Bronik jolted upright, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. The stench of stagnant water and putrid earth filled his nostrils, a phantom tide sloshing over his face, choking him. He clawed at his chest, lungs burning, until the image of the mud-choked valley, of his own desperate, drowned end, receded like a nightmare finally breaking. His cot, narrow and smelling faintly of mildewed straw, felt solid beneath him. The rough-hewn timbers of his small, lonely cabin creaked overhead. He was here, in this timeline, in this body, three months before the Klyft Surge. Three months before the world turned into a churning brown grave. He scraped a hand over his stubbled jaw, the tremor in his fingers a familiar companion. The memory, sharp as a freshly honed scythe, was of his final moments: clinging to a splintered beam as the Vulture’s Anvil itself crumbled into the roiling currents, the faces of those he couldn't save still screaming in his mind’s eye. This time, it would be different. This time, no one would call him a fool. Not for long, anyway. The morning air across the low basin was already thick with the smell of damp earth and the distant, metallic tang of forge fires burning near the market square. Bronik didn’t bother with breakfast, only splashed frigid well water onto his face, clearing the last vestiges of the nightmare. His reflection in the rusted basin showed a gaunt, dark-eyed man, the lines of bitterness already etched deep around his mouth. Good. It fit the part. He pulled on his stiff, mud-stained trousers and a coarse wool tunic, slinging a worn leather satchel over his shoulder. The walk from his isolated farmstead, nestled against the foothills, into the heart of the settlement was a familiar, unwelcome trek. Fields of ripening grain, the very land he had tilled for generations, stretched out on either side, verdant and oblivious. Soon, this rich, black soil would be nothing more than a slurry, a tomb. The thought brought a grim, almost gleeful satisfaction to his chest. As he neared the township, the low thrum of the watermills along the Rivenflow became audible, a constant, grinding rhythm. The scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat grew stronger, mingling with the sharper notes of brewing spirits. The roadside tavern, a squat, three-story building of rough-hewn stone and weathered timber, stood at the muddy crossroads, its windows opaque with grime. It was too early for the raucous evening crowd, but a few early drinkers, and the usual mid-morning gossip mongers, would already be inside. Bronik hauled back the heavy oak door. The air inside was a dense soup of stale ale, pipe smoke, and unwashed bodies. A few heads turned, then turned away, dismissing the gaunt farmer as just another local, though a few whispered ‘Bronik the Broke’ as he passed. He ignored them, his eyes scanning the dim interior until they landed on the familiar, infuriating figures. Mirzela, her flame-red hair braided with silver trinkets, sat at a corner table, her laugh a bright, tinkling sound that grated on his nerves. Across from her, Tomaz, a man whose expensive, tailored jacket seemed perpetually ill-fitting on his corpulent frame, gestured grandly with a tankard of frothing stout. A thick parchment, the deed to his fertile farmlands, lay between them. “Well, well, if it isn’t our basin's last honest farmer,” Mirzela called out, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. A few nearby patrons chuckled into their drinks. Her eyes, once pools of warm affection, now held only a cold, calculating amusement. “Come to beg for another extension, Bronik? Or have you finally accepted that some dreams are simply too grand for a man of your… limited means?” Tomaz let out a booming laugh, his jowls jiggling. “Careful, my dear. He might still try to sweet-talk you out of your senses. Though I imagine even you, Mirzela, have learned your lesson about poor investments.” He winked at her, then turned his gaze to Bronik, a predatory gleam in his narrow eyes. “The ink is fresh, Bronik. I’ve been waiting for you to sign it away properly. No need for further delays. We have plans for your… former lands.” Bronik walked directly to their table, his boots thudding softly on the grimy floorboards. He didn’t sit. He just stood there, a thin, humourless smile playing on his lips. “No extensions needed, Mirzela. No begging, Tomaz. I’m here to finalize our arrangement.” He reached into his satchel, pulling out a rolled-up, brittle scroll. “And to propose a slight alteration to the terms.” Mirzela raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “An alteration? Really, Bronik, you have nothing left to alter. You owe Tomaz every copper, and your land is already his.” “Ah, but I do,” Bronik countered, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to their boisterous tones. He unrolled his scroll, revealing a map of the valley, with a small, jagged peak marked prominently. “I’ll sign over every single parcel of prime farmland, every acre of rich soil. For good. No more debts, no more claims.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “In exchange for one thing.” Tomaz leaned forward, intrigued. “And what might that be, Bronik? A lifetime supply of gruel? A shack in the pauper’s district?” He smirked, confident of his advantage. Bronik pointed a finger, not at the fertile plains, but at the crude drawing of the Vulture’s Anvil, the ruined watchtower atop the valley’s highest, most barren crag. “The Anvil. And the ten acres of rock it sits on. Free and clear. No strings, no future claims.” Silence descended upon the table, thick and sudden. Mirzela froze, her lids flinching before narrowing in utter disbelief. Tomaz blinked, then burst out laughing again, a harsher, more derisive sound this time. “The Anvil? That cursed pile of crumbling stone? Bronik, are you feverish? That land is worthless! A goat wouldn’t even try to graze there.” “Precisely,” Bronik said, his smile widening, baring teeth that felt sharp to his own tongue. “Worthless to you, perhaps. But to me, it’s a fair trade for the most fertile land in Ostran. Think of it, Tomaz. My debts gone, my troublesome presence removed, and you gain all this.” He gestured vaguely at the parchment. “For a few rocks. A bargain, wouldn’t you say?” Mirzela finally found her voice, a sharp, disbelieving whisper. “You’re mad. Utterly mad. You’d trade everything for that… that folly? You truly are broken, aren’t you? A spiteful fool, clinging to a worthless dream.” She shoved back from the table, rising to her feet, her face a mask of scorn. “Have your rocks, Bronik. You deserve nothing more than that empty peak.” Tomaz, still chuckling, picked up a quill from a nearby inkwell. “Mad or not, Bronik, I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Sign here.” He slid his deed across the table. “And you’ll have your magnificent crag.” Bronik took the quill. Its tip scratched against the parchment, releasing a faint scent of iron gall. With a flourish that felt immensely satisfying, he signed his name, transferring all rights to his ancestral lands, his future, to Tomaz. Then, with an equally precise motion, he signed the brittle scroll granting him ownership of the Vulture’s Anvil. He slid the documents back across the table, his gaze locking with Tomaz’s for a brief, loaded moment. “Pleasure doing business, Tomaz. I trust you’ll enjoy your new property.” He turned, ignoring Mirzela’s indignant huff, and walked out of the Ostran Tavern, leaving behind the smoke, the laughter, and the unsuspecting fools. As the heavy door swung shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the oblivious world, a single, cold drop hit his cheek. Then another. The sky, a dull, bruised grey, had begun to weep. The deluge had already started its long, slow march.

The Price of Mud