The Map Only I Can Read

By the third day, he had learned enough.

There were five villages within walking distance, each more ruined than the last. And the farther you walked—from the first to the fifth—the shorter the lives, the dimmer the eyes.

It was as if the land itself was training you to stop hoping for anything at all while getting closer to the edge of the map.

Crops refused to grow, the old irrigation canals lay buried beneath dried mud and forgotten landslides. Bandits still came, not for loot—there was none—but hunt for food.

Most of the original residents had either fled or been forgotten. No knights, no tax collectors, no help. Just people trying not to die.

And yet, Ren crouched near the dry canal, running his fingers through the dirt—"It wasn't all dead". Not completely. The soil was tired, yes. Thin and cracked. But not lifeless, he could feel it.

He'd seen worse — worse floodplains, worse drought lands, worse ruins left behind by rulers who promised help and never gave it. Places where people had no reason left to hope.

And every time, he'd told himself he wouldn't look away.

It needed rotation. Organic matter. Wood ash. A proper slope to let water flow again. The planner in him couldn't stop seeing the shape of what could be.

He looked toward the nearby hill, dry grass dancing like whispers in the wind.

If he cut a channel across the slope, he could divert rainwater into the old basin. Three sluice gates would do. Re-dig the trenches. Stack retaining walls from the broken foundations scattered nearby. It wasn't beautiful, but it was doable.

But first, he needed a plan. He couldn't dig an entire water channel with bare hands.

Ren stood, brushing dirt from his palms, and turned back toward the village. He couldn't pretend not to see. Not again.

"Hey, old man. You in?"

The door creaked open. "What now?"

"Is there any real town near here? Not like this place… I mean one with actual people and supplies."

The old man scratched his stubbled chin. "South. Takes nearly a full day on foot, if you're lucky enough."

Ren tossed him a small cloth bag. "Here. Bread inside. I'm trusting you with this. I only took one for myself—give the rest to those who actually need it."

The old man caught the bag, frowning. "What's this supposed to mean? You running off now?"

Ren heard him, but didn't stop. He raised one hand lazily in the air—a silent wave—and kept walking, southbound toward the town.

After a while, the question surfaced quietly in his mind:

Why am I doing this? To ease my own guilt? Or because I can't stand watching people starve when I know the land could still give them life?

But he just kept walking—southbound, toward the town.

The road south wasn't really a road—just a beaten track of hardened soil and scattered stones winding through the hills. Dust clung to his boots. Wind scratched at his cheeks like old claws. But Ren didn't complain. His mind was already walking faster than his feet, drawing maps in the air.

By noon, he crossed an old ridge overlooking a dried riverbed. But something caught his eye—black stones glittering faintly beneath the dust. He crouched. Ran a thumb over one. It left a grey smudge on his skin—soft, brittle.

"Is this… coal? " he murmured. Another question crossed his mind

Would this even matter? What if it was just dropped here by someone?

No one to ask. No one to share a thought with. He slipped the coal into his pocket.

***

A few hours later, a patch of strangely green moss lined the edge of a shaded cliffside, fed by condensation from rocks that dripped like a cracked pipe. He touched the water. Cold. Fresh. Somewhere up above, springwater must still run.

"If I dig the channel just right…" he thought. "That basin could work."

Further along, he passed a field of wild, stubborn plants growing in craggy, broken soil—burdock, wild garlic, even mountain beans. Not cultivated, just surviving. Thriving, even, where nothing else should.

"This land isn't dead. Just ignored."

He turned to head back toward the village, but something caught his eye near the base of a shattered stone wall—a faint shimmer beneath the dust.

Curious, he crouched and brushed the dirt aside, revealing a small glass-sealed scroll tucked beneath the rubble. The parchment inside was yellowed, but strangely intact. Sealed in old wax. Its surface hummed faintly beneath his fingers—not magical, not quite, but warm, like it had been waiting.

The writing was unreadable. Curved lines. Dotted symbols. Almost like a map… or the memory of one.

He tilted his head, studying it.

It didn't glow. It didn't whisper.

Still, he slipped it into his bag, between a folded note and his spare charcoal. Something about it felt like it mattered.

Maybe later, it would make sense.

***

The light had turned to a heavy gold, casting long shadows across the rocky landscape. Ren's feet were sore, dusted with red earth, and his shoulders ached from the bag slung over his back.

Just as he considered stopping for the night, he spotted something strange from the hillside—unnatural angles in a land ruled by curves.

He climbed toward it, brushing away brittle grass and loose stones until he found it… the skeleton of a forgotten mining camp.

Collapsing wooden beams jutted from the hillside like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Rusted tracks curled into a tunnel choked with rubble. A pulley system hung lifeless over a crumbling shaft, half-swallowed by time. The wind whispered through it like breath through broken teeth.

Ren crouched beside a piece of twisted iron and brushed off the dirt. "Iron tools. No—refined steel," he muttered. "Someone worked hard here once. Risked lives. For something."

He looked toward the mountain above, the veins of dark rock snaking through it. The right tools, the right people, maybe even a little luck—this place could still yield treasure. Not gold or silver, maybe. But materials. Fuel. Foundations.

He lingered until the sun dropped behind the ridge, then moved on and made camp beneath a dead tree that refused to fall, its pale limbs scratching at the stars like it was still trying to reach them.

Coyotes howled in the far distance. Ren didn't light a fire. He wrapped his coat tighter and lay still, eyes half-open, listening. No bandits. No travelers. Just the wind—sharp and hollow like an unfinished thought.

Ren couldn't sleep long, not in a place he didn't know.

When the sky lightened with morning mist, he stood and stretched, wiping dust from his clothes. The air was cold enough to sting his nose. But it carried something else—a faint scent of woodsmoke.

He climbed one final slope, boots crunching over frostbitten grass and loose gravel.

...And then he saw it for afar.

Flicker of torches, air buzzed with life—the rhythmic clatter of cooking utensils, the creak and rattle of horse-drawn carriages, and the sharp whistle of a stone-laden cart making its descent from the mountain.

A town not just surviving like the village before, but this town is thriving.

Ironpeak Town.