When Annan woke up in the early morning, he faced an undeniable fact:
The note was gone, and so was the drawing board.
The door had been securely fastened, and Martin was still sound asleep, buried under his bedclothes. From the faint noises outside, it was clear—the ghost had come again last night and taken the sketchpad.
That sketchpad was the first gift Annan had ever received, making it deeply memorable to him.
He roused Martin, who groggily got dressed before promptly collapsing back onto the bed.
Before long, Old Zoren appeared, announcing that today was the last day. Annan wondered if he'd show up later with bloodshot eyes, begging for "just one more chance."
Old Zoren proved his resolve with action—he dragged his lame leg directly into the gold mine.
Annan, feeling less pressured, remained optimistic. After all, the ghost had taken the sketchpad, meaning it liked the painting. Perhaps it would be waiting in the mine to guide them to untapped ore.
"Which shaft do you think will yield ore?"
Annan casually pointed to the same shaft they had explored the day before. To his surprise, Old Zoren took the suggestion seriously and urged them to hurry.
They returned to the hollow they had dug the previous day and resumed work. Old Zoren, after only a few swings of the pickaxe, decided to sit back and act as overseer, citing pain in his lame leg.
Old Zoren's constant encouragement seemed to invigorate Martin, who worked harder than usual. Annan, however, felt his strength ebbing. Old Zoren didn't scold him for it, but every time Annan paused to rest, the old man would shake his lame leg impatiently.
Annan, reluctantly, pushed himself to keep going. Fatigue warped his posture, and as he swung the pickaxe again, the sharp metal edge scraped against the rock wall, producing sparks. The pickaxe head loosened, slipped off the wooden handle, and flew through the air—grazing Annan's face and Martin's scalp before heading straight for Old Zoren.
Thank the heavens, Old Zoren was using his pickaxe as a crutch. The flying head struck it, changed direction, and ricocheted off the rock wall above, dislodging a stone. The falling rock struck Martin squarely on the head.
"This was definitely not part of my life plan..." Martin muttered, rubbing his head.
Neither Martin nor Annan noticed Old Zoren staring intently at his feet. Under the flickering light of the oil lamp, the fallen stone gleamed faintly with dark gold.
Old Zoren rushed over, scooping up the stone and seemingly forgetting how close he'd come to being injured. He urged Martin and Annan to dig faster.
Martin reluctantly raised his pickaxe, barely touching the top of the hollow. Grumbling, he began swinging upward. Meanwhile, Old Zoren, with unprecedented agility, moved well out of harm's way.
Whether their luck was good or bad remained unclear. After hours of work, they uncovered no veins—only a small piece of ore that had likely been overlooked.
BANG—
Martin dropped his pickaxe and sat heavily next to Old Zoren, thoroughly exhausted.
The echo of their labor faded into the depths of the mine. But soon, another sound emerged—muffled and strange, a chaotic mix of shouting, screaming, and running.
"Did you hear that?" Annan asked, looking toward the mine's depths in confusion.
"Yeah," Martin groaned. "My stomach's growling again."
"No..." Annan listened closely. The noise, distinctly different from pickaxe strikes, persisted.
Setting down his tool, Annan stepped out of the shaft and into the main tunnel. The sounds grew clearer—shouting, footsteps, and chaos. Realizing something was wrong, he ran back to the shaft and urged Martin to help Old Zoren move. Together, they followed the fleeing miners toward the exit.
The dim light of oil lamps flickered against the chaotic shadows. Clinging to the rock wall, Annan led the way, trying to avoid collisions or falling debris.
In the commotion, faint barking reached Annan's ears, triggering a memory—the wandering kobolds.
What are kobolds doing with the undead?
The exit's light appeared ahead. Before the kobolds could catch up, Annan, Martin, and Old Zoren escaped the mine with the others.
For the second day in a row, the miners had been driven out of the gold mine.
The foremen gathered at the camp, deliberating their next move, while the miners refused to re-enter. Meanwhile, Annan and Martin followed Old Zoren to break apart the ore they had retrieved. They smelted it down, producing a gold particle no larger than a fingernail.
It was just enough for Old Zoren to cover his costs and make a slight profit—barely more than a single silver coin. At least they hadn't come back empty-handed.
Back at the camp, the foremen remained indecisive. If it were just ghosts or a group of gnolls, they would've abandoned the mine without hesitation. After all, the gold veins were long depleted. However, the kobolds were different—small, weak, and collectors of shiny gold. If they found the kobolds' nest, it might lead to treasure.
Still, it seemed the only way forward was to offer higher pay. But that was no longer Annan's concern.
Annan persuaded Old Zoren to give up any lingering hope of striking it rich. After receiving his wages—1 silver coin and 40 copper coins each—he prepared to leave.
"Remember our deal, cousin," Martin said as he tucked 20 copper coins into his filthy, unwashed shoes. Annan wondered which unfortunate soul would ever retrieve them.
Afterward, Annan sought out the half-minotaur in a quiet part of the forest, warning her about the kobolds and ghosts.
"My name is Annan," he introduced himself.
"Tasya," the minotaur replied.
"A... female name?" Annan asked hesitantly.
"What do you think?" Tasya's tone made it clear she wasn't entertaining further questions.
Annan wisely dropped the subject. "I hope we meet again."
As Annan and Martin left the camp, Annan glanced back to see Tasya standing under the trees, watching him.
---
Returning to the familiar town, Annan's regret and exhaustion began to lift. When he reached Aunt Susan's house, he spotted her sturdy figure wearing an apron, and his spirits rose.
"Aunt Susan!"
Martin, who hadn't been home in days, ran to her excitedly.
"Oh, my little Annan, look at you—you're so thin and dirty..." Aunt Susan pushed Martin aside to embrace Annan. "Your poor hands... Aunt Susan's heart aches for you!"
Thanks to their return, dinner that night was especially hearty. Aunt Susan even boiled water so the boys could wash up.
Martin emerged from his bath quickly, while Annan soaked longer, savoring the relief. However, when he joined the table, the atmosphere felt tense.
Uncle Hollin sat awkwardly, as though waiting for a show to start, while Martin frantically gestured for Annan to stay quiet.
"Little Annan, how much money did you earn?" Aunt Susan asked sweetly.
"Forty copper coins a day. Why?" Annan tilted his head, puzzled.
"Thank you, little Annan," Aunt Susan said warmly—before grabbing a broom and turning on the panicked Martin.
---
Mr. Fast wouldn't return for another three days, meaning Annan was jobless again.
"Little Annan, would you like to go out and play tomorrow?" Aunt Susan asked kindly after finishing her "discussion" with Martin.
Annan wanted to protest that he wasn't a child but realized he could use some emotional recovery after the mines.
"What about me?" Martin chimed in, tying together the broken broom.
"You'll cut all the firewood that's been piling up!" Aunt Susan replied sharply.