The Jade River lived up to its name. It wasn't just water; it was liquid life, flowing cool and clear over smooth river stones, dappled by sunlight filtering through the canopy of ancient oaks and ferns.

  To a group of adventurers who had spent the last forty-eight hours being baked, brined, and nearly eaten by dehydrated horrors, it looked like the fountain of youth.

  “I am going to live in it,” Faelar announced.

  The dwarf didn't bother with ceremony. He had stripped off his heavy plate armor, leaving it in a pile on the grassy bank. Dressed only in his woolen tunic and breeches, he marched toward the water with the determination of a man going to war.

  He didn't wade in. He walked straight off the bank and into the deep channel.

  Splash.

  He didn't surface.

  “Uh, Commander?” Liam asked, pausing in the middle of unlacing his boots. “Do dwarves float?”

  “Generally, no,” I said, watching the bubbles rise from the spot where Faelar had vanished. “Bone density.”

  We waited ten seconds. Twenty.

  Finally, a head broke the surface. Faelar gasped, spitting a fountain of water into the air like a whale.

  “It’s cold!” he roared happily. “It’s freezing! I love it! I am marinating! Leave me here until I turn into a prune!”

  He sank back down to the bottom.

  I sat on the bank, pulling my boots off. My feet were raw, the skin cracked from the salt. I dipped a toe in. The cold shock sent a shiver up my spine that felt like pure ecstasy.

  I stripped off my tunic and slid into the shallows. I grabbed a handful of river sand and began to scrub the layers of salt and monster grime from my skin. The water turned gray around me, carrying away the desert.

  Nearby, Liam was having a crisis.

  The elf was staring at his reflection in a quiet pool near the reeds. He touched his hair, which was currently a matted, wind-blown disaster of salt and dust.

  “Ruined,” Liam whispered, horrified. “The keratin structure is compromised. I look like a scarecrow.”

  He reached into a hidden pocket of his discarded vest and produced a tiny, crystal vial stoppered with silver wax.

  “What is that?” I asked, rinsing the grit from my hair. “Potion of Healing?”

  “Better,” Liam said solemnly. “Elven Royal Conditioner. Extracted from the moon-blooms of the Silver Gardens. I was saving this for a coronation or a funeral, but this...” He gestured to his head. “This is a state of emergency.”

  He uncorked it. A scent of lavender, honey, and excessive vanity drifted across the water.

  “Don't look at me,” Liam snapped, pouring the shimmering purple liquid onto his head. “This is a private ritual.”

  I laughed, splashing water at him.

  Even in paradise, I couldn't turn the soldier off completely. I washed quickly, my eyes scanning the treeline. My spear was stabbed into the mud of the riverbank, exactly one arm’s length away.

  Elmsworth was sitting on a rock, cleaning his goggles with a leaf. Willow was wading knee-deep, humming to a school of minnows. Nugget was floating on his back in an eddy, feet sticking up in the air, looking like a feathery piece of driftwood.

  We were safe. For the first time in days, nothing was trying to kill us.

  “We need a perimeter,” I said an hour later as we dragged ourselves onto the bank, clean and shivering. “I’ll get some wood for a lean-to.”

  I reached for my hand-axe.

  “Put it away, Commander,” Willow said gently.

  She was standing by the base of a massive Weeping Willow tree—an ancient giant whose trailing branches kissed the surface of the river.

  “We don't cut,” Willow said, placing her hand on the rough bark. “We ask.”

  “Ask?” I paused. “It’s a tree, Willow. It doesn't speak Common.”

  “It speaks Life,” she corrected.

  She closed her eyes. She didn't cast a spell—there were no arcane words, no hand gestures. She just hummed. It was a low, vibrating note that resonated in my chest.

  The tree groaned.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Above us, the massive, thick branches began to shift. It wasn't violent; it was like a sleeper stretching. The long, trailing vines curled upward, weaving together with the lower branches. The roots at the base shifted, rising out of the soil to form natural benches.

  In less than a minute, the tree had formed a perfect, weather-proof dome of living wood and leaves.

  “Structure complete,” Elmsworth marveled, tapping a root. “Rapid cellular mitosis induced by sonic frequency? Or perhaps telekinetic manipulation of the xylem?”

  “He just wanted a hug,” Willow said, smiling at the tree. “We can sleep inside. But Faelar has to wipe his feet. The tree is picky about mud.”

  By sunset, the camp felt like home.

  Faelar had caught three large river trout using nothing but patience and his hands. He was currently roasting them on flat stones heated by the fire. The smell of cooking fish—real food, not gray blocks—was intoxicating.

  “Almost done,” Faelar promised, sprinkling crushed wild garlic over the sizzling skin. “Patience. You can't rush art.”

  I sat on a root-bench, watching the firelight dance on the water. My Ward Stone was drying on a rock near the river’s edge, glowing softly in the twilight.

  “Commander,” Liam said, running a comb through his now-silky hair. “I believe we deserve a toast. To surviving the worst vacation spot in history.”

  “To surviving,” I agreed.

  A rustle in the reeds caught my ear.

  I stiffened, my hand drifting toward my spear.

  “Relax, Kaelen,” Willow said, slicing a river-melon. “It’s probably just a rabbit.”

  It wasn't a rabbit.

  A head poked out of the tall grass. It was sleek, wet, and furry. It had huge, black eyes and whiskers that twitched mischievously. And on top of its head, a tuft of white fur stood up like a punk-rock mohawk.

  A Giant River Otter. It was the size of a wolf, but moved with a fluid, liquid grace.

  It sniffed the air. It looked at the fish.

  “Oi!” Faelar warned, waving a spatula. “Shoo! This isn't a charity kitchen!”

  The Otter chattered—a sound like a high-pitched laugh. It didn't want the fish. Its eyes locked onto something else. Something blue and shiny sitting on the rock.

  My Ward Stone.

  “Hey,” I said, standing up.

  The Otter moved like lightning. It darted forward, a blur of wet fur.

  Snatch.

  It grabbed the stone in its mouth. It looked at me, winked, and did a backflip into the river.

  SPLASH.

  “My map!” I yelled. “My quest log! That weasel just stole the Game Master!”

  “Get it!” Faelar shouted. “That’s our god!”

  I didn't think. I dove.

  The water was cold and dark. I opened my eyes, stinging in the murky current. I saw the blue glow of the stone moving fast downstream.

  The Otter was playing with us. It swam in loops, rolling and twisting.

  Liam splashed in beside me, swimming with surprising speed. We chased the glow.

  Suddenly, a golden torpedo shot past my head.

  Nugget.

  The chicken was paddling furiously, his little legs blurring like propellers. He was surprisingly hydrodynamic. He gained on the Otter, pecking at its tail.

  The Otter, annoyed by the aggressive poultry, veered toward a small, muddy island in the center of the river.

  It scrambled up the bank, shook itself dry, and dropped the Ward Stone onto a pile of junk.

  I dragged myself onto the island, coughing up river water. Liam and Nugget flopped down beside me.

  The island was a treasure trove of garbage. Shiny river rocks, pieces of colored glass, old rusted spoons, and a few gold coins. The Otter stood over its hoard, hissing at us, one paw on the Ward Stone.

  “Give it back,” I wheezed, holding out my hand.

  The Otter hissed again. It picked up the stone and dangled it over the deep water on the other side of the island.

  “It’s a hostage situation,” Liam noted, wiping wet hair from his eyes. “He wants a ransom.”

  “I have gold,” Liam offered, reaching for his pouch. He tossed a gold coin.

  The Otter sniffed it, looked unimpressed, and kicked it into the mud.

  “Picky,” Liam scowled.

  “Weapon?” I suggested, reaching for my belt knife.

  The Otter yawned.

  Faelar waded onto the island, water dripping from his beard. He was holding something in his hand.

  “Let a professional handle this,” the dwarf grumbled.

  He held up a Gray Ration Block—the processed, chemical-tasting brick from the bunker.

  “Hey, fuzz-face!” Faelar yelled. “You want the good stuff?”

  The Otter froze. Its nose twitched. It smelled the preservatives. It smelled the artificial flavoring. Its eyes went wide.

  It chirped excitedly.

  Faelar tossed the block.

  The Otter caught it mid-air. It took a bite, chewed, and looked like it had just tasted fine dining. It dropped the Ward Stone and scurried off into the reeds with its prize, happy as a clam.

  “Unbelievable,” Liam sighed. “It has the palate of a goblin.”

  “It’s addicted to the preservatives,” Faelar noted, picking up the Ward Stone and wiping off the otter spit. “Can't blame him. It’s an acquired taste.”

  While Faelar inspected the stone, Willow waded over. She wasn't looking at the Otter; she was looking at the junk pile.

  “What is this?” she whispered.

  She reached into the pile of shiny garbage and pulled out a heavy, sealed pouch made of strange, green leather. It looked old.

  She undid the clasp.

  Inside were a dozen heavy, black seeds. They were the size of musket balls.

  “Seeds?” I asked.

  “Careful,” Willow said, her voice serious. “They’re hot.”

  She held one up. It pulsed with a faint heat.

  “Iron-Maw Sunflowers,” Willow identified, a strange light in her eyes. “They aren't native to this world. They’re from the Celestial Plane. An invasive species.”

  “What do they do?” Liam asked.

  Willow smiled. It wasn't her usual gentle smile. It was the smile of a gardener who just found a flamethrower.

  “They don't just grow, Liam,” she said, pocketing the pouch. “They hunt. They shoot their seeds at high velocity to spread. If you plant these... you aren't planting a garden. You’re planting an artillery battery.”

  “Keep them,” I said immediately. “We might need artillery.”

  We returned to camp, victorious.

  The fish was slightly cold, but it tasted like heaven. The river-melons were sweet and crisp. We ate until we couldn't move.

  The fire crackled, casting long shadows against the living walls of the willow-tree dome.

  “We made it,” Faelar sighed, picking his teeth with a fish bone. “I don't want to leave. Can we just retire here? I’ll become a fisherman. Nugget can be the mayor.”

  “Bawk,” Nugget agreed sleepily from his spot near the fire.

  I pulled out the Ward Stone. It buzzed.

  [QUEST UPDATE: "THE BANDIT KING".]

  I groaned.

  [DID YOU JUST GET MUGGED BY A WEASEL? I WATCHED THE REPLAY. HILARIOUS.] [-10 CHARISMA FOR ALL OF YOU.] [PROCEED EAST TO THE RUINS. VACATION IS OVER.]

  “He saw it,” Liam said, mortified. “The Game Master saw me chasing an otter.”

  “He’s laughing at us,” Faelar chuckled. “At least someone is having fun.”

  I looked at the message. Vacation is over.

  I looked at my team. Clean. Fed. Rested. And armed with new weapons—Faelar’s "Toothpick" and Willow’s "Bullet Seeds."

  “We move at dawn,” I said, tossing a log on the fire. “But tonight... tonight we sleep dry.”