The world had become a vast, churning soup of mud and memory. What was once the fertile basin of Yarven, famed for its plump, golden thrum-tubers and sun-drenched fields, now stretched as an endless, grey-brown expanse under a sky the color of bruised plums. Only the very tips of the tallest elderwillows peeked above the glassy surface, their branches like skeletal fingers grasping at nothing. But for Runa Fendrel, the water was merely a new, inconvenient floor. The Floating Hearth, a two-story marvel of reinforced oak and salvaged timbers, drifted with an unsettling grace, its thick hull humming faintly with the ancient enchantments her grandfather had woven into its frame. It looked, from a distance, like a barn that had simply decided to go for a swim. Close up, it was a defiant bastion, its upper balcony a crow's nest overlooking the drowned world. Runa stood on that balcony, a heavy shawl cinched tight around her shoulders, the biting wind whipping strands of her practical brown braid across her face. Her gaze, sharp and unyielding as flint, scanned the horizon. Beside her, Bolo, her three-legged terrier mix, let out a soft whine, his one good ear twitching. He nudged his damp snout into her hand, and Runa, for a split second, let the rigid set of her jaw soften. She scratched behind his ears, her calloused fingers gentle. “Easy, Bolo,” she murmured, her voice a low rasp against the wind. “Just more water. Nothing new for us, eh?” Bolo thumped his stubby tail against the wooden rail. He was the only soul on this ark, aside from the livestock, to whom Runa showed her soft underbelly. He was deaf, so her grumbling rarely reached him, making him the perfect companion. Her eyes narrowed on a dark smudge against the horizon – the submerged roof of The Soaked Kettle, the village’s only tavern. The roof had always been sturdy, built for heavy snows, not for clinging to as the flood rose. She pointed a gloved finger. “See, boy? Told them. Never trust a spring thaw when the river spirits are restless. Said it clear as day. Did they listen? No. They scoffed.” Colossal paddles, usually reserved for guiding the barn between distant fields for new grazing, began to churn slowly, propelling the ark toward the building. The air grew colder, thick with the smell of wet earth and desperation. Runa watched as debris – a child’s wooden duck, a splintered fence post, the bloated corpse of a deer – drifted past. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line. It was a good thing she had spent the last two seasons reinforcing the craft, filling it with hanging gardens and a year’s supply of preserved tubers, despite Tobas’s mocking then. As the Hearth drew nearer, the cries of the stranded became audible over the wind and the groan of the barn’s timbers. Runa could make out figures huddled together on the sloped, moss-covered tiles of the tavern roof. A knot of familiar faces, frozen and miserable. And among them, a taller, broad-shouldered man, his red hair plastered to his forehead, clinging to a stone chimney. Tobas Murl. And next to him, a woman with bright orange ribbons tied into her braid, even now. Enna Vost. Runa guided the ark alongside the submerged structure, its massive hull nudging the fieldstone walls with a muffled thud. The barn towered over them, dry timber looming above their sodden, shivering huddle. She crossed her arms over her chest, letting them stew for a moment in their misery before speaking. “Well, look what the river dragged in,” she called out, her voice carrying surprisingly clearly despite the wind. Her tone was flat, devoid of warmth, yet laced with an undeniable, simmering satisfaction. “Last I heard, the wisdom of the elders was ‘stay put, Runa. The flood won’t reach Wallow’s End. This isn’t like the tales.’ Did I misremember that part?” Tobas, his face pale and streaked with dirt, pushed himself away from the chimney. His gaze, usually so full of gentle apology, fixed on her with open relief and a touch of shame. “Runa! Thank the spirits! We thought… we thought you wouldn’t come.” “Why wouldn’t I?” Runa retorted, a sardonic twist to her lips. “Someone has to keep you all from becoming fish food. Especially when you ignore every single warning I’ve ever given. I spent weeks telling you to reinforce your homes, to move your livestock to higher ground. Did you listen? No. Too busy laughing at the ‘crazy hermit Fendrel’ and her ‘floating folly,’ weren’t you, Enna?” Enna, usually so quick with a dismissive barb, merely shivered, her teeth chattering. Her face was pinched with cold, her orange ribbons a pathetic splash of color against the grey. She didn’t meet Runa’s gaze. “We… we made a mistake, Runa. A terrible one.” Runa allowed herself a small, internal sniff of triumph. “Indeed.” She walked over to a stout wooden winch and began to unwind a thick, braided hemp rope, its end weighted with a sturdy grappling hook. She tossed it with practiced ease. The hook arced through the air and landed with a solid clink on the tavern’s roof, just beside Tobas. “Well, don’t just stand there gawking like a flock of soaked geese. Get yourselves up here. And try not to make a mess of my clean deck.” The villagers, a mix of farmers and artisans Runa had known since childhood, scrambled for the rope. Borin, the aging miller, was first, his movements stiff with cold. He clawed his way up, his breath coming in ragged gasps, collapsing onto the deck with a pained groan. “Careful with my deck, Borin!” Runa grumbled, though she nudged a thick blanket towards him with her foot. “Don’t track mud everywhere.” One by one, they clambered aboard, their faces tight with cold exhaustion, relief, and grudging awe at the floating compound. Enna followed, her usual confident demeanor replaced by a meek gratitude. As she reached the top, she looked at Runa, her eyes surprisingly earnest. “Thank you, Runa. Truly.” Runa simply waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t thank me. Thank my grandfather’s foresight. And try not to drip too much.” Tobas was last, his boots sliding against the damp rungs as his grip faltered. He reached the deck, his hands scraped raw, his eyes meeting Runa’s. “Runa,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “I… I’m sorry. For everything.” Before Runa could deliver another sharp retort, a sound, clear and sweet as a wind chime, echoed not from the swirling waters, but from within her own mind. It was a voice that seemed to bypass her ears, settling directly into the core of her being. [Congratulations, Survivor Fendrel! Your act of selfless compassion in rescuing 11 individuals from the encroaching waters of the Vostian Deluge has been noted.] Runa stiffened, scanning the deck. No one else seemed to have heard it. Bolo, however, perked up, tilting his head as if sensing something she couldn't. [Your resilience and heroism have not gone unrewarded. The Deluge Benefactor is pleased to offer you a Gift of Comfort. A feast of warm, roasted meats, rich, spiced mead, and soft, dry blankets awaits you and your companions. Simply accept, and it shall be so.] The image of steaming venison, golden-brown and glistening, paired with a tankard of frothy mead, flashed in Runa’s mind, so vivid it made her mouth water. The smell of roasted herbs and honey seemed to waft through the freezing air. The villagers, shivering and hungry, looked so utterly miserable. A single nod, a mere thought, and it would all be theirs. A deep lethargy pulled at Runa's limbs. Just a moment of warmth, of peace. Surely, it couldn’t hurt, could it?

The Gloating Rescue