The sky above Edran's Hollow deepened into hues of burnt sienna and indigo as the sun sank behind the western ridge. Lanterns kindled across the square, their warm glow radiating against cool stone. Shadowed rooftops glistened with the vestiges of dusk's final rays, and a gentle breeze carried the scents of fresh spring blossoms mingled with the lingering tang of forge smoke. Across the village, doors and windows opened wide, welcoming the evening's festivities—a time when work ceased, and communities gathered to share food, laughter, and song.
Julian lingered near the forge's closed gates, watching as villagers wove between tables draped in woven cloths of emerald and gold. Platters heaped with honeycakes and spiced bread bobbed through the crowd, held aloft on wooden plates by eager hands. The sound of laughter—rich, hearty, and unguarded—rose from clusters of farmers, merchants, and traveling minstrels. Musicians, perched upon the raised stage at the square's center, brushed their fingers across lute strings and coaxed delicate notes from flutes, their melodies weaving through the crowd like a gentle current.
Despite the revelry, a knot of tension wound tight within Julian's chest—an unspoken awareness that this night's mirth was edged with impending farewell. He glanced toward the eastern path, where the rider's black stallion had retreated hours earlier. Though the cobblestones lay quiet under the lantern-lit hush, he imagined the distant road already slick with dew, ready to claim his footsteps come dawn. His father's earlier words—"Remember who you are and why you began forging"—echoed now, resonating beneath the clamor of celebration.
Harric approached, wiping soot from his calloused hands with a spare rag. Dark stubble dusted his chin beneath graying hair, and his eyes, though lined with fatigue, shone with pride. He carried two wooden cups of spiced cider, their fragrant steam curling into the night. "Here," Harric grunted, offering a cup to Julian. "Warm your throat before tomorrow's chill."
Julian accepted the cup with a grateful nod, inhaling the rich aroma of cinnamon and apple. The sweet heat unfurled across his senses, easing the tension knotted in his shoulders. "Thank you, Father." His words were soft but sincere. He raised the cup, fingers brushing the rim, and took a measured sip. The cider's warmth spread through his chest, lending a measure of comfort in the face of all he might soon leave behind.
Harric settled beside him on the edge of the raised fountain's stone rim. The water, once frozen solid just days ago, now rippled gently beneath the lanterns' glow. "I know you've only just arrived in their eyes," he said, voice gravelly with quiet emotion, "but know this: they see you as one of Edran's—one of us. Your place here doesn't vanish simply because of a duke's summons." He rested a hand on Julian's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. "Be careful, yes, but also remember how to be yourself. They want your skill—yes—but if you give them only a tool and no heart, it will break you."
Julian stared into the flickering reflection of lanterns on the water's surface, feeling the weight of his father's counsel. The duke's summons promised intrigue, danger, and perhaps confrontation with powers best left dormant. Yet the life he'd begun here—in this small, sheltered village—had shown him a different path: one defined by honest labor, shared kinship, and the gentle warmth of simple joys. To abandon that home now felt like severing a vital tether. Yet the summons was not optional. He would go—or be branded a coward.
He swallowed hard, clearing his throat. "I will remember." His voice cracked slightly in the night's hush. "This village has given me more than I could ever repay. I will carry it with me, wherever I go." He turned, meeting his father's gaze. Under the forge's warm glow and the lantern-lit sky, he saw the elder blacksmith's pride braided with worry—a father's fear that his son would be tested by forces beyond his comprehension. "I promise I will return."
Harric's grip tightened for a moment, then relaxed. "That's all I ask." He drained his cup in a single swallow, exhaling a plume of steam. "Now—enough solemn words. Eat, laugh, and be among your people for this night. Tomorrow, at first light, you ride to Tharevyn."
Julian nodded and placed his empty cup on the rim. He rose, brushing stray flecks of soot from his dark tunic. The night's slow-fire of celebration beckoned: voices unfurled into song, and the scents of caramelized onions and roasting meats rose from nearby stoves. Palen—eyes alight with excitement—bounded up, waving a wedge of honey-drizzled flatbread. "Master Julian, come! You must try this—it's Aunt Sorelle's recipe. She says the festival's best dish is the last one tasted." His grin was infectious, and Julian found himself smiling despite the turmoil in his chest.
He took the offered flatbread, its surface sticky with honey and flecked with sesame seeds. He bit into it; sweet richness exploded across his taste buds. As juices rolled down his chin, Palen laughed and wiped Julian's mouth with a clean cloth. "Careful—Mother says those stains last for days."
Julian chuckled, savoring the flavor. He glanced at Palen's flushed cheeks and unruly curls, remembering how the boy had looked at him earlier—eager to emulate his skill. He ruffled Palen's hair. "Thank you, lad. It's delicious." He handed Palen the cloth back, then joined Mirella and several other apprentices crowded near a table piled with glazed carrots, roasted pheasant, and stewed apples in sweet spiced syrup. Laughter bubbled as Mirella recounted a story of a blacksmith in a neighboring village who had accidentally quenched a sword in ale—resulting in a blade that smelled like a tavern's floorboards for weeks. Everyone laughed, including Julian, though his laughter felt like a mask concealing the weight of the morrow.
---
As dusk yielded fully to night, the lanterns' glow enveloped the square in golden warmth. Villagers gathered around the maypole, its ribbons fluttering softly in the breeze. The musicians struck a lively chord, and a trio of fiddles and flutes called forth a lilting waltz. Couples took each other's hands; boots tapped against cobblestones, and skirts swirled in wide arcs. The festive lights reflected in a thousand eyes—youthful cheeks flushed with excitement, elder faces etched with contentment.
Mariel approached Julian, extending a gloved hand. Her cerulean eyes danced with laughter, yet something deeper shimmered beneath their surface—a tinge of uncertainty, perhaps, about the night's revelry infused with impending departure. "Will you dance with me?" she asked softly, the words drifting like a delicate petal on spring air.
Julian rose, setting aside the remnants of his meal. He took her hand, the warmth of her glove tingling against his fingers. He nodded, mindful not to let his eyes stray toward the eastern path beyond the square. "I would be honored."
As they joined the dancers circling the maypole, ribbons trailing above them like streams of living color, Julian wrapped one hand around Mariel's waist, the other clasping her gloved fingers. Their motions were unhurried and gentle, mirroring the waltz's measured three-four tempo. He felt Mariel's dress sway beneath his arm—soft linen patterned with delicate floral motifs—each petal evoking the wildflowers she had gifted him at dawn.
"You smell of hearth and metal," Mariel murmured, her voice soft against his ear as they spun beneath the lantern light. "I like it." Her tone was teasing, yet fond. "It's comforting."
Julian smiled. "And you smell of spring's first blooms. Both scents remind me that life can be simple—beautiful, even—if we choose to see it that way." He met her gaze. "I'll carry the scent of Edran's Hollow with me, wherever I go."
Mariel's breath caught. "Promise me you'll return," she whispered. "When the golems—if they truly exist—are ended, come back here. I'll place flowers at your doorstep every spring till you do."
Julian's heart clenched at her words. The personal stake in his departure—beyond duty and honor—now glowed like a fragile blossom in his chest. He squeezed her hand gently. "I promise," he replied quietly. "No matter how far I roam, this village—your laughter, your kindness—will anchor my steps back to Edran's Hollow."
Tears flickered in Mariel's eyes, but she blinked them away and offered a trembling smile. She rested her head on Julian's shoulder as the dancers shifted direction around the maypole. He felt the warmth of her cheek and the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, each beat reinforcing the gravity of his vow.
The waltz reached its crescendo, and as the final notes faded, a cheer rose from the assembled crowd. Old Bracken—craggy, bent with age, yet eyes bright with approval—shouted, "To Julian Arthel! May your steel be sharp and your heart be brave!" Glasses clinked, and a wave of applause rippled through the villagers as Julian raised a hand in acknowledgment. Though his cheeks warmed, he offered a sincere bow, gazing at the faces he had come to cherish.
---
After the waltz concluded, the square's revelry mellowed into a more relaxed gathering. Small groups huddled near blazing bonfires erected at the square's four corners—crude pyres of driftwood and old pallets that crackled and sent sparks swirling into the dark sky. The night air tasted crisp, carrying hints of wood smoke mingled with clove and pine. As villagers roasted nuts and marshmallows over open flames, the clangor of the forge felt a distant memory—a comfort both familiar and fleeting.
Julian found himself strolling toward the village well, where a low stone platform rimmed with carving boasted ornate reliefs of vines and blossoms. He leaned against its lip, gazing skyward. The moon—slightly waning—hung like a pale lantern among a scattering of stars. The constellations of Ateryne were clear tonight: The Twin Hawks circling high above, The Plowman skimming above the eastern horizon, and the faint shimmer of The Iron Crown near the zenith. He recalled Celian's perspective of constellations—each star spoke of prophecy, each cluster a sign of nations' fates. Yet here, beneath the same tapestry of night, he felt removed from grand designs. He was Julian Arthel—a blacksmith's son with a promise to keep and a task to fulfill—and for now, that was enough.
A light footstep disturbed the silence. Korrin emerged from the lantern-lit path that led to the forge, carrying a small pouch of salt and a bundle of green sprigs—mint, basil, and rue—tied together with a length of twine. Her expression was calm but resolute. She approached and leaned against the well's opposite rim.
"Brother," she said quietly, using the term of warm familiarity they had adopted since his arrival—though neither of them had an actual sibling bond by blood, the term conveyed the closeness of shared purpose. "I—" She paused, eyes flicking to the horizon where the forest shadowed under night's hush. "Eat this." She offered him a small packet of salted almonds roasted with herbs. "For strength. I thought you might need it."
Julian accepted the packet, surprised by the gesture. "Thank you," he replied softly, opening the pouch and taking a handful of nuts. The salt-crusted almonds were warm from being near the forge's leftover embers, their herbs fragrant with a whisper of pine. He chewed slowly, savoring the flavors, and felt a surge of gratitude. "I appreciate this." He smiled, though the memory of departure tugged at his chest.
Korrin nodded and laid the bundle of sprigs on the well's rim. "This is for the road," she said, her voice steady but low. "Basil for protection, mint for focus, rue for safe travels. Tie them to your pack or wear them under your cloak." She hesitated, then added, "And… thank you. For what you did for Finnian today. I—" Her voice cracked slightly, uncertainty flickering in her pale green eyes. "I—couldn't have helped him so swiftly without using my gift. I worry what might happen if the Duke's men discover… larger threats. I trust you will do what's right."
Julian felt both warmth and sorrow at her words—gratitude that she would offer such a talisman, but sorrow at how his departure might spell greater danger for her and the village. He nodded, gathering the sprigs into his hands and inhaling their combined scent: the sharpness of basil, the coolness of mint, and the earthy bitterness of rue. "I will keep them close," he assured. "I will also trust your strength when I am gone. The forge and this village are in good hands with you."
Korrin's eyes softened, and she brushed a hand through her dark braid. "Be cautious," she uttered quietly. "Not just of metal golems or Duke Halvian's schemes—but of what stirs in your own blood. The forge drew you back to life, but it also stirs powers that may be both gift and curse." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "If secrets from your past plague you, remember that here, we accept you as Julian. Let that guide you."
Julian swallowed. A flicker of unease rippled beneath his skin—had he already sensed something darker awakening within him? He took a steadying breath. "I will. If I stray onto dangerous paths, I will remember this well—this home, and the people who shaped me." He lifted the sprigs to his chest, pressing them against his heart. "Thank you, Korrin."
She offered a small, encouraging nod. Their hands brushed as she turned to leave, and for a moment, Julian wanted to convey all the gratitude and fear and unspoken promises that welled within him. But words failed him; instead, he offered a simple, earnest smile. Korrin turned away and slipped into the shadows, leaving him alone with the hush of the well and the soft crackle of distant bonfires.
---
Julian made his way back to his family cottage at the eastern edge of the village. The path meandered past half-lidded windows where families whispered good nights, and small, stone statues of ancestral figures—blessed by the village seer—stood sentinel beneath bedroll canopies. Each statue was carved with a small iron sigil—a testament to the villagers' faith that Metalcraft and faith could be in harmony, forging protections both physical and spiritual. Julian paused by a statue depicting a smith at an anvil, the iron hammer raised high—a silent echo of his own life's calling. He traced the statue's iron sigil with his fingers, feeling the cool metal beneath his palm, and his mind churned with questions he could not yet answer: Did Celian once stand before such statues in a grand cathedral, his iron sigil etched upon royal armor? Or were such icons foreign to his past life? Every fragment of memory felt like a half-remembered dream—vivid, yet frustratingly incomplete.
The cottage's door had been left ajar. Inside, a single lantern flickered on a rough-hewn table. The smell of browned onions and roast venison lingered in the air—Julian's mother had prepared a simple feast in honor of the festival's culmination and to offer sustenance for his journey. The hearth's embers glowed faintly, casting dancing shadows on the walls lined with shelves bearing iron tools, brass lanterns, and a few small earthenware cups.
Harric sat at the table, sharpening a small knife with meticulous care. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic—dragging the whetstone against the blade's edge in long, even strokes. The soft scrape of metal on stone filled the hush, punctuated by the rhythmic hiss of each pass. From the table's corner, Mariel emerged, carrying a wooden bowl of boiled greens—spinach and mustard leaves wilted in butter. She set the bowl before Julian's place at the table, her eyes flicking to his face with concern.
"My mother told me you would rest here tonight," Harric said without looking up from the blade. "If you wish to leave before dawn, you'll need your strength." His voice was gruff but tender, and as he finished the final pass along the knife's edge, he tested its sharpness on a small twig, slicing it cleanly in two.
Julian nodded, sinking into a stool at the table. He reached for the steaming bowl of greens, steam curling upward in gentle wisps. He took a spoonful, relishing the bitter-tang of the greens balanced by the richness of butter. The food grounded him, pulling him from his swirling thoughts. "Thank you," he murmured. "Mother, Father—thank you." He paused, searching their faces. "I could not ask for more than this—a home to return to, and loved ones who believe in me."
Mariel sat beside him on a low stool, her presence a silent comfort. She set an additional plate before him—a thick slice of dark, dense rye bread. "Eat well," she urged. "The road to Tharevyn is long. You'll need full consideration of your senses—mind, body, and spirit." Her tone was gentle but carried the weight of urgency. She reached out, placing a hand atop his, and he felt a tremor of warmth pulse through her gloved palm.
Julian let the food ease some of the tension knotted in his chest. He found comfort in the simplicity of their cottage: rough wooden beams overhead, earthen walls lined with woven baskets of dried herbs, and a single embroidery of ivy vines—tender tendrils stitched by his mother's deft fingers—hanging beside the hearth. He imagined the icy winds that might await him on the road, the unfamiliar streets of Tharevyn's capital, and the potential dangers of metal golems that might step in his path. Yet here, he was grounded by hearth and home.
His mother—Agelle Arthel—entered from the adjacent room, a gentle warmth surrounding her like the spring sun. In her delicate hands, she bore a small iron heart—a simple pendant shaped from scrap metal, hammered thin, and embossed with the sigil of Edran's Hollow: a stylized maypole encircled by blossoms. She placed the pendant before Julian. "Wear this," she whispered, eyes shining. "So that wherever you roam, you carry our love." She paused, swallowing a tremor in her voice. "If fear finds you, hold it. If doubt creeps in, remember this village's faith." She touched his cheek briefly, then slipped back into the shadows of the stove's glow.
Julian cradled the pendant in his palm, feeling its cool weight and the faint indentations where his mother's hands had pressed. He rose and knelt before her, but she waved him away with a gentle shake of her head. He settled back into his seat, eyes glistening as he looked from his mother's fading silhouette to his father's sturdy form, and finally to Mariel's unwavering gaze. He felt as though the entirety of Edran's Hollow—a tapestry of souls bound by shared labor, joys, and sorrows—suddenly bore down upon his shoulders. Yet their faith emboldened him rather than crushed him.
He took a deep breath and rose, clearing his throat. "I should rest," he said, voice steady but soft. "Tomorrow's dawn will come swiftly." He shouldered a small satchel—packed by his mother earlier—with spare tunics, simple tools, and a few provisions: jerky, cheese, dried fruit, and a waterskin. Tucked within was the bundle of herbs Korrin had given him and the iron heart pendant. He concealed the bundle of sprigs beneath his cloak, close to his chest, and looped the pendant around his neck so it rested over his heart.
His father rose, approaching him with the sharpened knife now wrapped in leather strips. "Keep this at your belt," Harric instructed, fastening the knife's sheath to a leather strap. "A sharp edge may save your life." He stepped back, studying Julian's form. "Do not let the darkness of tomorrow haunt you more than you must. Use your skill—but use your heart too. That is what makes a true Artificer."
Julian met his father's gaze, swallowing hard. "I will." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to his father's chest—an unspoken vow of loyalty and love—then straightened and turned to Mariel. She knelt, offering a final brush of her hand across his cheek. "Be safe," she whispered. "May the Earthshaping hold fast to your travels, the Metalcraft guide your hands, the Flamebinding warm your spirit, and the Aqueous Weaving protect your path." Her words, though phrased as a benediction, carried nuances of woven prayers for his well-being. "Return soon," she added, voice catching. "And remember that I—no, we—wait for you."
Julian closed his eyes for a moment, pressing his forehead to hers in earnest gratitude. He tasted the faintest hint of rose water on her breath. Then, he stepped outside into the crisp night and turned once to gaze at the warm glow of the cottage's window. Within, his parents and Mariel stood silhouetted, their forms blurred by the flicker of hearthlight. He raised a hand in farewell, and they remained still, their outlines unwavering until he stepped onto the path, rounded the corner, and walked toward the eastern gate.
---
(Quiet Departure)
Before the first tint of dawn traced the sky, Julian arrived at the village gate. A thin mist curled around the low fences, and the world held its breath in the hush between night's lingering dreams and morning's stirring. Lanterns—hung at intervals along the path—flickered dimly, awaiting someone to kindle them properly. Dew lay thick on the grass, and each blade sparkled faintly as though studded with pearls. The horses tethered to pegs outside the tavern let out low whinnies, mist wreathing their nostrils.
At the eastern gate stood the rider's black stallion—its coat gleaming despite the scarce light. The horse nickered softly as Julian approached, its large, dark eyes reflecting a mixture of watchful caution and calm intelligence. The rider himself—cloaked in deep blue—stood beside the animal, adjusting the straps on a leather pack. He lifted his hood as Julian neared, revealing the hawk-like features Julian had glimpsed two evenings prior: dark hair with threads of silver, sharp gray eyes that flicked with curiosity, and a lean frame suggestive of equal parts nobility and unspoken hardship.
"Julian Arthel," the rider intoned, voice low and steady. "The dawn breaks soon. We depart at first light." He held out a gauntleted hand, though beneath the metal plating Julian caught a flicker of longing—that of a man who had perhaps lost faith in simple hearths and wished to find it again. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Sir Lysandor Corvain, Duke Halvian's envoy and captain of the Falcon Guard." He inclined his head, his breath forming a pale wisp in the chilled air.
Julian bowed respectfully, lifting his mantle's hood just enough to reveal his face. "Sir Lysandor," he responded with deliberate calm, "I am honored by His Grace's summons." He placed the iron heart pendant beneath his tunic so it pressed against his chest. "What news of the border?"
Sir Lysandor's expression darkened, though beneath it lay the practiced armor of composure. "Reports say that a village outpost was razed by creatures of living iron," he explained gravely. "Several farmers were found—transfixed by fear and their bodies encased in metal shells. It appears these constructs awaken in scattered groves of the Ironwood Forest. If this threat is not quelled, more villages will suffer."
Julian's breath caught. Metal golems—once resigned to myth—were real again. He felt the hum of latent Metalcraft flicker beneath his ribs, a cold whisper that urged caution. "Then we must travel swiftly," he said, voice steady despite the tremor in his heart. "The border's far, yet every moment counts."
Sir Lysandor nodded curtly. "We depart at once." He turned and extended his arm toward the path beyond the gate. "If you please."
Julian approached the stallion, slipping off his satchel to secure it upon the horse's croup. He spoke quietly to the animal as he secured leather straps and tightened harness buckles. The stallion shuffled, nuzzling Julian's shoulder, as though sensing both the rider's anxiety and the urgency of the journey ahead. Julian gently stroked the horse's neck, murmuring encouragement: "We'll bring peace to these lands, friend. Just hold steady."
Sir Lysandor nodded, pleased by Julian's rapport with the steed. "A fine mount," he observed, adjusting his gauntlets. "Loyal and steady. Gentled by a master's hand." He gestured to two other horses tethered nearby: one a sturdy gray charger destined for a member of the guard, and the other a chestnut mare with simple tack—a vessel for the small satchel Sir Lysandor carried.
As dawn's first pale light stretched across the horizon—soft pastels of violet and rose—the village gate swung open. Sir Lysandor led the way down a narrow dirt road, its rutted path winding through groves of birch and ash. Julian followed, the black stallion walking in measured, rhythmic steps. Behind him trudged two armored guards—stalwart men whose expressions were wrought from equal parts duty and curiosity. They carried lances tipped with etched iron, and their armor clinked softly in the dawn hush.
Julian drew a final breath, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. He glanced back at Edran's Hollow: the cottages visible through thinning mist, a shepherd's dog beginning to stir, and the forge's chimney tracing a thin tendril of smoke against dawn's glow. He thought of Mariel's promise, Korrin's counsel, and his parents' unwavering faith. He pressed the iron heart pendant beneath his tunic once more, as though attempting to store their love in his own chest for the trials ahead.
Sir Lysandor rode up alongside Julian, their axes nearly touching in the narrow road. "Know this," Sir Lysandor said quietly, voice softened by the hush of morning, "His Grace expects more than just your skill with iron. He—though publicly he asks for aid—believes there is more behind your forging. There are whispers of your talent—metal flourishing beneath your very touch—rumors that reach beyond Tharevyn." He studied Julian's face, looking for reaction. "If you can bend iron to your will so deftly, imagine what you might do when faced with living metal. We must be wary: such powers can be gifts… or curses."
Julian met Sir Lysandor's gaze without flinching, though his heart thundered in his ears. "I understand," he replied, voice measured. "I will wield my skills with care and mercy." He glanced ahead at the road's bend, where oak and beech limbs cast mottled shadows on the earth. The morning's chill whispered promises of spring's bounty, but beneath it lay the threat of war—of metal monsters forging their own destinies.
They rode on in companionable silence, the stallion's hooves thudding against the softened earth. Julian's mind raced: metal golems, border villages overturned, rumors of lost temples harboring forbidden artifice. Each hoofbeat seemed to echo with possibility—both hope and dread. He thought of how the villagers had placed so much faith in him, and he resolved to honor their trust every step of the way.
As the sun pierced the mist, painting the sky with rose-gold streaks, Julian's journey began in earnest: forging a path not only across Ateryne's fertile valleys and ancient forests, but also within himself—testing the limits of his Metalcraft, unearthing fragments of a past life half-remembered, and striving to prove that compassion and skill could stand firm against even the coldest of iron hearts.
The road ahead remained veiled by the morning's haze. Yet in Julian's hand, the iron heart pendant pressed warmly against his chest—a silent promise that no matter how far the tumult of the world raged, he carried with him the ember of Edran's Hollow, burning steadily through uncertainty and storm. And so, riding into dawn's gentle glow, Julian Arthel—king without throne, blacksmith's son without equal—ventured forth to confront the living iron and shape his destiny in the crucible of legend.