Isolated and proud, the cabin stood apart from the village proper, a deliberate distance that spoke volumes. Built in the old style, rough-hewn logs chinked with clay and moss. It was the only one that bore protection runes carved into its doorframe. Most villagers think of it as some old witchcraft, claiming they were superstitious remnants of darker times. But mother kept them fresh, renewing the carvings each full moon.
The path to the village twisted through the Steps, named for the narrow way carved through the hoop pines. Their massive trunks rose like pillars into the grey sky, bark furrowed deep enough to hide secrets. Green moss clung to their northern faces, thick and slick with morning dew. Some said you could tell true north by the moss, but directions had a way of shifting in these woods when you weren't looking.
The air hung thick with the smell of damp earth and pine resin, sharp and fresh, mixed with a sweetness I recognized as snowdrop flowers. They bloomed only in the spring season, their tiny white petals peeking out from the mossy underbrush like shy ghosts. The ground beneath my boots was soft, almost spongy, each step sank slightly into the wet soil. The crunch of fallen leaves and twigs broke the stillness, my own footsteps louder than I intended in the quiet of the woods.
I'd always found peace here, in this space between worlds. The solitude gave room for thoughts to breathe and settle. But lately, those thoughts have had talons.
The dreams wouldn't leave me alone. Vivid, brutal scenes of warriors in strange armor, their faces twisted with rage, blood-soaked battles that felt far too real to be mere dreams. And then there's her. With golden hair like summer wheat and eyes clear as mountain lakes. Her presence anchored me, even in chaos, but the comfort she brought only raised more questions.
Ducking under a low-hanging branch, the rough bark grazing my forehead as I muttered to myself, "Who in the god's name are you, Valeria?" The question burned in my throat, my voice sharp with frustration. She wasn't real. But her features, her voice, the feel of her near me. They felt natural, more real than anything I'd ever known. Though her face still blurs to me. Each time.
The path widened as the trees thinned, opening onto the village fields. The change was always jarring from woods to ordered rows of wheat. The stalks swayed in the strengthening wind, rippling like a golden sea. The air changed, too, losing the damp forest mustiness for the dry, grainy scent of nearly ripe wheat mixed with fresh-turned earth.
Above, the clouds hung lower than they had any right to, a ceiling of grey wool that seemed to press down on the world. No rain should have fallen at this time of year, yet the air felt heavy with it. The old women in the village would cross themselves and mutter about 'Obscure weather', times when the sky held its breath too long and unnoticed.
"It smells like rain in the air." I looked at the dark clouds hovering over the village.
The sounds of village life reached me before I saw them: the calls of farmers, the bleating of goats, and the cries of babies. Normal sounds that somehow felt forced today, as if the village was trying too hard to pretend everything was ordinary.
Mistwood wasn't much to look at, truth be told. Just a cluster of buildings huddled together like sheep in a storm. The houses followed the old ways, with timber frames filled with wattle and daub and thatched roofs pitched steep to shed the heavy northern rains. Smoke rose from clay chimneys in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of breakfast fires and morning bread. The paths between buildings were pressed soil mixed with straw, turning to mud at the slightest rain. Drainage channels with ease and technique unknown in this region, one of my mother's contributions to village life, though few would acknowledge it as we were 'outsiders' to them.
Near the village heart stood the temple dedicated to the lord of light. Laethos. Its peaked roof a little higher than the rest, crowned with a burning sun and a cross in the center, the symbol of his. The wood was darkened with age, and its walls bore hundreds of small marks, names carved by generations of villagers who lost their lives due to unfortunate events that every lowly peasant like us faces. Some were so old their memories had been forgotten.
The villagers moved through their morning routines like actors in a well-rehearsed act. Women drew water from the well, its stone walls covered with moss. They would pause in their gossip as I passed, some touching their heart and muttering something beneath, not in my praise but protection from me, like how we pray when some bad omen happens. It's a gesture as natural to them as breathing, though they tried to hide it.
"Fell weather we're having," an old woman muttered, looking at the clouds, her gnarled fingers clutching her shawl tighter. "Ravens been quiet too. Never bodes well, that silence."
The mud clung to my boots, each step accompanied by a wet sucking sound. Spring had lingered too long this year, the heat baking the ground hard before these strange, heavy rains turned everything to muck. The wheels of laden harvest carts had carved deep ruts in the ground, now filled with murky water that reflected the brooding sky.
Children played near the granary, their game of chase interrupted as they spotted me. Their laughter died like a snuffed candle. The brave ones stared openly, as children always did, while others ducked behind barrel stacks or doorways. One small girl, no more than six, met my gaze directly. Her brown eyes widened, not with fear but fascination.
"Mama says your eyes are cursed," she called out, voice clear as a bell. "Says they're the mark of the de—"
"Lily!" A woman rushed forward, snatching the child back. "Beg pardon, Master Einar," she mumbled, not meeting my gaze. "Children's tongues run loose as spring rivers."
I forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "No harm done." The words tasted bitter, familiar as an old scar. A few of the hidden children peered out from their hiding spots, their own eyes glinting in the shadows—browns and blacks and greys, safe, normal colors that would never draw a second glance.
The world was full of superstitions, especially in villages where old beliefs clung like moss to stone. They believed your eyes told your fate and the deeds of your past life. According to them, gold eyes belonged to those blessed by the gods, marked for greatness and divine purpose, and were considered sacred by the old temples, like the High King and his Heirs. Orange eyes marked the fire-bearers, full of power and ambition, destined for fame or infamy.
But red eyes? Red was the mark of death, of souls stained dark in previous lives, a curse no one wanted to get close to. The deep crimson that set me apart had made me an outcast in my own village, where mothers clutched their children closer and vendors counted their coins twice when I passed.
My lips twisted into a bitter smile as I walked past the granary, the whispers following in my wake like autumn leaves.
***
Smoke announced the blacksmith's forge long before it came into view—the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil, the hiss of hot metal meeting water, the acrid smell of coal smoke. It sat at the village edge, partially separated from other buildings as a precaution against fire. The structure was older than most, its stone walls blackened by decades of smoke. A sign with a hammer on the anvil hangs at the front; beneath it, the weathered letters spell out 'Dusk Forge' in faded black paint.
Heat rolled out in waves from the open doorway, carrying sparks that danced like fireflies before dying in the damp air. Loth's massive frame filled the forge entrance, his hammer rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Each strike sent a shower of sparks cascading over his leather apron, the light catching in his salt-and-pepper beard.
"Einar!" His voice echoed loudly over the sound of the anvil. "Right on time, lad." The final word stretched into 'laad' in the northern way, betraying his southern origins.
The heat from the forge wrapped around me as I stepped closer. Loth didn't flinch at my eyes, never had. He was an old man in his late fifties with tanned skin that set him apart from the others, making him seem an outsider in this region. His dark hair, streaked with shades of grey, and his deep black eyes, along with a large beard that reached his chest, gave him a dwarf-like appearance from the stories that mother told when we were little. However, his imposing mountain figure was too large to be mistaken for a dwarf. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag, his beard gleaming with droplets of sweat as he grinned.
"Looking forward to it, aye?" He asked, his voice gravelly as he gestured toward the sword lying across the anvil.
"You know how much I have been waiting for it." My eyes fixed on the blade with a grin that came instinctively.
The air smelled of molten metal and burning coal, thick and almost suffocating. The sword gleamed in the firelight, its polished surface reflecting the flickering flames.
He carefully unwrapped the cloth covering the sword, revealing its full length. The iron shone bright, the blade sleek and perfectly balanced. The hilt, wrapped in black leather, felt smooth and firm in my grip. The blade was longer than most swords, yet it was slim, its slim metal guard ending in a dragon's head—the last remnant of my father's blade. Like a ghost made solid, it was like the sword I had seen many times before in my dreams. The same type that I used to slice through my enemies, as effortlessly as a hot knife cuts through butter.
"There she is," He said with pride, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Reforged it just how you wanted, though I couldn't resist tweaking their balance a bit."
I tightened my grip around the hilt, the leather warm against my palm. The moment my fingers closed around it, a strange sensation washed over me with deep bone-level familiarity. It felt right, like an extension of my arm. I gave it a small test swing, the blade slicing through the air with a quiet whistle, the weight shifting quickly in my hand.
Loth watched me closely, his eyes narrowing. "You look like you've held swords before, lad. Ain't this your first?"
Without thinking, my body shifted into a stance, knees bending, feet planted firmly on the ground. I swung the sword again, faster this time, feeling the blade move effortlessly. Another swing, then another, each one fluid, precise, it felt like I had trained with this sword for years. But I hadn't; in fact, it was the first time I held a proper sword, other than wooden ones or an axe.
Loth's expression darkened as he stepped back, watching me with a mix of awe and suspicion. "By thee gods... where'd you learn to do that?"
I stopped mid-swing, the sword still humming in my hand, my breath coming faster. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked down at the blade, my reflection distorted in the polished steel. "I... I don't know," I muttered, my voice rough. "I've never..."
Loth's black eyes studied me, suspicion clear in his gaze. "Never trained with swords, yet you're swinging it like your life depends on it. What's going on, lad?"
I swallowed hard, trying to shake the unease that crept up my spine. "Instinct, maybe."
Loth snorted, shaking his head. "Instinct my arse," He rubbed his beard, still eyeing me like I'd just grown a second head. "That wasn't instinct, lad. That was something else."
I stared down at the sword, my fingers tightening around the hilt. The reflection staring back at me didn't feel like mine—it looked older, harder. It reminded me of the faces in my dreams, the ones I couldn't explain. Faces worn by battle, by war.
Loth sighed, his voice softening. "Why do you even need a sword? Axes yeah, but sword?"
"Well... you know that forest behind my home, I will have to go there to train with Alira. She can only awaken there."
"The lake, you mean?"
"Yes. That place may seem fine on the outside, but some creatures can lurk at its edges. Will need something more than an axe to protect. And what's good then, a sword. Father's was a lot heavier for me."
"On that, I agree. Well, lad, why don't you visit your friend and buy some potions for yourself? You never know when you might need one. There is no healer around here."
"Good idea, Loth. Thanks."
I was about to turn when I felt Loth's arm on my shoulder. His face was serious this time. There was fear in his eyes—fear of me and what I had just done with the sword. It even made him fearful, if only a little.
"The iron that I melted from yer father's sword to forge this one..." Loth's voice rough as stone on steel. "Wasn't easy to come by, this metal. 'Cold Iron,' they named it in the old era. Don't know how yer father came to hold such a thing, but you'd best keep it safe. Old metals can carry old powers, they still do."
"Cold Iron?" I frowned. "Mother never mentioned about it. She taught us everything about survival, crafts, magic, hell, even taught us to read and write like nobles... but never about the old era, her past, or my father's."
"Aye, and that's well enough. Only a few can read here, and even fewer who can write." Loth's voice hardened like quenched steel. "But some things weren't meant to be carried forward, like the past. She did right by you both." He paused, eyes dark as winter storms. "Just don't go getting yourself killed in them woods. No playing hero, that's for them storybooks, not for peasants like us. And that's all I'll say on it."
I forced a smile, but it felt hollow. "I know. I'm just a woodcutter, Loth."
Loth barked a laugh, harsh as the northern wind. "Aye, that you are." His eyes fixed on the sword. "Just don't forget that, boy. Keep that blade close."
He clapped me on the back, the force of it nearly making me stumble. I nodded as I moved towards the middle of the village, though my mind was already elsewhere, caught between the fog of my flashes and the strange pull of the sword in my hand. Something inside me had shifted, something I couldn't name.
But for now, I have a promise to keep to my little sister.
***
The sword at my side felt heavier than it should, the leather-wrapped hilt warm under my fingers, like it was calming me in its own way. Loth's words echoed in my mind: 'Keep that blade close.' A low, bitter laugh escaped me, and my fingers brushed the hilt as I walked. It wasn't just a weapon. It was a choice for me, the only choice that I had after failing to awaken my magic, after not having that one thing that every living being has, an essence. Sometimes I wonder if the beliefs of villagers were true.
The village square spread out before me, it was small, with a water well in the middle, with a road going straight and one on the left. Muddy paths, slick from the recent rain, and wooden stalls stood empty. The air was filled with the smell of bread from the nearby bakery, mingling with the scents of fresh fruits from the stalls and the dung from the hitched mules and donkeys. While such aromas were common, the changing weather was taking a toll on the harvest. The rain was adversely affecting the crops, prompting farmers to use every means possible to harvest quickly, even resorting to transferring produce from the fields when necessary.
The dreams flashed in my mind again with the visions of war-ravaged lands, soaked in blood, skies stained red like they were bleeding. And her, always her. The woman with golden hair and eyes as bright as the sky, fighting beside me. Our swords moved in perfect harmony, cleaving through enemies as if they were nothing. Like dancers cutting through the chaos. Her presence calmed me, even in that nightmare. I could still feel the clash of metal, the weight of her beside me, the sound of her voice echoing in the back of my mind.
My hand tightened around the hilt of my sword, and that warmth grounded me back to the present. I couldn't afford to lose myself in those dreams, not now. Ahead of me stood the alchemist's shop, a small wooden building at the edge of the left part of the village, its weathered walls covered in creeping ivy, like slow-growing fingers crawling up toward the roof.
The sign with a spoon inside the cauldron hangs above the door. Below it are letters spelled out 'Eliza's Potions and Elixirs.' It swayed gently in the wind, creaking with every swing.
I hesitated at the threshold, feeling the weight of my past settle over my shoulders. Walking into the shop used to feel different. Now, with that woman constantly occupying my mind, there was a guilt hanging over me. Engaging with other women felt wrong, especially with someone I once loved. It feels like committing adultery.
I pushed open the door, the cold handle sending a chill through my bare hand. The scent of dried herbs and old wood hit me as soon as I stepped inside, thick and familiar. The dim interior was bathed in the earthy smell of ingredients. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, and shelves lined the walls, packed with jars of strange powders and ingredients, vials of colourful liquids, and potions in every shape and size. A faint humming sound came from the back room, barely audible over the rustle of the herbs swaying above me.
"Eliza?" I called, my voice rougher than I'd intended.
There was a soft shuffle from the back room, and soon a beautiful young lady appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. Her brown hair was tied back in a loose braid, with strands falling free to frame her face. Her hazel eyes brightened when they met mine. There was a warmth in her gaze, one that made me feel at ease every time. If not for Valeria, I would have taken her slim waist, pulled her into my arms, and told her how much I loved her. But that was in the past, now that love has faded like a melting snow in early spring.
"Einar," she greeted me with a soft smile, her voice carrying that familiar, gentle cheerfulness she always had. "It's been a while."
I forced a smile, though it felt stiff. "Yeah, been busy."
"Busy with what, exactly?" she teased, raising an eyebrow as she wiped her hands on her apron again. "Chopping wood, I'm sure." There was a playfulness in her voice, the kind that tried to ease the tension between us. "Maybe, running off to some imaginary lands again... what was it called? Aevadorn?"
"Something like that," I muttered, glancing around at the shelves. I didn't want to linger here longer than necessary. "I need a healing potion. Alira and I are heading up to the lake."
Her expression softened, and she turned to the shelves, her movements fluid and practiced as she scanned the rows of vials. "You finally decided to take her there, huh? She is a force of nature," she said fondly, pulling a small bottle from the shelf and holding it up to the light. The liquid inside shimmered, deep crimson, like dried blood I couldn't seem to escape in my dreams.
"Awakening her magic without any formal guidance from the schools?" Eliza mused, turning the vial in her hand. "That's... impressive. I've never seen anything like it, not even in the cities."
"You are a prodigy in your own right—the only sorceress in the village."
"There's your mother too; don't forget my sweet aunt."
Eliza was another sorceress, but not as powerful as my mother. She was relatively inexperienced and had never received formal guidance herself. Instead, she had learned from her parents while they lived in Thresha, the capital city of Treskhal, the Northern Seat of the High Council.
After their tragic deaths during an expedition as rangers, she moved to these remote lands when she was just sixteen. Now, at twenty, she could be said to be the most talented person here—old enough to be married with children, yet still unmarried for some reason. And only I know why.
"Well, in my defense, we kind of live outside the village."
"Your mother is remarkable. She even taught me this fire spell, though it's not always stable for me without a decent wand."
"She is. She even taught Alira early on. When more children were playing 'tag' in the village, she was already finding her adventures in books and tales."
"Alira is quite different than others. It is very rare to see magic, but a person like her is even rarer. Who is magic itself? That would be prodigy."
"Yeah, she's... different," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. "Always has been."
My fingers brushed against hers as I reached for the potion, and for a moment, warmth bloomed where our hands met. I felt something pull, like the universe was trying to draw us closer, but I pulled back quickly, tightening my grip around the vial. I couldn't go down that path. I couldn't hurt her. She was not just a friend; she has become a family member.
Her hazel eyes lingered on me, soft but searching, like she was trying to see past the walls I'd built to protect her. "You're lucky to have her as a sister, Einar," she said quietly, her voice filled with warmth that made something tighten in my chest. "She's going to do great things. I can feel it."
I looked away, my eyes drifting to the herbs hanging above the counter. "She will. I truly believe that." The words tasted heavy in my mouth. There was something bitter about them that I couldn't explain. Every time I thought of Alira's potential and her future, it filled me with envy, despite how much I love her.
Eliza broke the silence with a soft smile, though something unspoken lingered in her eyes. "That'll be three copper coins."
I fumbled with the pouch at my side, pulling out the small square-shaped copper coins and handing them to her. She took them with the same quiet grace she always had, her movements careful and practiced. But there was tension there too, something unsaid hanging in the air between us.
"Thanks," I muttered, slipping the potion into the left side of my waist bag. "For the potion... and the talk."
"Anytime for you," she said softly. Her eyes held mine for a moment longer than they should have, searching for something, though the words she wanted to say never came. "B-Be careful..." She hesitated, then gave me another, smaller smile before looking away.
I nodded and turned toward the door, feeling the weight of her gaze on my back as I pulled it open and stepped out into the cold, overcast morning.
The wind hit me like a slap, sharp and biting, tugging at my hair as it carried the scent of rain. I stood there for a moment, letting the cold settle into my skin, but it did little to clear my mind. The woman from my dreams lingered like an echo I couldn't shake, a presence that stayed with me no matter how hard I tried to forget. Every time I thought I was free of her, she came back like an unwanted memory that refused to fade.
With a long breath, I adjusted the sword at my side and started walking. Each step took me further from the village, deeper into the forest where my little vixen waits for me in our cabin.