Where Maps Come To Life

The morning air was crisp, cool against Fiora’s skin as she stirred from sleep. The ground beneath her was hard and unyielding, her makeshift bedding offering little comfort against the forest floor. She groaned softly, rubbing her arms as she blinked the blurriness from her vision.

The past week since her house’s fall had been a struggle, but even then, she had never quite adjusted to this. Life on the road, sleeping under the open sky, waking to the sound of rustling leaves instead of a maid’s gentle knock.

As her senses sharpened, she noticed the faint scent of something warm, rich, and bitter drifting in the air. Across the small clearing, River was already awake, crouched near the fire. His expression was sharp, despite looking aloof. The mercenary barely acknowledged her as he poured a dark liquid from his battered tin kettle into a wooden mug. Without a word, he stood and walked over, handing it to her.

Fiora blinked at the steaming cup in confusion.

“What’s this?” she asked, eyeing the murky brown liquid as if it might bite her.

River sighed, his voice flat. “It’s coffee, missy, not poison.”

Fiora scowled, taking the cup despite her skepticism. “For the last time, don’t call me missy.”

River ignored her, already returning to his spot by the fire.

Bringing the cup to her lips, Fiora took an eager sip—and immediately regretted it. The overwhelming bitterness hit her tongue like a slap. She coughed, shoving the cup away from her mouth.

“Ugh! That’s awful!” she gasped. “How can you drink this? My evening teas are far better!”

River smirked over the rim of his own cup. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t get to sip fancy little teas in gold-rimmed cups, princess.”

Fiora scowled at him but had no comeback. He wasn’t wrong.

After a long pause, she forced another sip down, shuddering at the taste. It was disgusting—but it was warm. And in this unfamiliar world she had thrown herself into, warmth was a small comfort.

Her stomach rumbled, and she turned to see River ripping off a piece of dry cracker. He tossed one her way without asking, and she caught it, eyeing the bland, stale-looking thing in her hands.

She took a bite. Immediately, her face contorted in displeasure.

“This is drier than biscuits.”

River snorted. “And yet, you’re still eating it.”

Fiora sighed dramatically but continued chewing. It was true—hunger was a cruel motivator.

“Eat fast,” River said, finishing the last of his own meal and dusting off his hands. “We’re moving out.”

Fiora raised a brow. “Where exactly are we going?”

River pulled a worn-out map from his bag, unfolding it as he crouched down near the fire. Fiora scooted closer, peering over his shoulder. The parchment was faded, but the outlines of the land were still clear.

“Our next stop is Riena.” he said, tracing his finger along a river that cut through the land. “It’s a city with canals running through it. I’ve got business there, and we can pick up supplies, stay the night, then start our longer journey to Montevio.”

Fiora studied the map, taking in the vast kingdom of Castovia laying before her. It was strange, seeing it all like this—not as a noble’s inheritance, but as an open road.

Vermillia stretched across the southern part of the map, its fertile lands and grand cities once the heart of politics and wealth. Montevio, its capital, stood proud in the center, a beacon of old-world elegance now teetering on the edge of chaos.

North of Vermillia, Grimhelm’s jagged peaks cut across the landscape like the spine of a great beast, its frozen tundras and battle-worn people known for their unbreakable strength and unforgiving laws.

To the east, Qasira sprawled across the sands, its golden deserts and ancient spires housing the greatest scholars and mages of the kingdom. The magic academy of Ruhaer was said to be the most prestigious in the land, home to those who sought knowledge beyond mortal reach.

And to the west, Almyra lined the coast, its seafaring people thriving in a world of shifting tides and open waters. There, magic was a tool rather than a status, guiding ships and whispering to the wind.

Fiora traced the inked borders of Vermillia with her finger, following the river leading toward the canal town.

“This is really happening,” she murmured, half to herself.

River folded the map back up. “You didn’t think it was a joke, did you?”

Fiora shot him a glare. “That’s not what I meant.”

He rolled his shoulders. “Then what did you mean?”

Fiora hesitated, then sighed. “It’s just… I’ve never really looked at a map like this before.”

River raised a brow. “Did they not teach you geography in that fancy mansion of yours?”

She shot him a deadpan look. “Obviously. But I was never meant to see the world—at least, not like this.”

“Supposed to or not, you will. So let’s get moving.” River said, slinging his belongings over his shoulder.

Fiora huffed but stood, dusting off her clothes as she followed him. The road stretched ahead, winding toward the unknown.

And for the first time in her life, Fiora Di Lorenzo had no certainty where it would lead.

✾

When you’re going down, first and foremost, you need to brace your—”

“AAAAAAHHHHHH!!”

River sighed as Fiora vanished over the edge of the slope, her shriek echoing down the cliffside. A heartbeat later, a loud thud followed.

“…legs.”

Peering over the edge, he found her sprawled at the bottom, groaning in pain as she clutched her bruised limbs. Dust and disheveled hair framed her scowling face, her noble grace nowhere to be found.

River crossed his arms. “Well, you definitely got down fast.”

“Shut up,” Fiora grumbled, pushing herself upright and brushing the dirt off her already worn clothes.

River shook his head before making his own descent—with considerably more finesse. He landed beside her without so much as a stumble.

Fiora glared up at him. “Show-off.”

“All part of the service, princess.”

She huffed but didn’t argue, rubbing her arms as the two continued down the road.

The day stretched long, their boots crunching against dirt paths that slowly gave way to cobbled roads. As the sun dipped lower, streaking the sky in hues of gold and crimson, the air grew heavier with the scent of water—fresh, clean, and ever-moving.

Then, as they crested the last hill, Fiora gasped.

Before them lay Riena, the canal city of Vermillia.

Bridges arched gracefully over emerald-green waters, reflecting the warm glow of lanterns beginning to flicker to life. Elegant stone buildings lined the waterways, their balconies draped in ivy and their windows glowing softly in the fading light. Gondolas drifted lazily across the canals, their boatmen steering them with practiced ease.

Fiora’s eyes sparkled with wonder, drinking in the sight like a child seeing the world anew.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, barely aware she’d spoken aloud.

River glanced at her, noting the genuine joy on her face. It was the first time she’d looked truly at peace since he’d met her.

“Not bad,” he admitted.

Fiora turned to him, a rare, sincere smile curving her lips. “You really know how to undersell things, don’t you?”

River only shrugged.

As they stepped onto the main thoroughfare, the atmosphere shifted. The beauty of the city remained, but a subtle heaviness hung in the air. The streets were quieter than expected, and the usual vibrancy of a bustling town felt dimmed, as if a shadow loomed just out of sight.

Then came the voice.

“Brothers and sisters, do not mourn! The end is not a curse—it is a blessing! The gods have spoken, and in their wisdom, they will cleanse the wicked! Only those who embrace the truth shall be reborn in Eterna!”

River rolled his eyes as he spotted the false preacher standing atop an overturned crate, arms raised dramatically. A small gathering of weary townsfolk stood before him, some nodding, others simply listening with dull eyes.

River scoffed as the preacher’s followers handed out pamphlets, pressing them into the hands of passersby.

One acolyte reached for him. “Brother, take this and—”

River sidestepped the hand without slowing his pace. “I’ll pass.”

Fiora, however, wasn’t as lucky.

A woman in modest robes gently but firmly pressed a paper into her hands, smiling in a way that left no room for argument.

“May the gods guide your path, child,” the woman said softly before moving on.

Fiora glanced down at the pamphlet—bold golden letters gleamed against the parchment.

“Embrace the Dawn of Eterna.”

She frowned but tucked it into her pocket, unable to outright reject it.

River eyed her as they walked. “You’re actually keeping that?”

“It’s just paper,” Fiora replied, shifting uncomfortably.

River gave her a look but let it go.

They continued down the streets, passing the town’s marketplace—or what little remained of it.

Where once there had likely been laughter, haggling, and the scent of fresh spices, now only a few stubborn vendors remained, their stalls half-stocked and their expressions weary.

Fiora slowed her steps as her eyes fell on a simple fruit stand, where a middle-aged woman arranged a small selection of apples and pears.

As if sensing her gaze, the vendor smiled and picked up a ripe red apple, holding it out to her.

“Here, dear,” she said warmly. “On the house.”

Fiora blinked, then smiled back, taking the fruit. “Thank you.”

The woman dusted off her apron. “Looking at you, I’d wager you’re not from around here.”

Fiora hesitated, then nodded. “We’re just passing through.”

The vendor hummed knowingly. “Not many travelers these days. Most folks either run toward the trials or give up entirely. Can’t say I blame them.”

Fiora hesitated, looked around her, and then asked, “Why do you still work then, if you don’t mind? The world is ending, is it not?”

The vendor chuckled, shaking her head. “What else is there to do, dear? I’m no warrior, no mage. I don’t have riches to waste away my last year, and I don’t fancy throwing myself at the gods’ feet for a chance at something uncertain.”

She glanced at her wares, smoothing a hand over a basket of pears. “So I do what I’ve always done. I wake up, I sell my fruit, I feed my family. Whether the world ends tomorrow or in a hundred years—life goes on until it doesn’t.”

Fiora’s stomach clenched.

River, who had been idly flipping a coin in his hand, pocketed it with a shrug. “Guess that’s one way to look at it. If you don’t have enough money to take it easy for a year, then you have to work, don’t you?”

Fiora nodded slowly, the woman’s words sinking into her mind as they walked away.

The streets grew quieter as they neared the edge of town, where the buildings became less elegant, more worn.

River came to a stop in front of a small, unassuming building, its paint peeling and windows dark.

“I’ve got business to handle,” he announced.

Fiora glanced up at the sign above the door—the lettering was faded, almost illegible.

She frowned. “What kind of business?”

River shot her a sideways glance. “The kind you’re better off not knowing about, princess.”