“Finn, just finish watering the vegetable patch and you’re done!”
His older brother’s voice carried across the field.
Finn looked up from the bundle of weeds in his hands and smiled.
He raised one arm in reply, then wiped the sweat from his brow with the other.
“All right!”
The afternoon sun hung low enough to cast long shadows across the farm, though the heat had not faded much.
Finn crossed the field with brisk steps, passing rows of grain and a small pen where two goats watched him without interest.
The vegetable patch sat near the cottage where the soil was softer and easier to water.
Finn dropped the weeds beside the fence and carried an empty pail toward the well.
He lowered the bucket, waited for the splash, then pulled it back up with both hands.
The rope scraped against his palms, but years of farm work had made the motion easy.
The seedlings had already started pushing through the dirt.
Small green leaves broke through the dark soil in neat rows, still fragile but healthy.
Finn smiled as he knelt beside them.
It would not be long before they had fresh vegetables again.
His mouth watered at the thought of biting into a cucumber straight from the vine.
His mother would probably slice the first few with salt and herbs, though Finn would happily eat one before it ever made it into the kitchen.
He poured the water slowly, careful not to drown the new roots.
The seedlings bent beneath the droplets before slowly lifting again.
Finn had almost reached the final row when the ground trembled.
The water inside the pail rippled.
He stopped and looked toward the forest beyond the hill.
The shaking lasted only a few seconds, but it was strong enough to disturb the birds hidden among the trees.
A flock burst above the canopy, scattering across the sky in every direction.
Finn’s heartbeat quickened.
Something had happened in the forest.
He finished watering the last row a little faster than before, though he was still careful not to step on any of the seedlings.
Once the pail was empty, he set it beside the fence and looked toward the hill again.
Rowan had already returned to the far field and did not seem concerned.
Finn, however, could not stop thinking about the birds.
Curiosity tugged at him, followed by that familiar excitement he always felt whenever travelers passed through the village carrying weapons and stories from places he had never seen.
He hurried toward the cottage.
“Ma, I’m going to check the forest really quickly!” he called as he passed the open window.
His mother answered from somewhere inside.
“Be back before dinner, okay?”
“I will!”
Finn ran toward the trees with a grin.
The forest was quieter than usual.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves in broken patches, shifting across the ground whenever the branches moved overhead.
Finn followed a narrow animal trail between the trunks, listening for anything strange.
Instead, he found mushrooms.
Several grew beside a fallen log, their pale caps broad and clean.
Finn crouched to inspect them before carefully twisting them free.
His eyes lit up as soon as he realized they were edible.
His mother could add them to tonight’s dinner.
Since he had not brought a basket, Finn removed his straw hat and placed the mushrooms inside.
The discovery slowed him down for only a few minutes before he continued deeper into the forest, carrying the hat in both hands as the trees gradually began to thin.
He stepped through a cluster of bushes and stopped.
A clearing stretched out in front of him.
Huh?
Finn knew this forest well.
He had gathered firewood here, searched for missing goats, and followed Rowan through these same paths since childhood.
This clearing had never been here before.
Near the center, the ground had split apart around a newly formed hill.
A dark stone entrance had appeared in its side, with two large doors standing open beneath faint blue symbols carved into the surrounding rock.
Finn nearly dropped the hat full of mushrooms.
Excitement rose so quickly that his chest tightened.
“A dungeon…”
A new dungeon had appeared less than an hour from the farm.
For years, he had dreamed about becoming an adventurer, but every known dungeon was too far away.
The nearest required more than a full day of travel, and he could not leave Rowan to handle the farm work alone every time he wanted to train.
This was different.
He could finish his chores in the morning and come here afterward.
He could practice and still be home before dark.
Finn stepped closer.
Cool air drifted from the tunnel, carrying the smell of stone and something strangely fresh underneath it.
Grass?
His hands tightened around the brim of his hat.
His dream was standing right in front of him.
Without waiting a moment longer, he turned and ran home.
By the time he reached the cottage, the smell of his mother’s cooking had started to fill the yard.
His father sat on a low stool near the front door, weaving thin strips of wood into a basket.
He looked up as Finn rushed through the gate.
“Hero, what’s got you so excited?”
Finn grinned.
His family had started calling him Hero after his class appraisal, though no one outside the farm ever used the name kindly.
[Unproven Hero.]
The villagers had laughed when they heard it.
“There was nothing impressive about a class with the word ‘unproven’ in its name.” Even a basic Swordsman was considered more useful.
He had traveled three days to the nearest guildhall just to have the appraisal checked again.
The receptionist had frowned at the result, looked it over twice, and eventually told him it was probably some low-tier swordsmanship class with an unusual name.
They were reluctant to register him, sighing at the amount of paperwork they needed to go through for such a low tier class.
Finn had been disappointed but the word Hero was still there.
That was enough for him.
“Dad, a dungeon opened in the forest!” Finn said, barely containing his excitement.
“It’s close.
Really close.
I can finally become an adventurer!”
His father stopped weaving.
For a few seconds, he only looked at Finn’s flushed face and bright eyes.
He had talked about becoming an adventurer for as long as anyone in the family could remember.
He had carved wooden swords from fallen branches, fought imaginary monsters between the crop rows, and bothered every traveling adventurer willing to tell him a story.
Even after his class appraisal brought nothing but laughter, the dream never disappeared.
His father rested the unfinished basket across his knees.
“A dungeon,” he repeated.
Finn nodded quickly.
“Near the old northern path.
I could finish my work here before going.
I wouldn’t leave everything to you and Rowan.
I could still help every morning, and I’d be back before dark.”
His father continued watching him.
His excitement faded just a little while he waited.
He knew dungeons were dangerous.
Everyone did.
New dungeons were even worse because no one had mapped them yet or knew what kind of monsters lived inside.
But this was the first chance that had ever felt close enough to reach.
His father glanced toward the open cottage window where Finn’s mother was still preparing dinner, then looked back at him.
“First,” he said, “you’re going to eat.”
Finn opened his mouth.
“And after that, you’re going to show me exactly where you found it.”
His smile returned immediately.
“You’ll let me go?”
“I didn’t say that.”
His father picked up the basket again, though the corner of his mouth had started to lift.
“I said you’re going to show me.”
Finn nodded so quickly that one of the mushrooms fell from his hat.
He bent down to pick it up, still smiling.
For the first time, becoming an adventurer no longer felt like some dream waiting far beyond the horizon.
It was less than an hour from home.