The sun rose behind a shroud of thin clouds, its light weak, pale gold spread across the fields like a sheet that refused to warm anything beneath it. I dragged the hoe through the soil, but the rhythm wasn't there. Normally, I could lose myself in the work, the scrape of wood on dirt, the faint sweetness of turned earth. Today, every sound rang hollow.
Father noticed. Of course he did. His eyes tracked me when I paused too long, leaning on the hoe like it weighed twice what it should. "Head's in the clouds again," he muttered, voice dry.
"I'm fine," I lied, though my grip tightened. My palms already ached with blisters I didn't remember earning.
Sera made it worse. She twirled through the rows with a wildflower crown on her head, grinning mischievously. "Ren's dreaming while awake again!" she sang. "Maybe he's talking to the sky seeds in his sleep."
I flushed, throwing a clod of dirt her way. She squealed, darting behind Father, who gave me a look sharp enough to cut. I ducked my head and bent back to the rows, pretending to work harder.
But the dream still burned behind my eyes—the figure on the ridge, the dragons in the shadows, the weight of a gaze too heavy for sleep to hold.
By midmorning, Mother shooed me toward the village with a basket balanced on my hip. "Go fetch more sage from Mira's uncle," she said. "And if Garrel's forge has finished the spade, bring it back before planting."
I nodded and set off. The basket smelled faintly of last night's bread, crumbs clinging to the weave.
The path into town had never felt so long. Birds sang too sharply from the hedgerows, every flutter of wings loud as a whip crack. A squirrel darted across the lane and vanished, tail twitching like a warning.
The village square churned with half-hearted business. Merchants shouted prices, but their voices lacked fire. A boy chased a goose through the mud, but even the laughter from his friends was clipped, nervous.
Garrel's forge glowed orange at the far end. I ducked inside, the heat slamming into me, thick with smoke and the iron tang of molten metal. Sparks burst like fireflies as Garrel hammered at the spade's edge. His apprentice pumped the bellows, sweat dripping down his brow.
"Ren," Garrel grunted without looking up. "Your father's spade's near done. Wait a bit."
I stood awkwardly near the wall, basket against my side, trying not to inhale too deeply. The forge's heat pressed sweat down my neck. My eyes wandered over tools hung in neat rows: hammers of all sizes, tongs, chisels. The sword blanks caught my eye—just rough metal bars waiting to be shaped.
I imagined one in my hands, the weight of real steel, not the stick that bruised my palms at night. My fingers curled unconsciously, aching for it.
"You're staring too hard," Garrel said, finally glancing at me. His beard bristled with soot. "Steel's not a toy. And it's not for dreamers."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he slammed the spade into the trough with a hiss, steam filling the air. "Tell your father it'll hold. But keep your hands clean of blades, boy. That road's not for you."
I took the spade, heavy and warm, and left without answering.
Mira's uncle's house smelled of herbs long before I reached the door. Bundles of dried leaves hung from rafters, their earthy scents tangling together until the air felt thick enough to chew. Mira was the one who opened the door, wiping her hands on her skirt.
"Your mother's running out of sage again, isn't she?" she asked, already turning toward the shelves.
I nodded, following her inside. Sunlight filtered through the window, catching on glass jars full of powders, roots, even a few things I couldn't name. Mira's uncle shuffled in the back, muttering over a mortar and pestle.
"Strange times," he grumbled without looking up. "Livestock missing from the outer fields. No tracks left behind."
Mira's hands froze on the sage bundle before she passed it to me. "Uncle," she warned softly.
But the old man kept going. "Saw scorched grass by the ridge myself. Not lightning. Not a hearth fire. Something hotter." His eyes, clouded with age but sharp in their corners, flicked toward me. "You keep to the village, boy. Nights aren't safe anymore."
My throat tightened. Mira shoved the bundle into my basket a little too forcefully. "Ignore him. He's just scaring you."
But when I met her eyes, she didn't look convinced either.
By the time I left, clouds had thickened. A wind pushed through the square, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke from cooking fires. It made my skin prickle, like a storm warning.
I passed the well again, and villagers clustered close, voices low. "Travelers," one whispered. "Three cloaked men at the north road. Didn't stop to trade."
"Scouts," another hissed.
I kept walking, but the words stuck. Travelers weren't rare, but the way the villagers said it—the way they hunched their shoulders as though hiding from eyes not even here—set something deep in me trembling.
The chores dragged on until evening, my body working while my mind replayed every whisper. Missing animals. Scorched grass. Outsiders. My father said nothing of it at supper, though his jaw worked tight, and Mother's spoon clinked harder than usual against her bowl.
Sera tried to cheer the silence by humming, but even her tune faltered.
When the house grew dark, when the others slept, I slipped out again. The air was cool, grass damp against my feet. I gripped my stick-sword and swung, over and over, trying to force the unease out of me. But the more I moved, the more I felt how clumsy, how useless it was.
I thought of Garrel's forge, of the unfinished swords. The ache in my chest deepened.
Exhaustion pulled at me, and soon enough I sank into the grass again. Sleep caught me there, as it had before.
The dream came harder this time.
The ridge split open, wider than before, glowing veins spilling firelight across the land. Shadows rose from the cracks—tall, armored, their faces hidden behind helms of black iron. Their voices were a low chant, too deep to be words, the kind of sound that rattled ribs instead of ears.
Behind them loomed the dragons again. Closer this time. Their scales shimmered like burning oil, wings stretching across the sky. The ground trembled under their weight.
One dragon bent its massive head low, and the commander—the figure with the heavy gaze—raised an arm. Flames curled in the beast's throat, spilling light over the armored figure's face. I couldn't see features, only the outline of a cruel smile.
Then—words. Whispered, yet thunderous: "Not yet, boy. But soon."
I woke gasping, sweat cold against my skin though the night was warm. The stars above blurred. My stick lay forgotten beside me.
The ridge was silent in the distance.
But in my chest, I felt it—the certainty that the dream wasn't just a dream anymore. It was a warning.
And it was drawing closer.