The bundle sat by the wall for days.
Wrapped in soft fabric, tied with simple cord, it rested untouched beside her moss bed, patiently waiting. The other animals had sniffed it. The fox lay on it once. The raccoon tried to drag it into his bedding pile before Bruce snatched it back.
But Bruce never opened it.
Not until now.
It was early morning. The cave was quiet. Most of the animals still slept, curled in nests and warm corners. The Light Stones glowed faintly with their predawn hue—a soft amber, like a hearth waiting to wake.
Bruce sat cross-legged on her bedding, eyes fixed on the bundle.
She muttered, "Alright. Let's see what the prince thinks I should wear."
She pulled the cord loose, unwrapped the bundle layer by layer.
First came the gloves—real gloves. Padded palms, fingered grip, adjustable wrist. Not fur, not bark. Gear.
Then the shoes. Small, sleek, with rubber soles and soft gray laces.
Then a folded blue athletic shirt—lightweight, breathable.
Shorts. Socks. And at the bottom…
A black one-piece swimsuit.
She stared at it for a long time.
Then slowly looked down at herself—mud-streaked tunic, uneven stitches, rag-wrapped feet. Her body was clean from the spring, but everything else clung to the wild.
She reached out.
And touched the shirt.
It was soft.
Too soft.
She frowned. Picked it up. Held it to her chest.
It smelled like something… new.
She pulled it over her head.
It fit.
Perfectly.
It hugged her arms. Her shoulders. It made her look… smaller, somehow. Neater.
She pulled on the shorts. The waistband sat snug around her hips. Not tight. Not loose. Just right.
Then she slipped on the socks, then the shoes—fumbled with the laces, muttered curses—and then stood.
And for a second…
She didn't feel like Bruce.
She felt like someone in a story.
She walked over to the spring basin, still wearing the new clothes, and knelt by the edge.
The reflection stared back: a pale, soft-skinned child with long blonde hair in a loose braid, bright eyes, and a navy-blue shirt that clung to her thin frame.
She looked clean.
She looked healthy.
She looked—
"Too cute," she muttered. "Too… coordinated."
She reached up and touched her face.
Her cheeks had a little color now. Her lips weren't cracked. Her arms had a faint tone. Her legs didn't shake when she stood. She didn't look like a wild girl.
Or a wild boy.
She didn't look like Bruce.
And that scared her.
She stood suddenly, backed away from the water, fists clenched.
"This doesn't mean anything," she growled. "Clothes don't change who I am."
But then she looked at the gloves.
And remembered how rough the stones felt last time she swung her pick.
She put them on.
They fit perfectly.
She flexed her fingers.
They didn't hurt.
"…Damn it."
That afternoon, she worked with the gloves. She hauled stone. She carved clay channels near the stream. She lifted logs. No blisters. No raw skin.
She didn't take them off.
She didn't thank him.
But that night, she folded the swimsuit and tucked it into her moss drawer.
And whispered to the darkness:
"…Guess I can use it. For swimming. Only."
It began with a circle in the dirt.
Bruce crouched near the mouth of the second tunnel, gloves snug on her hands, and dragged a stick through the cave floor, tracing a wide ring. Inside that ring, she drew lines and shapes—vents, walls, a pit. They didn't mean much. They weren't blueprints.
They were intent.
She stepped back and muttered, "Here's where we start making the mountain pay rent."
The first step: digging the pit.
She used her bark-and-stick shovel, "Shovel 3.0," reinforced with copper wire she'd twisted herself. The pit was shallow at first—just enough to hold a few logs. Then deeper. She lined it with flat stones and packed the gaps with clay she'd scraped from the streambed.
The clay was cold and sticky.
She didn't mind.
"This is what real builders wear," she told the fox as she smeared it up to her elbows.
The second step: charcoal.
She built a burn pile outside the cave, layered dry wood, lit it, and then smothered it with wet leaves and dirt. For hours she fed the smoldering heap, watching smoke curl into the trees.
When she finally uncovered it, the wood had turned black, light, and fragile.
Charcoal.
She grinned, smudged ash across her cheek, and whispered, "Black fire rocks. Let's go."
She poured a layer of charcoal into the pit.
Then a flat stone.
Then more charcoal.
Then copper-bearing rock—bright green and gray chunks she'd hauled from the deeper tunnel.
She covered it all and poked a hole into the side wall with a reed tube she had carved, splitting one end for airflow.
Then she leaned down.
And blew.
The first attempt failed.
Nothing glowed. Smoke leaked into her face. Her gloves caught a spark and nearly ignited.
She threw the whole thing into the stream and screamed, "I hope you drown, idiot oven!"
But she rebuilt it.
Smaller. Tighter.
This time, she added clay straw insulation, reinforced the reed with bone and bark, and angled the pit deeper.
She tried again.
The second attempt smoked worse.
The third cracked the stone lining.
The fourth—something changed.
She crouched over the furnace in the middle of the night, face streaked with soot, eyes wide, pumping air through the tube with both hands.
And the pit glowed.
Orange.
Then yellow.
Then white-hot.
She screamed. Not in fear.
In victory.
She reached in with tongs made of green wood and rock.
Lifted a tiny glowing bead from the ash.
A fleck of copper.
Melted. Real. Heavy.
She stared at it.
Her reflection shimmered in its surface.
Then she raised it above her head and shouted into the cave:
"I MADE METAL!"
The fox yawned.
The raccoon clapped.
Nutley fell out of the tool rack in surprise.
She placed the copper bead into a bark-lined bowl and set it on a stone shelf beside her Light Stones.
Then, with charcoal in her hair and burns on her elbows, she added a new carving to the forge wall:
"FIRE: MASTERED."
Underneath it:A flame. A bead. A tiny girl with her arms raised and wild hair everywhere.
The forge had changed everything.
Now, when Bruce walked the main corridor of Fort Iron Root—barefoot, gloved, her braid tucked under a bark-wrapped hood—she did so like she owned it.
Because she did.
The animals noticed first.
The moment she'd smelted her first copper bead, something shifted. The Light Stones glowed more evenly. The cave stayed warmer. The plants in the Second Garden grew faster.
Nutley started waking up earlier.
The raccoon stopped stealing food and started organizing Bruce's tools. The fox stood guard by the forge at night, ears twitching, as if sensing something important was happening.
Because it was.
She expanded the forge chamber.
Carved a new path into the rock behind it—a tunnel that wound downward, deep into the mountain's belly. Her copper tools didn't stay sharp long, but they lasted longer than bone. She strapped Pick 4 to her back and began digging like a woman possessed.
Well.
A small, feral, semi-feral mountain child possessed.
Same thing.
The deeper she went, the stranger the stone became.
She followed faint glimmers in the walls—streaks of green, silver, reddish-gold. She scraped samples into bark bowls and brought them back to the forge. Sometimes they melted. Sometimes they cracked. Sometimes they hissed like angry bees.
She charted everything.
Carved maps onto cave walls with squirrel-ink and burnt charcoal.
Named her first branching tunnel "Iron Line."
The second?
"Bronze Chase."
The third?
"Nutley's Mistake."
(Named after the squirrel accidentally knocking over her ore pile and nearly causing a cave-in. He lived. Barely.)
She started delegating tasks.
The raccoon helped carry smaller rocks in bark baskets.
The fox led the way through new tunnels, sniffing out air pockets.
The squirrels followed her into the walls, chirping when they found glimmers of metal.
Bruce tied tiny moss scarves around each of them.
Because you couldn't run a mining guild without uniforms.
She carved a new command post at the base of the tunnel, added benches and tool racks made from tree root, and scratched the following into the entrance:
"Iron Root Guild. Members Only."
Underneath:
A fox with a helmet
A raccoon with a backpack
A squirrel flexing
And beside them—Bruce. Holding a pick. Wearing gloves.
Smiling.
That night, back at the den, she leaned over the forge and stared into the fireless pit.
Her tools sat beside her, cleaned and sharpened.
She held a piece of ore in her gloved hand—copper streaked with tin.
Bronze.
She was getting close.
Not just to metal.
To something bigger.
She didn't know what yet.
But she could feel it.
The deeper she dug, the more the mountain whispered.
And she was ready to listen.
---
Bruce sat at the base of the golden wall, one hand resting on a jagged edge of ore that glittered under the glow of her Light Stones.
She'd stared at it for nearly an hour.
A thick vein of gold—pure, smooth, warm under her gloves. It shimmered like morning sun frozen in stone. Her pick had carved out a full fist-sized chunk, now sitting heavy in her lap, wrapped in squirrel hide for "transport safety."
And still… she frowned.
"…So now what?"
In her past life, gold had always been around—on other people.
Gangsters mostly. Flashy guys in big coats with gold chains thicker than bike locks. Rings with too many gems. Grills on their teeth. Sometimes even gold phone cases. She'd seen gold-plated pistols once, on a raid in Detroit.
And it always meant trouble.
"Anyone with that much gold," she muttered, "was either hiding something or selling something."
Still, it was impressive.
Expensive.
She remembered one guy talking about his chain being "ten grand easy"—and that was just one.
So this?
This raw chunk?
Couldn't be worth that much.
"Probably like… ten times less," she reasoned. "It's not pretty. No diamonds. No dragon design."
She turned it in her hand.
It sparkled.
She scowled.
"Maybe enough to buy socks. Or one of those big shopping bags full of candy. Or a chicken. A cooked one."
She paused.
Then added, "And maybe a soda."
She stood, slung the wrapped gold over her shoulder using vine cord, and began the slow walk to the surface.
Every twenty steps, she adjusted the weight.
"This is why people get cars," she grunted.
Then blinked.
"…Can I buy a car with this?"
She stared at the gold again.
"…Nah. Maybe a bike."
By the time she reached the cave mouth, sweat was streaking down her temple. The gloves helped, but the gold still pulled on her shoulder like a sleepy fox refusing to move.
She pushed the stone door open with her foot, squinted into the morning sun, and muttered, "Hope this town remembers me."
Then froze.
"…Do I even remember the town?"
She stared out across the valley, toward the vague haze of what might have been Stowe.
She knew it was somewhere downhill. South-ish. She thought.
Maybe.
"I should've paid more attention when I was alive."
She adjusted her clothes—her clean shirt, new shorts, her gloves, her laced-up shoes—and tightened the hide-wrapped nugget against her back.
The forest smelled like dirt and new life.
She took one step forward.
Then another.
And the mountain watched her leave.
A barefoot goddess in sneakers, carrying $37,000 she thought was lunch money.
---
The voices echoed through the forest before Bruce saw them.
Loud, energetic, and constantly interrupting each other—two boys laughing and grunting as they wrestled in a patch of flattened leaves under the trees. She slowed her pace, crouching low, her gold-laden bark sling slung over her shoulder. She peeked out from behind a pine.
They looked older than her. Taller. Stronger.
One of them had a wild mop of hair and no shirt, his chest streaked with dirt. He was pinning the other boy—shorter, dark-haired, serious-faced—who looked like he'd rather be doing anything else than losing.
"I win again!" the wild one shouted, holding the other boy's arms down.
"You only win because I let you," the smaller one muttered.
"Nope," the bigger one said with a grin. "You're just weak, Will."
"You're reckless, Greg."
Bruce stepped on a twig.
Both heads turned instantly.
The one called Greg blinked. "Whoa! Hey! Where'd you come from?"
Will's eyes narrowed. His body language shifted just slightly—defensive, skeptical.
Bruce stepped out from the trees slowly, one hand on the gold pouch across her back. "I'm just passing through."
Greg grinned. "You live around here?"
Will tilted his head. "Haven't seen you before."
Bruce opened her mouth to respond, but Greg cut in first, cheerful as ever: "She looks like one of those mountain girls! You know, like Kristy's little sister."
Bruce's brow furrowed. "I'm not a girl."
Will raised an eyebrow.
Greg stopped mid-step. "Huh?"
"I said," Bruce snapped, "I'm not a girl. I'm a boy."
Greg blinked.
Then slowly tilted his head. "You sure?"
Will studied her. "You don't look like one."
Bruce stood straighter. "I am one."
Greg scratched his head, then leaned over to Will and whispered loudly, "She sounds kinda mad. But she's still small."
"I'm not she—I'm he!" Bruce barked.
That made both boys blink.
Bruce regretted how loud that came out.
Greg's eyes drifted to the bundle on her back. "What's that you're carrying?"
Bruce instinctively shifted it away, clutching the vine straps tighter.
Greg stepped forward with curiosity. "Looks heavy. Is it food? Rocks? Cool sticks?"
"It's mine," Bruce said quickly. "Private. My treasure."
Greg stopped. "Treasure?!"
Will narrowed his eyes. "Is it something shiny?"
Bruce's fingers tensed. "I'm not showing you."
"Why not?"
"Because it's mine."
Greg held up his hands. "Okay, okay. Chill, mystery goblin. We won't touch it."
Will muttered, "Goblin fits."
"I'm not a goblin either!" Bruce snapped.
The boys exchanged amused glances.
Greg smirked.
"Well, if you're not a goblin, and not a girl, then prove you're a boy."
Bruce frowned. "How?"
Greg bounced on his heels. "Wrestle me!"
Will sighed. "He's serious."
"I am serious!" Greg said, flexing dramatically. "Boys wrestle. Girls sit and cry. If you're a boy, you fight. That's just facts."
Bruce stared at them.
At Greg's grin.
At Will's analyzing silence.
Then down at her gold-lump sling.
Then back up.
She didn't say yes.
She just dropped her pouch by a tree.
And cracked her knuckles.
The forest floor was soft with spring mulch. The trees filtered sunlight in lazy, golden beams.
Greg cracked his knuckles and bounced on the balls of his feet. "Alright, Bruce-not-a-girl. Show me what you've got."
Bruce rolled her shoulders, crouched low. She was barefoot. Still damp from the hike. Her gloves were on, but her muscles ached from carrying the gold.
Didn't matter.
She'd fought bigger before.
She didn't remember who.
But her body remembered how.
Greg lunged first.
Wild, fast, too open.
Bruce sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, tried to use his momentum to throw him—
But he was heavier than she expected.
He grinned mid-spin and pulled her forward instead, flipping her onto her back.
She hit the ground with a grunt.
"Oof. You okay?" Greg asked.
Bruce growled. "Don't ask if I'm okay in the middle of a fight!"
"Cool!" Greg beamed. "You're tough!"
They circled.
Bruce darted in low, aimed for his legs. He caught her by the waist, lifted her clean off the ground, and spun her again.
"Hey! You're light!" he laughed.
"Stop spinning me!" she shouted, flailing as her feet left the forest floor again.
He dropped her. She rolled and came up swinging—not punches, but a clumsy grappling attempt that actually worked. She got him in a headlock.
For three glorious seconds.
Then Greg stood up—with her still clinging to him—and bent forward, sending her somersaulting over his shoulder into the leaves.
Will, sitting on a fallen log, muttered, "She's better than most of the kids at the Academy."
Greg brushed dirt off his knees. "She fights like a raccoon in a hoodie."
Bruce wheezed from the ground. "I'm still a boy."
Greg flopped onto his back beside her. "Sure. But you're the weirdest boy I've ever met."
Will crossed his arms. "Still not sure you're not lying."
Bruce sat up, coughing, brushing leaves from her braid. "I don't care what you think."
Greg looked at her.
Then smiled.
"You're cool."
Will raised an eyebrow. "She got beat."
"Yeah," Greg said. "But she didn't cry. Or quit. That's cooler than winning."
They all sat in silence for a moment.
Then Greg stood and offered a hand.
"Wanna play tag?"
Bruce hesitated.
Then shook her head. "I'm on a mission."
Greg tilted his head. "What kind of mission?"
Bruce looked away. "Private."
Will muttered, "Treasure mission."
Greg grinned. "Treasure missions are awesome. But if you're done later… come find us, okay?"
Bruce didn't answer right away.
Then quietly said, "Maybe."
Greg beamed. "Awesome."
As Bruce turned to leave, sling back over her shoulder, Greg shouted after her:
"Hey! You fight good—for a tiny maybe-boy!"
Bruce didn't look back.
But she smiled.
Just a little.
And whispered, "Next time… I win."
Bruce walked slowly.
The gold stone, heavy as ever, bounced against her back with each step, but it didn't weigh her down the same way. Her arms were scratched, her knees were bruised, and her braid had half come undone. But her heart?
Still racing.
Not from fear.
Not from rage.
From something else.
She replayed the fight in her head.
The tumble.
The headlock.
The moment Greg lifted her like she weighed nothing and spun her through the air.
It should've made her furious.
Embarrassed.
Instead, she just kept muttering, "I almost had him."
And smiling.
It felt familiar.
Not the forest. Not the boys. Not even the wrestling itself.
Something deeper.
Like she'd done this before—with someone she trusted. Someone who would toss her to the mat again and again, only to laugh and help her up.
She stopped walking.
Stared at the trees.
"…Frank?"
The name came unbidden.
She whispered it again.
"…Frank?"
But no image came with it.
No face.
Just a flash of pressure. A voice calling out. A memory of training mats and dusty floors.
She closed her eyes.
Tried to grab it.
It slipped away.
She shook her head and kept walking.
"Doesn't matter," she muttered. "That was a good fight."
She reached up, retied her braid.
Her hands were trembling slightly.
But not from weakness.
From adrenaline.
She liked it.
Not because she had to fight.
But because someone fought back.
By the time she reached the edge of the woods near the town trail, she had carved a new line in her mental journal:
Greg: Big. Fast. Overconfident. Weak to low grapples. Will: Quiet. Watching. Probably dangerous.
She smirked.
"If they're gonna be around," she whispered to herself, "I better train harder."
Then paused.
"Also, next time—don't get lifted. That was humiliating."
She looked up at the blue sky, her face flushed, muscles sore, gold still swinging behind her.
For the first time since she left the cave—
She didn't feel alone.