They returned to the cottage together.
Rowan had already lit the small lamp near the table.
He sat beneath it repairing the leather strap of one of the farm tools, though he looked up immediately when they entered.
“You survived.”
Finn removed his boots.
“We weren’t gone that long.”
“That does not answer me.”
“The first monster was a sheep,” Finn said with a smile.
Rowan stared at him for a moment before bursting out laughing.
Finn frowned.
“I’m serious.”
“That makes it even funnier!”
Their father set the branch beside the door.
“It may have looked like a sheep.
We don’t know what it was capable of.”
Rowan’s laughter faded slightly.
Finn sat at the table while his mother poured the last of the warm water from the kettle.
There was no food left from dinner, but she added a few dried leaves to each cup to make a weak tea.
Rowan leaned forward.
“Tell me exactly what you saw.”
Finn started from the beginning.
He explained how the stone tunnel opened into an enormous pasture filled with artificial daylight.
There were rolling hills, trees, white fences, and water moving through the grass.
“And there were more sheep farther inside,” he added.
“I could see at least a few.”
“How many?” Rowan asked.
Finn put a finger to his chin.
“I’m not sure, at least a dozen.
Some were behind the hills.”
“That means the floor has places where monsters can hide,” their father said.
Finn nodded.
He had noticed the hills, but at the time he had been too amazed by the pasture to think about them that way.
Rowan kept asking questions.
How wide was the entrance?
Could they see where the floor ended?
Were there any signs of traps?
Had the sheep reacted when they entered?
Finn answered as carefully as he could.
“We didn’t see the other side of the floor,” he admitted.
“There was a large barn in the distance, but I couldn’t tell what was inside.”
His father’s expression tightened.
“That is probably where the floor boss waits.”
Finn’s mother wrapped both hands around her cup.
“You’re talking like he’s going back,” she said, speaking up for the first time.
Silence settled around the table.
Finn looked at his father.
His father lowered his gaze toward the worn tabletop before answering.
“He will try, whether we encourage him or not.”
Finn’s mother looked down at her tea.
“That doesn’t mean we have to let him.”
“No,” his father said.
“But it means we should make sure he doesn’t rush in completely unprepared.”
Finn straightened.
“I wouldn’t rush!”
Rowan gave him a look.
“I would at least stop to look first,” Finn muttered hesitantly.
His voice trailed off.
His mother sighed.
Finn’s attention shifted toward the hearth.
An old sword hung above the mantle.
The blade was dark with age, and small patches of rust marked the metal near the guard.
Its leather-wrapped handle had faded almost gray, while the simple wooden scabbard beside it was cracked in several places.
It had once belonged to his grandfather.
He had served in the local militia for a short time when he was young, though no one in the family remembered him fighting in any important battle.
The sword had spent far more years above the mantle than it ever had at his side.
Finn had stared at it countless times as a child.
Back then, he used to imagine himself taking it down, leaving the village, and returning years later as some famous adventurer with stories of his own.
Now there was a dungeon less than an hour from home.
His father followed his gaze.
“No.”
Finn looked back at him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Finn glanced toward the sword again.
“I can’t enter a dungeon with nothing.”
“You are not entering it tomorrow.”
“Then the day after?”
His mother closed her eyes briefly while Rowan hid a smile behind his cup.
Their father leaned back in his chair.
“You’ve never trained with a sword.”
“I’ve practiced.”
“With sticks.”
Finn straightened slightly.
“I know the movements!”
“You know how to swing something at a fence post.”
Finn opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He could not really argue with that.
His father looked toward the mantle.
The sword was not valuable.
It was old, rusted, and probably worse than anything sold in a proper weapon shop.
But it was the only real weapon their family owned.
“If you’re serious about this, you start by learning how to hold it properly,” his father said.
“You’ll practice here, where someone can stop you from cutting off your own foot.”
Finn’s eyes widened.
“So I can use it?”
“I said you can practice.” His father pointed toward him.
“You will still finish every one of your chores.
You will not leave Rowan with your work because a dungeon appeared, and you will not go farther than you can safely return from.”
Finn nodded before he had even finished speaking.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
His father studied him for another moment.
Finn swallowed back some of his excitement and tried to remain still, though excitement made that nearly impossible.
Finally, his father gestured toward the mantle.
“Take it down.”
Finn stood so quickly that his chair scraped against the floor.
He crossed the room and reached above the hearth with both hands.
His fingers closed around the old scabbard first, careful not to disturb the nails holding it in place.
The sword was heavier than he expected.
Its weight pulled awkwardly against his arms, forcing him to adjust his grip before it slipped.
Dust clung to the scabbard, and the old leather smelled faintly of smoke after spending so many years above the hearth.
Finn had imagined holding it countless times.
In those dreams, it had always felt light, like it belonged in his hands.
In reality, he barely knew where to put them.
His father noticed and stood, shaking his head.
“Keep the blade pointed away from everyone.”
Finn immediately turned it toward the floor.
He lowered it carefully before turning back toward his family.
The rusted blade remained hidden inside the cracked scabbard, but Finn held it like it was already something precious.
His mother watched him with worry and pride mixed together in her eyes, while Rowan shook his head with a teasing smile.
Their father pointed toward the door.
“Outside.”
Finn’s curls bounced as he hurried toward it.
For the first time in his life, he was carrying a real sword.