A dull ache pulsed repeatedly through Soren’s head as his eyes shot open. The world around him was gray and quiet, covered in a mist and an eerie stillness. Above him, jagged branches reached out and hung like someone had made small scrapes against the overcast sky. He blinked slowly, the coldness of the earth beneath him seeping into his bones.

  Groaning slightly, he pushed himself upright, his back scraping against the rough bark of the tree behind him. His light brown tunic stuck to him with dried sweat and dirt, and small leaves and pieces of dirt fell as he ran a hand through his hair.

  His black trousers had scraped fabric at the knees, and his boots were dirty, covered with dried mud. He looked around, disoriented.

  There were no sounds of voices, or any signs of home. The only thing to be heard was the distant rustle of leaves, and an uncomfortable silence that made the hair on his forearm stand on edge..

  "Where am I...?"

  Images flashed in his mind as he began to piece together fragments of what had occurred. His father's blood, his mother crying out, Hestus’s face.

  “Hestus-”

  His fists clenched, the memory invoking a sensation of rage, the same rage he had felt in those moments..

  "He took her…"

  Soren swallowed hard, and stood. His legs were still shaky, but they held him up, and that was enough for now. He didn’t know where he was, or have any idea of how long he’d been unconscious. But, he did know one thing.

  He had to keep moving.

  He pushed through the forest around him, following loose paths and unfavourable terrain. He continued walking for what felt like forever, though much of that time could be attributed to him getting lost. Each step he took was slow but steady, and after a while, the trees began to thin. In the distance, he saw rooftops.

  Smoke was curling lazily from the chimneys, and people were walking in the roads. This was a village. It was small, maybe a dozen buildings. They seemed to be mainly made of stone, timber, and a few moss-covered walls. The dirt paths appeared to be used as well, having the marks of both carriage wheels and the hooves of horses, meaning there had to be at least one means of travel close by.

  As he stepped onto the main trail of the village, he passed a worn wooden sign that read “BACKSTROM”, though the name meant nothing to him.

  The cloudy sky above had coloured everything in shades of dull gray. The villagers went on going about their day, very few slowing down to glance at the boy in ruined clothes and an expression of absolute confusion. No one spoke to him, either.

  Soren walked silently through the dirt road, his boots crunching the small pebbles beneath them. He slowed his walking, and approached an elderly woman sweeping the steps and porch of her home.

  “Excuse me,” he said softly, not wanting to bother the woman in case she could be of some help. “Where can I find a map?”

  She looked him over, a flash of suspicion on her face, yet she was not unkind. “Tavern’s your best bet. Down the road. Can’t miss it.”

  He nodded at her, offering a faint “thank you,” and followed the directions she had given. The building in front of him stood sturdier than the rest, its walls darker, and the sign swaying gently in from the breeze.

  “The Hollow Stag”, it read, painted in a gold colour which had long started to flake away.

  He pushed open the wooden doors slowly, and a wave of warmth and chatter among patrons spilled out and enveloped him.

  About twenty people were present in the room, a mix of traders, farmers, and wanderers. One table in the corner caught his eye among the rest. Four adventurers in worn armour and used travel gear, their weapons strapped across their backs while they laughed over mugs of ale.

  He made his way past patrons and to the bar, where an older man with greying brown hair stood, while he polished a glass lazily, eyeing him as he approached.

  “Sorry to bother, but I need to see a map,” Soren said.

  “That’ll be gold,” the bartender replied without looking up, still polishing his glass.

  Soren blinked, eyes wide with shock. “Gold? Just to look at a map?”

  The bartender shrugged, still not looking up. “You want information, boy. Information ain’t free.”

  “That’s extortion,” Soren said, still in disbelief.

  “Call it whatever you like, kid.”

  Soren’s shoulders slumped, and he looked at the man again. “Listen. I don’t have any money, but I really need—”

  “Hey, you.”

  Soren turned at the voice, unsure if it was him being spoken to or not. Something small and shiny flew through the air—a coin.

  His reflexes caught it midair, opening his fist as he looked down. A gold piece now rested in his palm, still warm from someone else's touch.

  Across the room, leaning casually against a table, stood a girl with pale pink hair tied back in a short braid, and a fringe. She wore a dark brown jacket, clearly travel-worn, which hung off one shoulder, and a half-empty mug of ale sat in her hand. Her light blue eyes met his, a flicker of amusement shining in them.

  She raised her drink slightly in greeting, and grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  He blinked, still surprised at the sudden turn of events. “Thank you.”

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  She gave him a small nod, then turned back to her group, resuming conversation.

  Soren turned back to the bar and placed the coin on the counter. The bartender picked it up quickly, as if he didn’t want to give Soren a chance to change his mind, then pulled out a worn and creased map from beneath the counter.

  Soren leaned in, and studied the world. His eyes widened, and he stared at the map like it had betrayed him.

  “No… this doesn’t make any sense.”

  He blinked, then looked again, scanning the map’s coastline, landmarks, and the named cities. There it was, at the top of the map, plain as day—Lavon. Not Eirland. Not even close.

  He was across the sea, in an entirely different province. An entirely different country.

  His breath caught in his chest at the revelation. “What the hell…”

  He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide and darting from place to place on the map in front of him, trying to will Eirland into existence, trying to convince himself it would appear somewhere.

  But it wasn’t there, not where it should be. Not where he should be. A shadow fell across the map as someone leaned over his shoulder.

  “Lost?” said a voice, playful, but laced with genuine curiosity.

  He turned his head around slowly. The pink-haired girl from earlier stood beside him, sipping from her mug, head over his shoulder while her eyes shifted between him and the map.

  “I…” Soren hesitated, not sure if he should make his concerns known.

  “I don’t understand how I’m in Lavon.”

  “Why?” she asked, resting her elbow on the bar, looking into his eyes with full attention.

  He glanced at her, still a bit surprised, then back to the map. “It’s… a long story.”

  She tilted her head, studying his face for a moment. Then without another word, she looked back toward her table, then once again to him. “Come sit with us.”

  He blinked, caught off guard at her sudden hospitality. “What?”

  “C’mon,” she said casually, a smirk on her face. “You look like you could use… something.”

  He hesitated. Every bone in him screamed caution, to be weary of her, but… he had nothing. No coin, no clue, and definitely no direction. So, after a moment, he nodded.

  She led him back to the table, where three sets of eyes turned to meet him. Soren suddenly felt the table’s attention shift towards him, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit awkward.

  At one end sat a mountain of a man, with short auburn hair and a grown out beard, whose eyes seemed to indicate he had seen his fair share of battles in his lifetime

  Beside him sat a lean elf with sharp features and green eyes, his long light blonde hair tied back neatly, a sleek engraved wooden bow strapped across his back.

  Next to them sat a girl cloaked in black with piercing dark brown eyes, her lower face from the nose and down covered by a smooth black cloth mask. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back, and twin steel daggers glinted at her sides.

  Soren straightened a little, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

  The big man grinned, betraying his intimidating appearance. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Soren,” he said. “Soren Taylor.”

  The man extended a thick arm and shook his hand firmly. “Jorge. That’s Faris,” he said as he nodded toward the elf, “and that’s Elise,” motioning to the masked girl.

  Faris gave a small nod, while Elise said nothing.

  “And you’ve met Remi,” Jorge added, grinning toward the pink-haired girl, who slid back into her seat with a relaxed smile.

  Faris eyed Soren thoughtfully. “What are you doing in a place like this, Soren of Eirland?”

  Soren stared at him. “How’d you know I’m from Eirland?”

  “Well, you speak a bit loud,” Faris said, smirking slightly. “It’s rare to find a foreigner this side of Lavon, especially someone your age. Alone.”

  Soren looked down, a look of sadness crossing his face. “I… I’m trying to get back.”

  “To Eirland?” Elise finally spoke, her voice soft and slightly muffled by her mask. “Why?”

  Soren met her gaze, and for a second, something flickered in his expression, a mix of rage and sorrow. He clenched his fists as the words came out.

  “I need to find someone.”

  “Someone important, huh?” Remi said, leaning forward slightly.

  Soren nodded, relaxing his hands once again. “It’s… personal.”

  Remi looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded, accepting his answer as she leaned back in her chair.

  “You’ve got nothing on you?” she asked. “No supplies, coins, contacts?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I woke up in the woods nearby, not too long ago. Just me.”

  Faris leaned back, arms crossed. “A lost soul.”

  Soren’s eyes dropped to the wooden table, silence lingering as thoughts flooded his mind.

  "Lost,” he thought. "Yeah… that sounded about right."

  Then the realization hit him. “Wait,” he said slowly, looking around the table.

  “Who… are you people?”

  Jorge leaned in then, resting both of his forearms on the table. “We’re adventurers, kid. Go where the coin is. Solve problems, make enemies, make friends. Repeat.”

  Soren processed the information for a moment, then nodded. “That’s… cool. I always heard stories about adventurers back home. My… my parents were too.”

  Jorge grinned. “Then I salute your parents. But, most of those stories you heard about far away adventurers are probably lies. Although some of the good ones are true.”

  He looked Soren up and down. “You need to get back to Eirland, right?”

  Soren nodded.

  “Well,” Jorge said, leaning back again, “we can help.”

  Soren raised an eyebrow, shocked at the offer. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Jorge said. “But nothing comes free.”

  Soren narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What do you want?”

  Jorge grinned once again. “Three jobs. You help us on three missions. Do your part, pull your weight. After that, we’ll get you on a ship back home.”

  Soren looked around at the table. Faris was watching him like a puzzle. Elise’s eyes were unreadable, though she didn’t seem to dislike him. Remi was sipping her drink, but clearly waiting for his answer.

  He didn’t have any money, or power, or even allies.

  But he had a reason.

  He thought for a moment, then looked up at them and nodded. “Alright… it’s a deal.”

  Faris smirked slightly, while Elise tilted her head. Remi took a sip of ale, and raised her mug again with a grin. Jorge clapped him on the back with a genuine laugh.

  “Then welcome to the Hollow Stag Company, Soren Taylor.”