Rylan Foil's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The mill road stretched east through open country, and Rylan made good time until the wheel came off a passing wagon right in front of him. The driver swore, the axle cracked, and the whole thing tipped sideways, blocking the road completely. Rylan stepped back as pottery spilled across the dirt—plates, bowls, cups—all of it shattering in a wave of broken clay. A woman stood on the tower platform above the wreckage, arms crossed. She'd been watching. Rylan recognized the deliberate stillness—someone who'd planted themselves and wouldn't budge. The road curved around the tower, but fresh snow showed no tracks. She'd closed it. He could turn back, lose another day, or he could deal with whatever she wanted. She climbed down and walked straight to him, holding something out. A pocket watch, frozen solid, with ice patterns spreading across the face. His initials were engraved on the back. He'd lost that watch two months ago when a river froze under his feet. "You dropped this when you crossed the bridge," she said. "The bridge that collapsed an hour after you left. My brother was on it." Rylan looked at the watch, then at her face. No anger there—just the flat certainty of someone who'd found an answer and wouldn't let it go. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. She shook her head. "Sorry doesn't tell me why. Sorry doesn't explain what you are." She stepped closer. "You're hunting something. I watched you pass through town asking questions about a merchant. Tell me what's worth leaving destruction behind you, or you're not going anywhere." Rylan met her eyes. He could lie, walk away, let her think what she wanted. But she'd tracked him down, stood here waiting, and she deserved more than that. "I'm hunting luck," he said. "Real luck. The kind that bends the world instead of breaking under it. And I'm cursed to chase it until I catch it or it kills me." She studied him, then pocketed the watch. "Then you're going to need help. Because whatever you're carrying, it's getting worse."