The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, pale gold bleeding into the endless grey of the wasteland. Vigdis stirred in her camp, the dying embers of her fire casting faint shadows against the rocky outcrop she’d sheltered beneath. She stretched slowly, her body stiff from the fight at the outpost, her bandaged arm twinging in protest.
Her legs, long and muscled, caught the early light as she shifted the coarse blanket aside. She rolled her ankles, the well-worn leather of her boots creaking faintly as she rose to a crouch. Her silhouette, tall and strong, was carved sharply against the barren backdrop as she stood and adjusted the axe slung over her back.
The fire had burned low in the night, leaving behind little more than smoldering ash. Vigdis nudged a few coals with the toe of her boot before kneeling to her pack. She rummaged through its contents: dried rations, a length of rope, a small, dented canteen. At the bottom, folded carefully between scraps of cloth, was the map.
She unfolded it slowly, her calloused fingers brushing over the brittle paper. It had seen better days—creases tore at the edges, and the ink was faded in places, smeared by dirty hands. It was crude, hand-drawn, and amateurish. The landmarks were blocky and uneven, a lazy scrawl of lines and symbols scattered across the surface.
Her eyes settled on one spot in particular. Near the center of the map, a crude rectangle had been drawn, circled several times as though to emphasize its importance. Next to it, in shaky, childlike handwriting, were the words:
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“Big loot. Lotz of trezure. Old stuff.”
The letters were uneven, some backward, the kind of scrawl that belonged to someone who rarely had reason to write. Beside the rectangle was a small sketch—a crude X meant to mark an entrance, along with an arrow pointing west.
Vigdis snorted. The notes reeked of desperation, the kind of promise made by someone who’d never live to see it fulfilled. She’d taken the map off a raider weeks ago, his blood still warm on her hands as she searched his pack. He hadn’t looked like much of a treasure hunter, more the type to let greed drive him into someone else’s blade.
And yet... she still had the map.
She’d looked at it a dozen times before, tracing the path with her finger, puzzling over the landmarks. None of the names meant anything to her, and the map offered no scale. It could lead to riches, sure, or maybe just an empty husk of a ruin looted long before she was born. But it was something.
A purpose.
She glanced west, the pale light of dawn softening the jagged horizon. The wasteland didn’t offer many reasons to keep moving, and this one was as good as any. Old places usually held scraps of value: weapons, food, sometimes even relics from before the Cleansing. The axe on her back was proof of that.
“Big loot,” she muttered under her breath, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “Right. I’ll hold my breath.”
She tucked the map into her pack, slinging it over her shoulder before kicking dirt over the fire’s embers. The crossbow hung at her side now, its weight a constant reminder of the night she’d taken it. She adjusted the strap, feeling the familiar heft of her axe across her back, and turned west.
The rectangle on the map lingered in her mind, a quiet nudge that felt more like instinct than logic. Whatever waited there, she’d find it—or find a reason to keep moving.