Rowan Briar lost a staring contest with a giant stone wall, festooned with ancient glyphs that were as cryptic as they were old. These glyphs, relics of a language so dead that even the ghosts had stopped speaking it, whispered secrets of the past—if only one could understand them.

He held up what looked, at first glance, like a torch. Yet the light did not flicker as they would with flames. The tip of the would-be-torch was a bulbous glass that emitted light, a variation of one of Rowan’s many designs. The light-stick helped illuminate the otherwise dark and damp ruins.

"Does not belong," Rowan muttered under his breath, squinting at the line he had just translated. "Well, that's either a dire warning or the world's oldest 'keep off the grass' sign."

Perched on his shoulder, his trusty metal bird, who was a quarter the size of his hand and sported a charming patch of rust that gave her a rather distinguished look, seemed to be dozing off. Rowan flicked a finger at her, and she opened her metallic eyes with what could only be described as mechanical irritation.

"Arcadia," he said, "this glyph here—it could mean something like 'displacement' or 'displaced', but are there other meaning we could interpret from it?"

Arcadia, who was a G.O.L.E.M. (Geological Observation and Linguistic Excavation Model) and not just any old tin can with wings, folded her wings with the air of a professor about to deliver a lecture. She peered at the glyph, then replied in her best imitation of a wise old teacher, "Based on the exceedingly limited data you've provided—namely, your guesswork—I can confirm 'displaced' is a plausible translation."

Rowan sighed. Over a decade of companionship, and Arcadia's ability to sass him had only sharpened. Most ruin divers wouldn't bother naming their golems, but Rowan found 'Arcadia' suited her rather well, especially given her penchant for lofty language and her occasional, unhelpful accuracy.

"Very helpful," he grumbled.

Arcadia shot back, "If I were programmed with more extensive knowledge than what your admittedly sparse educational background offers, I might be more useful."

"Great," Rowan replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as thick as the dust covering the less interesting sections of the wall.

The room they were in had a rather flexible definition of 'room'. It was more a reluctant cave that had been bullied into a semblance of architecture by ancient, possibly bored, builders. A thousand years of time and the Calamity tended to push their ancient ruins underground. The journey to this room had been an adventure in itself, involving a series of traps that would have made a less sturdy man weep, caves that seemed to twist like the plot of a particularly convoluted novel, and a descent into the earth that suggested a mild disregard for personal safety.

A few weeks prior, this ruin had been merely a whisper on the wind, a rumor that tickled Rowan's ears and wallet in equal measure. After squandering a small fortune on maps—half of which were as accurate as a blindfolded dart player—he had stumbled upon this underground marvel.

As a scavenger, Rowan had seen his share of precarious situations, but being this deep underground made him twitchier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. The earth around him rumbled ominously, as if it were the stomach of a colossal creature that had skipped breakfast. Pebbles pattered down, bouncing off his head with irritating regularity.

"My scans indicate our geological surroundings are unstable," observed Arcadia with the air of someone commenting on mildly disappointing weather.

Rowan shot the G.O.L.E.M. a look that could have curdled milk and bit back a retort that would have involved suggestions about the bird's circuitry and a rusty hammer.

He turned his attention to the door before them. In his line of work, Rowan knew that ruins had the structural integrity of a chocolate teapot once disturbed. Time was of the essence. If the cave collapsed, he'd be permanently redecorating the walls with a motif of 'post-modern crushed scavenger'. Dying was on his list of things to do eventually, but preferably not today, and certainly not squashed under several tons of rock.

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So, he did what any self-respecting ruin raider would do: he scrutinized the wall of glyphs with the intensity of a cat watching a particularly slow mouse. Doors, in Rowan's experience, were straightforward: they opened, they closed. This one was stubbornly doing the latter, and he needed it to do the former. He had faced many a cryptic door in his time, but never with such a pressing need to hurry. His instincts screamed at him: solve this riddle, grab the ancient goodies, and run like the wind.

Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart, Rowan touched the glyphs he recognized. They lit up with a soft blue glow, reminiscent of moonlight. He muttered to himself, flipping phrases around in his mind like a chef with pancakes. Then, stepping back, he noticed a gap in the glyphic tapestry—a missing piece in the puzzle. Above it was a glyph he was sure he’d seen before, but couldn't remember.

"What does this glyph mean in this context?" he asked Arcadia, hoping the bird was more useful than before.

Arcadia chirped to herself a few times, summoning the knowledge from their traveling cart, which acted both as a home and vehicle to traverse the dangerous Fog. There, Arcadia's main body, the G.O.L.E.M., sat. It held within it all of her intelligence and whatever information she picked up along the way.

"Body and fluid," Arcadia chirped after a brief consultation with her golem counterpart, which housed more brains than seemed fair for one bird.

Rowan groaned. It figured.

Ancient door designers loved their riddles steeped in drama. Not fully understanding, but willing to gamble, he pulled out his knife, pricked his thumb just enough to coax out a bead of blood, and pressed it against the gap. Something shifted, both in the door and in Rowan's heart beat.

His grin split his face as the door spiraled open, the glyphs receding into the walls. The rumbling intensified, now suggesting the mountain did not like Rowan’s presence. Experience told him that he did not have much time left.

The hallway beyond flickered to life with a blue light that had the distinct air of trying too hard to be mysterious. "Oh, very subtle," Rowan muttered, not at all impressed by the dramatics. The walls were lit up with more glyphs, many he did not recognize. He turned to his metal-feathered companion, "Are you getting this?"

Arcadia, with the dignity only a bird could muster, fluttered off his shoulder. She circled him, eyeing the glyphs with the intensity of a scholar. They had a system. Arcadia would scout, but never too far ahead, because apparently ancient architects loved a good trap as much as they loved cryptic hallway lighting.

Rowan, meanwhile, strolled on, ignoring the glyphs. He had Arcadia for that, and besides, the ground was beginning to throw a tantrum beneath his feet. Each step seemed to offend it more, as if Rowan were a guest who had overstayed his welcome. Which, in fairness, he might have been considering he was there to pilfer whatever ancient tech he could find.

The ancients had been quite the overachievers, blending technology and magic in ways that would make even the most seasoned alchemist weep. Unfortunately, their knowledge also caused the Calamity that broke the world, which is why Rowan was now walking through a ruin that could, at any given moment, decide to redecorate with him as the centerpiece.

But the sheer delight of uncovering secrets that hadn't seen the light of day for centuries was enough to keep Rowan’s smile firmly in place, even as his heart performed an impressive drum solo in his chest. Discovery, he thought, was quite the intoxicating brew.

And then there was the promise to his father, a vow to use whatever he found for good. He would change the world with his sun tech, using the remnants of ancient technology to build a better future.

The rumbling grew insistent, like a host gently suggesting it was time to leave. Arcadia, ever the practical one, fluttered back to his shoulder, her tiny claws gripping as if to say, "I told you so."

At the end of the corridor, they faced another door. This one was refreshingly unadorned, no glyphs, no warnings, just a seam in the middle that begged to be parted. The whole hallway shook, warning him louder than ever.

Rowan hesitated. The ruins were practically shouting at him to turn back. Was it worth it? Was this quest for knowledge worth the very real possibility of becoming part of the architectural foundation?

With a deep breath, Rowan pushed against the door. The thrill of discovery, the promise of adventure, and perhaps a dash of sheer stubbornness spurred him on. Whatever lay beyond, be it treasure or trap, Rowan Briar was ready.

A bit of danger was just part of the charm.