Otter turned down a narrow alley, taking a familiar shortcut toward the docks. The air grew saltier, the streets rougher. The buildings here leaned together like old friends, weathered by time and sea spray.
He spotted his mother standing by a shipment of crates. She wore a simple brown dress, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was tied back in a practical braid. She was hefting a large crate into place with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times.
Otter smiled to himself. Marla was as steady as the tides.
She caught sight of him and gave a sharp whistle. “About time, Otter! You get lost chasing bugs again?”
Otter grinned, holding up his journal. “Found a violet fendermite. Haven’t seen one of those in months.”
Marla rolled her eyes, but there was a fondness in her expression. She always scolded him for getting distracted, but he knew she loved that part of him—the curiosity, the drive to notice what others overlooked.
“Laundry’s delivered,” Otter said, handing over his copper dreg. “What’s next?”
Marla handed him a smaller crate. From the smell, he could tell it was filled with salted hides.
“Take this to the tannery,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “And don’t get distracted.”
Otter hesitated, shifting the crate under his arm. The weight of his thoughts felt heavier than the wood and iron he carried. His mother caught the flicker of unease in his expression.
She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer, placing her firm, calloused hands on his shoulders. “What’s wrong, son? You’ve got that far-off look again. What’s on your mind?”
Otter lowered his gaze, shuffling his feet on the cobblestones. “How long did it take you to find your calling, Ma?”
Marla’s brow furrowed as she studied him, then she leaned against the crate she’d just moved, arms crossed. For a moment, she said nothing, letting the question settle between them like dust in the air. Finally, she spoke. “I didn’t.”
Otter’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What? What do you mean you didn’t? You’re classless?”
“I mean,” she said, “I never found a calling. Because it’s not something you stumble on, like a coin in the street.”
Otter frowned, confusion etched into his features. “But… everyone says the System gives you a calling when you’re ready. That’s how it works, right?”
Marla shook her head slowly, her expression calm but resolute. “That’s what they say, but it’s not how it worked for me. The System doesn’t hand you a path on a silver platter. It watches. It waits. And when you make a choice—really make it—the System follows.”
Otter blinked. “So… you just decided?”
“I chose,” Marla said firmly. “I decided who I wanted to be, and that was the path the System recognized.”
Otter frowned deeper, struggling to process this. “So you could have done anything? You could’ve been a Spell Lord or a Commander, and you chose this?”
Marla chuckled softly and shook her head. “You think I chose to be a dockworker?”
“Well, yeah. You’ve been doing it my whole life.”
She smiled, her gaze softening. “No, Otter. I didn’t choose to be a dockworker. I chose to be your mother.”
Otter froze, the weight of her words sinking in. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Marla continued, her voice gentle but unwavering. “I could’ve chased power, prestige, adventure. But that wasn’t what mattered to me. I chose to stay. To raise you. To give you a life where you’d be safe, where you’d have the freedom to make your own choices. And the System? It saw that choice. It gave me the path I needed to do what I set out to do.”
Otter swallowed hard, his chest tight. “So…you never wanted more?”
Marla’s expression turned serious. “Of course I did. Everyone wants more. But wanting isn’t enough. It’s what you do that shapes your life.”
Otter shifted uncomfortably. “What if what I want… isn’t here? What if I don’t want to be a Level 0 Villager forever?”
Marla’s gaze hardened slightly. She stepped closer, tapping the leather-bound journal tucked under his arm. “Then make more.”
Otter stared at her, waiting for her to explain.
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She tapped him gently on the forehead. “You’ve got this, Otter. That brain of yours. That curiosity that won’t let you leave a stone unturned or a bug uncatalogued. That’s your strength.”
“But what if that’s not enough?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “What if I never get a class? What if I never become anything more than… this?”
Marla lowered herself so they were eye-to-eye. Her voice softened, but her words were sharp with conviction.
“Listen to me, son. A class won’t make you more than you already are. It’s not some magic key that unlocks your future. It’s just a tool. And the people who sit around waiting for the System to give them a class? They’re the ones who stay stuck.”
Otter clenched his jaw, his thoughts swirling.
Marla placed a hand over his journal. “You’ve already got everything you need right here. You’re observant. You notice things others miss. You see opportunity where others see ordinary life. That’s your strength. The System will recognize it when you do. But it won’t happen if you’re sitting around waiting for someone to hand you the answer.”
She straightened, resting a hand on her hip. “Life is what you make of it. So make it yours.”
Otter looked at the journal under his arm. His sketches, his notes—his whole world was in those pages. Bugs and beetles, maps and markings. Things no one else cared about. He’d never thought of it as anything more than a hobby.
“Do you really think that’s enough?” he asked.
Marla smiled, tilting her head. “I think it’s more than most people ever have. It’s what you do with it that matters.”
For a moment, Otter said nothing, turning her words over in his mind.
Finally, he nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Marla patted his shoulder. “Good. Now take that crate to the tannery. And don’t get distracted.”
Otter couldn’t help but grin. “No promises.”
Marla chuckled, shaking her head as she watched him walk off toward the alley. Her gaze lingered, her expression softening.
Otter carried the crate through the crowded market, weaving between stalls and dodging a pair of boys who chased each other with sticks.
His mind drifted to his mother’s words. Use what you have. He glanced at the vendors, the butchers, the bakers. Everyone had a role to play. Everyone belonged to Brighthaven’s endless cycle. Everyone except Otter.
“Oi! Look who it is!” a familiar voice called out.
Otter’s heart sank.
Bran.
His arch nemesis.
Bran was a bully and had tormented Otter throughout his childhood. Sometimes cornering him on the way home from primary school to shove him into a canal. Sometimes wrestling him to the ground to steal any copper dregs he carried. Sometimes sucker punching him for no other reason than he could.
In his fantasies, Otter used to imagine Bran as a Koasborn cult leader. One that Otter would rise up to vanquish just like in the old stories. As he grew older, though, he recognized Bran for what he was: an ass, plain and simple.
Now, Bran stood with his usual smug grin, leaning against a post near a cart of fruit. His class badge—a gleaming Fighter’s Mark—was pinned to his chest. He’d received it last month and hadn’t stopped bragging since.
“Well, if it isn’t the classless wonder!” Bran jeered. “Still running errands for your ma, Otter? Thought you’d be off saving the world by now.”
Otter gritted his teeth and kept walking, refusing to engage. Bran may have found his calling and been awarded an adventuring class, but it was the least of them. There were lots of fighters. Most never went to the Academy or progressed beyond level 1. They became soldiers or city watchmen.
Bran followed. “What’s wrong? Don’t have anything to say? Or are you still waiting for the System to notice you?”
Otter stopped. “I don’t need a class to be better than you.”
Bran scowled. “Better than me? Please.” He leaned in. “You’re just a sewer rat.”
Otter readied himself to dodge. Moments like this, when he had his hands full, were the perfect opportunity for Bran to throw a punch. And he never passed up such chances.
Before the situation could escalate, however, a voice cut through the tension. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
Erin stepped out from behind a stall, a basket of herbs balanced on her hip. Her auburn hair shimmered in the morning light, and her green eyes were sharp.
Bran straightened, his cheeks momentarily flushing. It was common knowledge that he had a thing for Erin and he always got flustered when she showed up. Composing himself, he flashed her a cocky grin. “Just having some fun.”
Erin raised an eyebrow. “Grow up. Bullying people because you’re bigger and stronger is so childish. It doesn't impress anyone anymore.”
Otter felt a flutter in his chest. They’d been best friends for years, but lately, something had changed. His feelings for Erin had evolved from childhood companionship to something a bit more...grown up.
If he was honest, she was the reason he was so desperate to go to the Academy this fall. There was always the chance that by this time next year, he’d have a Class and could go then. But she’d be a year ahead of him. She’d have new friends, be in more advanced courses. He wanted to experience the Academy with her. Like best friends should. Just best friends, he told himself. Though he knew it was a lie.
“Your problem,” Erin continued, “is that you’re stuck in primary school. If you really want to impress people, you’ve got to be better than that.”
Bran spluttered. “I’m better than this sewer rat. I’ve got a Class, remember?” He tapped the badge on his chest.
“Otter’s better than you even without a class.”
Bran’s eyes widened and his face turned red again, but this time from indignation.
Otter stared at Erin. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “Trying to get me killed?”
Erin didn't take her eyes off Bran. “How about you two settle this once and for all. With a footrace.”
“That’s dumb,” Bran said.
“If you win, I’ll go on a date with you.”
That stopped both of them short.
“What?” Bran and Otter said at the same time.
“If Otter wins, well, then everyone this side of the market will have your number. You’ll have bigger things to worry about than picking on classless folk again.”
Bran straightened, his ego once more asserting itself. “If that’s what it takes. Deal.”
“Um…okay, I guess.” Otter glanced sheepishly down at the crate in his hands. “I just need to make this delivery first.”
Bran’s smug grin returned. “Of course. Errand boy’s got work to do.”
“Meet back here in an hour,” Erin said. “And make sure you bring friends.”