuable enough to attract trouble," Tomas said. "Not valuable enough to replace easily."

He gave a weary smile, but there was worry behind it. The kind that lingered after adrenaline faded.

Otter nodded slowly, glancing toward the entrance of the ruin where distant rain still whispered. "Once this storm lets up, we'll help you recover what we can."

"I'd appreciate that. But I don't want to hold you up too long. Without the horses, we'll have to head to the nearest village. See what help they can offer. Getting that wagon out of here and back on the road is gonna be an ordeal."

Otter hadn't thought about that. A good portion of this man's wealth—maybe all of it—was lying in the back of that muddy, broken wagon. His horses were dead, killed in the mudslide. The wagon would need repairs, and he would need to buy new horses to get his goods to market. Whatever profit he made on the sale would already be gone. Otter wished there was some way he could help, but he didn't have that much money. "I'm really sorry you have to deal with this."

"Yeah, well, I'm just glad we're alive. The guild will help eat some of the cost," said Tomas.

"The guild?"

"The Textile Guild. This is one reason it exists. We'll file a report, and they'll help with the cost of repairs. Honestly, one of the best things you could do for us is be a witness for those reports."

"Of course we will," said Sage.

For the first time, Otter wondered exactly what the different guilds did. He'd never learned about their purpose in school, and other than the Adventurer's Guild, he had no firsthand experience with any of them. He would need to remedy that.

***

An hour later, the storm finally surrendered. Rain tapered to a soft drizzle, then vanished entirely, leaving behind a sky the color of old parchment—washed-out gray, streaked with drifting ribbons of cloud.

They emerged slowly from the ruin, blinking against the muted light. The ravine had become a mire. Mud had swallowed most of the slope where the wagon once stood, leaving deep gouges in the earth and scattered remnants of their crash strewn across the terrain.

The wagon, miraculously, remained largely intact—though now it lay tipped on its side, one wheel half-buried in muck, its axle visibly cracked. The driver's bench hung precariously by a single bolt. Torn canvas sagged in three places, and cloth bundles were strewn like fallen leaves. The corpses of the two horses lay nearby, half-covered in wet earth and tangled foliage.

No one spoke for a long time.

Then Erin stepped forward. "Let's see what we can salvage."

They got to work.

Jasper and Sage hauled splintered crates out of the muck. Otter climbed into the tipped wagon bed and passed down what supplies hadn't been destroyed. Their lantern was shattered; all the oil had leaked. A few ration packs were soaked but edible. Some rope. A bent shovel. One of their water flasks had survived.

"Who wants to find dry wood?" Jasper asked, tone grim.

Erin and Milo volunteered.

They returned with armfuls of soggy bark, snapped branches, and one semi-dry log found under an uprooted pine. Otter cleared a spot just beneath the overhang of the ruin, laid stones into a makeshift fire ring, and began coaxing flame from what little they had.

It took patience—careful stacking, a dozen sparks, and more than a few curses—but eventually, the fire caught.

By dusk, they had a pile of supplies they had salvaged from the wagon stacked neatly in the small chamber. It steamed lightly as the heat from the fire did its job. Their clothes did likewise.

Rell was awake. He didn't speak, but his eyes followed everything with bitter, wounded calculation. His hands were still bound, and he winced every time he took a breath—Erin's arrow had missed anything vital, but not by much.

Jasper sat nearby, keeping watch, arms resting casually over his knees. Every so often, he met Rell's glare with one of his own, and the bandit looked away.

Otter added another sliver of bark to the fire and leaned back. "We'll move at first light," he said. "Get our bearings. Then we explore."

"You think it goes far?" Milo asked, nodding toward the dark hallway.

Otter shrugged. "No idea. Depends on what this structure was, I guess. And how much of it collapsed. It could lead to one more room or a dozen."

Sage studied the walls around them. "What do you think it was? I don't get a sense of purpose from what I'm seeing."

"I'm no architect, but this feels like a foyer or something."

"Like for a house?" asked Jasper. "If this is just some old house, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"If it's a house, it was a mansion. Look at the carvings on the walls. I don't have a clue what they mean, but I doubt a simple house would have them. That took time, effort, and likely a good bit of coin."

"Wonderful," Erin said, scowling. "So we're really doing this?"

"We give it an hour or two," Jasper offered. "We scout the first few chambers. If there's nothing worth seeing, we turn back. But if there is…"

Erin sighed. "Fine. But no detours. Our supplies are already running low. We can't afford a side quest into ancient crypts."

Everyone nodded.

They set up a watch rotation and prepared for the night. The fire burned low, smoke curling gently toward the ruin's broken ceiling.

Otter pulled his damp bedroll close to the fire, eyes fixed on the shadowed archway leading deeper into the structure. He felt something stirring behind those stones—not magic, not menace—but possibility.