"Uncle Hollin, are you awake?"
At dawn, Annan woke early and roused Martin, who was slumped and nearly falling off his chair. Groggily rubbing his eyes, Martin shuffled out of the room. Outside in the yard, Uncle Hollin was chopping wood, a strip of sackcloth wrapped around his injured right foot.
The weary Uncle Hollin forced a weak smile. "I… I'm just worried about you, Annan. That gold mine is no place for a child."
"Good morning, Uncle Hollin," Annan greeted cheerfully, stepping out behind Martin. Hollin's smile softened, becoming more genuine at the sight of the boy.
The aroma of breakfast wafted from the kitchen, blending with the mist that shrouded Pinglin Town. Aunt Susan emerged carrying food: a steaming bowl of chicken soup, mashed potatoes, warm toasted brown bread, and a bowl of freshly baked apple pie.
"Why didn't we have food like this yesterday?" Uncle Hollin asked, startled by the feast before him as he sat down on a low wooden chair.
"You don't need such good food!" Aunt Susan snapped, swatting away the grubby hands of her husband and Martin with a spoon. She carefully served Annan first, filling his wooden bowl.
"Little Annan, eat up. You'll need your strength for work," she said kindly.
"Thank you, Aunt Susan," Annan replied with sincerity.
Aunt Susan's affection for Annan went beyond mere kindness. She had learned the hard way that once Uncle Hollin and Martin were done eating, the dining table resembled a battlefield ravaged by ferocious demons.
As Annan and Martin prepared to leave, Aunt Susan called out sternly, "Martin! Take care of little Annan, or you'll answer to me!"
The pair set off under the weight of Aunt Susan's worried gaze.
Pinglin Town, as told in the tales of bards, was an isolated place. It lay surrounded by vast forests that stretched for miles, bordered by the coast, snow-capped mountains, and eerie swamps. There were no churches, no marauding greenskins, no political intrigue—just an overwhelming quiet. Even those who craved peace found its stillness unsettling. The only ones who seemed to thrive here were druids attuned to the wilderness and hyena-like kobolds prowling the forest depths.
But as the bards always warned: never trust a bard's tale. They craft lies to make stories captivating and twist words to make songs rhyme.
The Haunted Gold Mine lay on the edge of the forest, not far from where Annan had first appeared.
When Annan had arrived in Pinglin Town and taken refuge in Aunt Susan's home, his initial goal had been to find a way back to where he came from. On his third morning in Pinglin, he'd persuaded Uncle Hollin to take him to the forest. But once there, Annan secretly slipped away, trying to retrace his steps to a meadow he remembered.
Instead, he stumbled upon a group of kobolds.
The creatures, more lizard-like than canine in appearance, wore ragged scraps of cloth and carried crude short spears and slingstones. Their guttural barking sent a shiver down Annan's spine.
Suppressing his curiosity about these "fantasy creatures," Annan fled. While the odds of being killed by kobolds seemed low, they weren't zero.
Later, he recounted the encounter to a local bard, who confirmed his decision to run. "More adventurers have been slain by kobolds than dragons," the bard said gravely. Kobolds, he explained, were cowards who thrived on ambushing lone travelers. They preferred dark forests and caves, avoided larger groups, and fled even from a single sheep if it seemed threatening.
Now, walking with Martin toward the gold mine, Annan was brought back to the present as they met their foreman at a fork in the road. The man, Old Zoren, was a grizzled veteran with a pronounced limp.
"Hollin couldn't make it?" Zoren asked, his sharp eyes scanning Annan. The boy's pale, delicate skin and frail frame gave the impression he was unfit for hard labor.
"I'm Martin's cousin," Annan replied politely.
Zoren's expression softened slightly. "Alright then. Let me explain the rules," he said in a thick, unintelligible accent. Annan caught only fragments, but one message was clear: stealing gold was strictly forbidden.
"Martin, show him to the shed," Zoren ordered, waving them off.
The gold mine sprawled across a desolate hillside. Wooden shacks dotted the barren landscape, and workers moved about in silence. At first, Annan assumed these were Old Zoren's men, but their indifference toward him suggested otherwise.
The camp was peculiar. Contrary to Annan's expectations, miners seemed free to leave the site at will. They cooked openly over campfires, and supervision was lax.
Zoren led them to a shabby shed, unlocking the door with an old key. Inside, crooked wooden beds sat unevenly on a dirt floor. Insects flitted freely, and a rickety bedside table doubled as a cabinet and dining surface.
"This will be your quarters," Zoren said gruffly before handing them a single oil lamp. "Let's see if you bring luck."
Annan followed Zoren into the mine, holding the oil lamp. The deeper they ventured, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Shadows loomed in the flickering light, and the faint scent of something burning hung in the air.
The mine was decrepit, with collapsed tunnels and scattered, rusted tools. It was evident this was an exhausted gold mine—a place where hopes of finding gold had long since dried up.
"This is where you'll dig," Zoren said, leaving them with the oil lamp and retreating into the darkness.
Martin immediately set to work, resuming a half-dug hole from the previous day. Annan, meanwhile, explored cautiously, the lamp's glow illuminating floating specks of dust.
"Cousin, I'm stuck!" Martin's muffled voice called out suddenly.
Annan turned to see Martin wedged awkwardly in the narrow hole, his legs flailing comically. He stifled a laugh, hesitating to help because of how undignified the situation looked. "Let go of the pickaxe and crawl out first," Annan suggested.
Martin managed to extract himself, but when he reached back for the pickaxe, he tugged at something else—a tattered, pale piece of cloth.
"Ghost!!!" Martin screamed, dropping the pickaxe and bolting.
"Human!!!" came a ghastly wail. A spectral figure darted through the mine, vanishing into the rock wall.