A merchant wagon rattled past, spraying muddy water across Brakar’s already soaked boots. He didn’t bother dodging. After the flood that had saved their lives, a little road splash hardly registered. His socks had been wet for so long they might as well be a permanent water feature.

The wagon driver shot them a concerned look, likely noting their battered state. Brakar couldn’t blame him. They looked less like adventurers and more like survivors of a shipwreck. Which, he supposed, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

Thadan walked ahead, muttering numbers under his breath. Even without his leader’s keen mind for finances, Brakar could do the math. The repair costs alone would eat through whatever meager payment they might salvage from this disaster. If they got paid at all, given the state they found the water pump in.

“Seven hundred for new gear,” Thadan was saying. “Two hundred for the guild loan payment. Another hundred for...” He trailed off, shoulders slumping.

Mira limped beside him, her usual grace hampered by a twisted ankle. Her quiver, normally bristling with arrows, now held three waterlogged shafts that would snap if she tried to use them. The sight reminded Brakar of a half-plucked bird.

“We could sell some things,” Pockets offered from the rear. The usual bounce in her step was gone, her feet dragging with exhaustion. “I’ve got some experimental pieces that might fetch—”

“No one’s buying waterlogged artifice,” Mira cut in. Her tail dragged in the mud, the controlled flicks she normally used to balance now just listless swaying. “Besides, you need those for your research.”

The single healing potion clinked in Brakar’s belt pouch. They’d agreed to save it for emergencies, though their current collection of scrapes, sprains, and bruises made a compelling argument for “emergency.” His own arm throbbed where chitin had scraped skin, the makeshift bandage already soaked through.

Another merchant caravan approached. This one slowed as it passed, the guards’ hands drifting to weapons. Brakar expected as much. Four bedraggled adventurers on an open road probably set off all sorts of warning bells. Still, the suspicion stung.

“Remember when we thought we’d be famous by now?” Thadan’s attempt at humor fell flat. “Orichalcum rank by twenty-five, wasn’t that the plan?”

“Twenty-four,” Mira corrected. “You were very specific about beating your father’s record.”

The reminder drew a wince. “Well, at twenty-five we’re...” Thadan gestured at their sodden state. “Here.”

Brakar’s thoughts drifted to the mimic-lantern. He’d hoped the creature would survive, but it didn’t.

The memory of their escape played back in fragments: Mira’s shout as she discovered the flood controls. Pockets’ manic grin as she jammed her broken compass into ancient machinery. The horrible moment of silence before water thundered through forgotten channels.

They’d rode that artificial tide like the world’s worst river rafting expedition. Pockets screaming with either terror or delight—possibly both. Mira using her natural agility to keep them from being dashed against walls. Thadan somehow maintaining his grip on both sword and dignity.

And Brakar? He’d focused on not drowning while keeping his one remaining healing focus from washing away. A remarkably low bar for success, yet he’d barely managed it.

A fork in the road appeared ahead. Left led to the merchant's wayhouse with its promise of fresh sheets and hot meals, right to the cheapside campgrounds where most adventurers pitched their tents. Thadan didn’t even pause, turning right with the resignation of someone who knew exactly how much coin wasn’t in his purse.

Thunder rumbled overhead. Because of course it would rain. Why wouldn’t it rain? They were only soaked to the bone, wearing ruined gear, and nursing injuries that made every step an exercise in creative cursing.

The first drops fell as they reached their usual campsite—a small clearing just off the trade road where local guards turned a blind eye to adventurers too broke for proper lodging. Other parties had clearly had the same idea, but one look at Steel Tempest’s bedraggled state sent them scurrying to the far side of the clearing.

“Right,” Thadan said, dropping his pack with a wet squelch. “Let’s see what’s salvageable.”

The inventory process felt like attending a funeral for their equipment. Pockets spread her tools across a relatively dry patch of ground, and the metal was slick with cistern water, and dark silt clung to every surface, and her beloved precision instruments—saved for months to afford—sat waterlogged and mud-streaked, their delicate calibration almost certainly ruined.

Mira’s bowstrings were a lost cause, the moisture having rendered them worse than useless. She held up her backup strings, which had somehow fared even worse. “Well,” she said with forced lightness, “I always wanted to try sword fighting.”

“Not with my sword,” Thadan said quickly. “It’s got enough nicks from those centipedes.”

The rain picked up, driving them toward shelter. Their usual camp setup involved three tents arranged in a triangle, but two had been sacrificed to their escape. The remaining shelter barely fit four people on a good day.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

Today was not a good day.

“If we squeeze...” Pockets began.

“We squeeze,” Thadan confirmed. “Unless anyone wants to sleep in the rain.”

They packed in like sardines, personal space becoming a distant memory. Brakar found himself wedged between Mira's golden-furred shoulder and Pockets’ collection of salvaged gears. The close quarters carried a mix of wet fur, stressed sweat, and something resembling centipede ichor.

“Anyone remember the words to that campfire song?” Pockets asked. “The one about the dwarf and the dragon?”

“No fire tonight,” Thadan reminded her. “Unless you’ve got dry wood hidden somewhere.”

“We could try that heat spell,” Mira suggested. “The one Brak used in the copper mines.”

Brakar shifted uncomfortably, displacing several gears. “Lost the focus for that one. It was in my spellbook.”

The reminder of their lost equipment killed the conversation. Rain drummed against canvas, punctuated by distant thunder and the occasional splash of passing wagons.

“I had a dream once,” Mira said after a long silence. “Back when I was just a kit. Wanted to be the first leopard-folk to map the whole world. Had this fancy compass my father gave me, spent hours practicing with it.”

“What happened?” Pockets asked.

“Reality. Turns out the world’s already pretty well mapped. Not much call for explorers these days.”

“Could be worse,” Thadan offered. “Could be stuck following in someone else’s footsteps, trying to live up to impossible expectations.”

The bitterness in his voice hung heavy in the cramped space.

“We could take a break,” Pockets suggested carefully. “Just for a while. I’ve got some contacts in the artifice guild who might need help with experiments.”

“The mapmaker’s guild always needs couriers,” Mira added. “Pay’s not great, but it’s steady.”

“The library’s always hiring,” Brakar found himself saying. “For shelving and such.”

They all pretended not to notice how easily these alternatives came to mind, as if they’d been rehearsing them privately for weeks.

“A break,” Thadan repeated, testing the word. “Just until we get back on our feet.”

“Exactly.” Mira’s tail curled protectively around her ruined bow. “Not giving up. Just... regrouping.”

Thunder crashed closer, making the tent shudder. Rain leaked through a small tear, forming a puddle that slowly soaked into their already damp bedrolls. No one moved to fix it.

“Remember that tavern keeper in the northern quarter?” Pockets asked. “The one who kept trying to hire us as bouncers?”

“Free meals included,” Thadan mused. “Doesn’t sound so bad now.”

“Could save up,” Mira added. “Build up a proper gear fund before taking another contract.”

“Be smart about it,” Brakar said. “Like actual professionals.”

They all laughed at that, though the sound held more exhaustion than humor.

The rain continued its assault as night crept in. Their usual watch rotation fell apart as exhaustion won out over caution. Besides, what self-respecting bandit would target four adventurers who looked like they’d already been robbed by fate itself?

Brakar drifted between sleep and waking, his thoughts circling like vultures. The mimic-lantern was almost a small victory—convincing a monster to become something useful rather than fighting it. But useful things had a way of being destroyed in their line of wor…

****

A particularly loud thunderclap jolted him awake. In the brief flash of lightning, he caught glimpses of his companions’ faces. Thadan staring at nothing, likely still running numbers in his head. Mira curled around her bow like a mother protecting a child. Pockets clutching a handful of gears, her usual excited energy replaced by something darker.

They were all so young, he realized. Not just in age, but in experience. They’d started this adventure with dreams of glory, of proving themselves to the world. Now they huddled in a leaking tent, trying to convince themselves that “taking a break” wasn’t the same as admitting defeat.

Movement outside caught his attention. Through a gap in the tent flap, he spotted another adventuring party making camp. Their gear was pristine, their movements confident. One of them wore the silver medallion of a higher-ranked guild.

The sight should have inspired envy or determination. Instead, Brakar felt a strange sort of relief. At least they wouldn’t have to watch their own slow decline into obscurity. Better to “take a break” now, while they could still pretend it was temporary.

Thunder rolled again, closer this time. The leak in the tent had grown, forming a steady drip that traced patterns in the mud. Patterns that, in Brakar’s exhausted mind, looked disturbingly like centipede tracks.

A sudden gust of wind caught the tent, making the canvas snap like a sail. For a moment, the sound was indistinguishable from the click of mandibles. Brakar wasn’t the only one who flinched.

“We should get some sleep,” Thadan said, his voice barely audible over the storm. “Long walk back to the city tomorrow.”

No one mentioned that they could barely afford lodging anymore. Or that their usual backup plan—camping in the guild hall—would mean facing questions about their failed mission. Some truths were better left unspoken, at least for one more night.

The rain redoubled its efforts, as if determined to wash away their last shreds of dignity. In the darkness, someone—probably Pockets—began humming that damn dwarf and dragon song. No one told her to stop.

They huddled closer, sharing what little warmth remained. Tomorrow would bring hard decisions and harder conversations. But for now, they had this: four friends in a leaking tent, pretending that “taking a break” meant anything other than the end.

A flurry of memories came and went in Brakar’s mind. Memories of how they used to plan their futures over drinks at Six Spoons. Mira sketching maps of unexplored territories on napkins, Pockets describing impossible machines she'd build, Thadan swearing they would get Bronzeite-rank next week. They'd been so sure, so absolutely certain that determination and friendship would be enough. Now here they lay, holding each other against the storm, and Brakar realized what he'd really miss wasn't the adventuring at all—it was…

This.

The four of them, together, making even the worst situations bearable just by being there. He wanted to tell them that, to put into words how much these moments had meant to him—

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the silver medallion of that other party. Its gleam seemed to mock them, a reminder of everything they’d failed to achieve. Brakar closed his eyes against the sight, but the afterimage remained: success, just out of reach.