BAMBI

The storm hadn’t been in the forecast. Wind howled through the rusted gutters of the Alisson estate, tugging at the cracked shutters and forcing rain to slice sideways across the gray sky. Bambi Alisson stood at the front gate, her boots sinking slightly into the overgrown gravel path. The mansion loomed ahead like a ghost from her childhood half-forgotten, fully unwelcome. She hadn’t been back here since her mother’s funeral eight years ago. And she wouldn’t be here now if not for the letter. “To Bambi Alisson, upon my passing. There is something of mine I wish for you to have. A key to your blood, your legacy, and a truth long hidden.” Henry Alisson. Her grandfather had died two weeks ago, alone in this sprawling, ivy-choked relic of a home. He had lived a life of secrecy and solitude, more legend than family. And now, in his final act, he had summoned her. She took a breath, adjusted the hood of her raincoat, and pushed open the gate. The metal groaned in protest. Inside, the house smelled like dust, rainwater, and memories. Most of the furniture was covered in linen sheets. The air was heavy, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. A man waited by the grand staircase. Late thirties, tall, with dark hair and a worn leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He turned as she entered. “Bambi Alisson?” he asked, voice smooth but cautious. She blinked. “You are?” “Samson Crowe,” he said, offering a slight nod. “Historian. Your grandfather and I, he corresponded. I was asked to be here when you opened the chest.” She eyed him warily. “You’re not family.” “No,” he said, “but I know more about your grandfather’s work than most people ever did.” Bambi stepped further into the room. On the center table, covered by a velvet cloth, was the object of mystery: the chest. Roughly the size of a typewriter case, it was bound in cracked black leather, reinforced with brass corners, and sealed with an ornate lock shaped like a compass wrapped in thorny vines. At its center was a symbol she’d never seen before. An hourglass inside a circle, inked in crimson. “You know what’s in it?” she asked, still keeping her distance. “I have theories,” Samson replied. “But no answers.” “Same as any historian, then.” He smirked. “Touché.” Bambi approached the chest with slow, deliberate steps. Her fingers hovered over the thorned compass-shaped lock, the metal cold and slightly damp beneath her touch. “This looks custom,” she muttered. Samson leaned in just enough to observe without crowding her. “It is. Your grandfather commissioned a handful of these designs in the late ’70s. Most were decoys, filled with nothing but misdirection. But this one.” He tapped the edge of the chest. “He kept it close. Moved it with him every time he relocated. Never let it out of his sight. Even when he was dying.” Bambi looked at him sideways. “You seem to know an awful lot about a man who didn’t talk to anyone.” “He talked to me.” That didn’t sit well. Her grandfather hadn’t spoken to her since she was sixteen. And yet, here this stranger was, casually dropping cryptic insights like he was family. But something about the way Samson said it, gently, without arrogance kept her from snapping. Instead, she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a small iron key. Her name had been engraved on the envelope it arrived in, delivered with the letter and the deed to the estate. The key slid into the lock. With a satisfying click, the compass turned. The thorn-like arms uncurled, and the chest gave a low, mechanical sigh as it opened. Inside, resting on aged velvet, were two items: • A folded, yellowing map, covered in odd symbols and winding trails. • And a journal, bound in leather, its cover marked with the same crimson hourglass. Bambi picked up the journal first. The leather was cracked but warm, like it remembered being held. She opened it to the first page. To Bambi, if you’re reading this… then I’ve failed. Her breath hitched. The Carmine Treasure is not what people believe. It is older than kingdoms, and more dangerous than any vault of gold. It has ruined better men than me. You must understand. I didn’t keep you away out of cruelty. I kept you away to keep you alive. Bambi’s hands trembled. “Are you alright?” Samson asked gently. She closed the journal. “He knew I’d come here eventually. Knew I’d be curious enough to open this damn thing.” “He also knew you were the only one who could follow it,” Samson said. “That map is written in a cipher known only to a handful of historians. And some less reputable hunters.” He was about to elaborate when the front door burst open behind them with a c***k, scattering wind and rain into the foyer. A figure stood on the threshold. Tall, broad-shouldered, soaked from head to toe but grinning like he belonged in the center of every storm he walked into. “Hope I’m not too late for the treasure party,” he said. Samson sighed audibly. “Calder Blaze.” “In the flesh,” Calder replied, stepping into the room. His boots left muddy prints on the floor as he peeled back the hood of his coat, revealing tousled copper-blond hair, two days’ stubble, and a pair of eyes so green they seemed to glow. His gaze landed on Bambi, and that grin sharpened. “And you must be Henry’s girl.” Bambi didn’t answer right away. She was trying to decide whether to roll her eyes or draw a weapon. “I don’t know you,” she said flatly. “Not yet,” he replied, eyes twinkling. Samson groaned quietly. “Don’t encourage him.” Calder ignored him, stepping closer to the table where the map lay. His smile dimmed slightly as he leaned over it, recognition flickering in his expression. “Damn,” he murmured. “It’s real.” “You knew my grandfather?” Bambi asked. Calder nodded, suddenly serious. “Worked a few digs with him in South America back in the day. He didn’t trust anyone but he was the best. And if he left this behind for you,” He looked at her, all joking gone. “Then you’re in, deeper than you realize.” The three of them stood around the map in silence. Candlelight flickered across its surface, illuminating faded ink, mysterious glyphs, and jagged coastlines that no modern GPS could trace. Bambi ran her fingers over the parchment, following the strange red line etched into the margins. “So,” she said finally, “who’s going to tell me where this red trail leads?” Samson leaned over her shoulder, pointing to a crescent-shaped landmass. “This? That’s the Lysandra River Valley borderland territory. Unmapped in most modern records, but infamous among artifact hunters. There’s an ancient ruin there known as the Crimson Hollow. Your grandfather visited it twice.” “And he came back both times,” Calder added. “Barely.” Bambi arched a brow. “You mean to say this place is dangerous?” “Understatement,” Samson muttered. Calder smirked. “Lethal, cursed, crawling with rivals, possibly booby-trapped. But absolutely irresistible. Kind of like you, sweetheart.” Bambi shot him a look that could peel paint. “Call me sweetheart again and I’ll feed you that map.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his smile never faded. “Noted.” Samson cleared his throat. “Look, if we’re going to do this and I mean if, then we need to be smart. We can’t just charge in. We’ll need supplies, safe routes, a backup plan, and ideally a reason not to kill each other.” Bambi folded the map and tucked it into her satchel. “Fine. Then let’s set some ground rules. One: No secrets. If you know something about the treasure, the ruins, or my grandfather, I want to hear it. No holding back.” Samson gave a nod. “Agreed.” Calder gave a slower nod. “Alright, but only if you agree to rule number two.” “Which is?” He leaned on the table, his eyes sparkling. “No falling in love with me until after we survive the first death trap.” Samson sighed audibly. Bambi didn’t flinch. “I’ll add my own rule: If either of you turns on me, I won’t hesitate to walk away. This treasure is my inheritance, my responsibility, and I’m not going to let ego or testosterone ruin it.” Calder gave her a look of admiration. “I’m really starting to like you.” “You won’t if you keep talking.” Samson smirked, then turned serious again. “We leave at dawn. The Crimson Hollow is a three-day trek through some of the most unforgiving terrain in the region. We’ll need gear, weapons, and intel.” Bambi crossed her arms. “You think the rival hunters know about the map?” “They always do,” Calder said. “Word spreads fast in this world. Secrets don’t stay buried for long especially not ones with blood on them.” Something in his tone made her pause. “Have you killed for treasure before?” Calder didn’t answer right away. Samson stepped in. “Let’s not dig into graves we can’t fill. Not tonight.” Bambi didn’t like it. But she let it go. For now. Later, she stood alone in her grandfather’s study, journal in hand. The candle cast a warm halo of light across the dusty shelves. She flipped to the second page. The Carmine Treasure is not gold, not jewels. It is something older. A piece of something broken long ago, a shard of power that can change everything. Or destroy it. If you are reading this Bambi, then they are coming. And you must not trust anyone. Not even him. She frowned. Not even who? Was her grandfather talking about Samson? Calder? Someone else? Her grip tightened around the journal. She’d grown up believing her grandfather didn’t care about her. That he had cut ties with her mother out of cold-hearted pride. But this journal, these warnings, they told a different story. He hadn’t forgotten her. He’d protected her from something. And now that something was coming. The next morning, the rising sun pierced through gray clouds like a blade through velvet, casting long shadows over the crumbling stones of the Alisson estate. A heavy mist clung to the ground, muffling their steps as the trio made their way down the hill toward the tree line, packs full and weapons strapped. Bambi walked ahead, the journal and map tucked securely in her satchel, her jaw tight with focus. She hadn’t slept much. Dreams of her grandfather, distorted memories, and strange voices whispering from the shadows, had kept her tossing. Behind her, Samson and Calder walked in an uneasy silence. “So,” Calder finally said, his voice light. “Which one of us are you planning to leave behind when we inevitably fall into a pit of spikes?” Bambi didn’t turn. “That depends. Who talks more?” “Hey, communication is vital to survival.” Samson muttered, “So is discretion.” “Don’t tell me the professor has claws,” Calder said with a grin. “You know, for a historian, you’re awfully tense.” “I don’t trust people who flirt like they’re dodging bullets.” “I flirt like I breathe,” Calder said, nudging Samson with a smug smile. “Natural talent.” Samson just kept walking. Bambi couldn’t help it. She smiled, despite herself. Calder’s arrogance should have been insufferable, but it came with a charm that disarmed without permission. He was the kind of man you hated to like. And Samson? He was a mystery wrapped in discipline. Careful, restrained, always observing. They were opposites in every way. And yet, they were both drawn to her. And for reasons she didn’t fully understand, she was drawn back. Not now, she told herself. The trees thickened as they entered the forest. According to the map, the first waypoint lay beyond the ruins of a long-abandoned monastery, one hidden deep in the Lysandra woodlands. It would take a day and a half to reach it if they weren’t intercepted first. By midday, they paused in a clearing near a narrow stream. Calder checked the area for signs of other travelers, while Samson pulled out a faded field guide and began scribbling notes. Bambi knelt by the stream, splashing her face with cool water. She glanced back at Samson. “You always carry a notebook?” He nodded. “History doesn’t record itself.” “And if you don’t live through it?” “Then someone else will find this and finish the job.” She stared at him a moment. “You really believe this is more than treasure, don’t you?” Samson met her gaze. “I know it is.” Before she could press him further, a sharp c***k echoed through the trees. Bambi jumped to her feet. “Gunshot?” Calder asked, already crouched, hand on the hilt of his machete. “No,” Samson said, voice calm but firm. “It was a signal flare. North ridge. That’s how the rival crews communicate in rough terrain.” Calder muttered a curse. “They’re tracking us.” “Or the map,” Bambi said, reaching for her pack. Samson’s jaw tightened. “Then we keep moving. No fire tonight. No light. No sound.” They broke camp quickly, the air charged with urgency. By nightfall, they’d made it to the edge of a rocky incline marked with ancient carvings, half-eroded symbols that matched those in the journal. They settled quietly beneath a rock ledge for shelter, eating in silence. Bambi sat apart from the others, watching the stars peek through the forest canopy. Her thoughts wandered again to the journal’s warning: Don’t trust anyone. Not even him. She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t know if she wanted to know. Calder approached, dropping down beside her with a canteen. “Water?” “Thanks.” He offered a small smile. “You know, it’s okay to not know who to trust. Half the people in this business lie to themselves better than they lie to others.” She looked at him sideways. “Is that your way of telling me you’re lying to me?” He laughed softly. “I’ll let you figure that out. But for the record, I haven’t betrayed a partner in years.” “How comforting.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re different. Most treasure heirs are all gold fever and no backbone. You? You’ve got steel in your spine. It’s kind of maddening.” “You’re trying to compliment me,” she said flatly. “Am I that obvious?” “Painfully.” They both smiled but only for a moment. Then something in his face shifted, softer now. “You ever think maybe your grandfather didn’t push you away because he didn’t love you?” Calder asked. “Maybe he just didn’t want you near the fire.” She looked away. “That’s the problem, Calder. I don’t know. He left a thousand questions and no answers. And now everyone expects me to solve the puzzle without knowing what game I’m playing.” Calder nodded. “Then maybe it’s time to make your own rules.” He stood and walked away, letting the silence settle. And for a moment, Bambi sat alone beneath the stars, wondering if maybe, just maybe Calder Blaze wasn’t as reckless as he wanted the world to believe. The forest was unnaturally quiet by the time they moved again. Bambi had barely slept. Visions of bleeding maps and distant voices haunted her dreams. She walked now in silence, letting Samson take the lead and Calder cover the rear. By mid-morning, they reached the outer wall of the abandoned monastery, just as the journal described: ivy-choked, half-sunken into the forest floor, and built with stone darker than anything in the region. “This wasn’t meant to be found,” Samson murmured, brushing dust from a carved emblem. The hourglass inside a circle again. “Your grandfather was right. The Order of the Carmine Star was real.” “Religious?” Bambi asked. “Sort of,” Samson said. “Obsession disguised as faith. They believed the treasure was divine. A piece of something ‘left behind’ during creation. A shard of cosmic power.” “And they hid it?” Calder asked. “They worshipped it. Feared it. And built death traps around it to keep it from falling into mortal hands.” “Well, that’s comforting,” Bambi muttered. The trio entered the ruins cautiously, passing beneath crumbling arches and weaving through debris-filled corridors. Light streamed through cracks in the stone ceiling, painting golden lines across the dusty floor. Then it happened. Click. Bambi froze. Her boot had landed on something solid. “Don’t move,” Samson said immediately. Calder stepped forward. “Trip plate.” Samson crouched, examining it. “Connected to a pressure mechanism… probably arrows.” “Or gas,” Calder added grimly. “Or both,” Samson said. Bambi’s heart pounded in her ears. “What do I do?” Samson’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “Stay still. We’ll try to jam the mechanism.” Calder pulled a knife from his belt and carefully slid it beneath the plate, while Samson dug in his satchel for a binding wedge. That’s when the voice rang out from the shadows. “Well, well, well. Looks like the golden girl stepped right into a trap.” They spun. From the far end of the corridor, a group emerged. Five figures in dark gear, weapons drawn. And at their front stood a woman with sharp eyes, raven-black hair, and a familiar smirk that froze Bambi in place. “Elena.” Her best friend, or former best friend smiled without warmth. “Bambi. You look good. Bit tense though.” Bambi’s mouth went dry. “What the hell are you doing here?” “I could ask you the same. But we both know why we’re here. Grandpa left you the map, didn’t he?” “How do you know about the map?” Bambi hissed. “Oh, please. You think your grandfather didn’t keep notes on everyone? He tracked my parents. Their parents. I grew up hearing about the Carmine Treasure from the man himself. I was just never his favorite.” She stepped forward, her expression hardening. “You were always the chosen one, Bambi. The smart one. The one with the name. But now? We’re all on the same playing field.” “Except you have a gun and I’m standing on a trap,” Bambi said bitterly. “Oh, sweetie, that’s just fate balancing itself out.” Calder growled. “I’ve got a shot lined up. I can take her.” “No,” Bambi said sharply. “Not yet.” Samson handed her a small, flat stone. “Shift your weight. Now.” She did. The trap didn’t spring. Bambi stumbled back, adrenaline crashing into her like a wave. In the same instant, Calder threw a flash pellet to the floor. A burst of light and smoke filled the corridor, and when it cleared, the rival crew was gone. But so was something else. The journal. “Damn it!” Bambi swore, flipping through her pack. “She took the journal!” “They didn’t want the map,” Samson said. “Just the notes.” “Because it has details,” Bambi realized. “The map leads to the treasure, but the journal tells you how to survive getting there.” Calder spat into the dirt. “This changes everything.” Samson nodded. “We need to move. Fast.” Bambi stared down the dark corridor, a cold fury rising in her chest. Elena, her friend since childhood had betrayed her. And not for survival. For power. The Carmine Treasure wasn’t just some fabled relic anymore. It was the key to something far bigger than she’d imagined. Something worth killing for. And worse… something worth betraying for.