The morning sun streamed weakly through the shutters, turning the kitchen air golden. I tugged my sleeves down again, careful, deliberate, though my wrists burned from the friction. The skin there was worse—raw, angry red, like ropes had cut into me.
Mother set a steaming pot of porridge on the table. "Ren, you're slower than usual. Come, eat before your sister finishes the whole pot."
Sera giggled, spoon already in hand. "You're pale again, brother. Maybe you've been cursed."
I froze, the spoon halfway to my mouth.
Mother frowned at her sharply. "Sera, don't jest about such things."
"I was only playing," she mumbled, but her eyes lingered on me with a mix of curiosity and something like fear.
I forced down the porridge. It tasted of oats and honey, but ash lingered on my tongue—phantom smoke from last night's dream.
After chores, Father sent me to fetch nails and hinges from the blacksmith. The thought of walking through the village, of being seen, made me uneasy. Still, I obeyed. Carrying the list Father had scrawled, I set off with slow steps, sleeves tugged tight.
The forge was near the edge of the square, its roof sagging under years of smoke. Even from the street, I could hear the steady rhythm: hammer against iron, sharp and relentless. Sparks flashed with every strike, glowing against the dim interior.
Old Garrick stood at the anvil, bare arms corded with muscle despite his age. His beard was ash-gray, thick, braided at the end. Sweat slicked his brow as he raised the hammer again, striking the glowing metal until it yielded under his will.
"Ah," he rumbled when he spotted me. His voice was gravel carried on smoke. "Young Arkwell. Come for your father's nails, eh?"
"Yes, sir," I said, setting the list on the counter.
He glanced at it, grunted, then dipped the metal into water with a hiss. Steam rose, carrying the smell of hot iron. "You've been keeping busy. I hear you're always skulking near the ridge."
The words jolted me. "I—I only gather wood."
His eyes, sharp beneath bushy brows, flicked down to my sleeves. "Wood, hm? Then why do you move like a boy with burns he doesn't want anyone to see?"
My throat tightened. "I—fell near the firepit."
"Clumsy lie," Garrick said, but not unkindly. He set the cooled piece aside, wiping his hands on a rag. "Listen well, boy. This world is harsher than the songs tell you. Fire leaves marks, and not all fires come from hearths. You'd do well to be honest about what hunts you, before it hunts deeper."
I gripped the counter until my knuckles whitened. Did he know? Did he see through me?
But Garrick only sighed, reaching beneath the bench. From the shadows, he brought out a blade—not polished steel, but a short practice sword, blunt at the edge yet well-balanced. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, darkened by years of hands.
"Your father asked for nails," Garrick said, setting the bundle beside the blade. "But I say a boy your age should carry more than wood in his hands. Take it. It's not sharp, but it'll teach your arms the weight of real steel."
I stared. "I—I don't have coin."
"Did I ask for coin?" His one good eye narrowed. "I'd rather see it in use than rusting under my roof. Just don't swing it near my forge, or I'll tan you myself."
Slowly, I reached out, fingers closing around the hilt. It was heavier than my stick, far heavier. My wrist ached under the weight, but something in me steadied. It felt… right.
"Thank you, Master Garrick," I said quietly.
He gave a grunt, already turning back to his anvil. "Don't thank me. Thank your own sweat, when it comes. Now go on before your mother thinks I've kidnapped you."
Outside, the square buzzed with voices. Mira spotted me first, hurrying from the apothecary with her apron still dusted in herbs. "Ren! You're carrying—" Her eyes widened at the blade.
"It's only practice," I said quickly. "Garrick gave it to me."
Her lips pressed tight. "You're getting reckless."
"I'm trying to get stronger."
"Stronger for what? For chasing shadows near the ridge? For running into the forest after strange lights?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "My uncle says those signs mean dragon riders. You can't fight something like that, Ren. You'll get yourself killed."
I wanted to argue, to tell her about the fire in my veins, the commander in my dreams. But Eldon appeared at that moment, clutching a bundle of wood slats.
"Ren!" he called, too loudly. "People are saying someone's been marked! Red burns across the wrists, like chains. It's a curse, they say, a punishment for prying where you shouldn't. Do you think it's true?"
My stomach dropped.
Mira shot me a sharp glance, as if weighing my silence. Eldon, oblivious, rattled on: "They say cursed ones get dragged away in the night. Better watch your step, eh, Ren?"
I forced a laugh, thin and hollow. "It's just gossip, Eldon."
"Gossip starts somewhere," he muttered, shifting nervously.
Mira still stared, her eyes searching mine. I looked away first.
That evening, I returned to the clearing beyond the fields, the new blade heavy in my hand. I swung it, clumsy at first, each arc dragging my shoulder. Sweat slicked my back, but I pressed on. Step, pivot, strike. Again. Again.
Then I tried to focus. I remembered the sparks, the faint glow along the stick. Could I channel it again?
I closed my eyes, breathing slow. The hum returned, faint but present. Heat coiled in my chest, spreading down my arms.
The blade trembled, faint blue sparks crackling across its dull edge. My heart leapt. I pushed harder. The glow brightened—then sputtered, vanishing as pain shot through my wrists.
I collapsed to one knee, gasping. My vision swam, body trembling as if I'd run miles. The energy was there, but unstable, wild. Three attempts—that was all my body could take before exhaustion gnawed at me.
Still, I smiled bitterly. Progress, however small.
That night, the dream returned.
Flames roared, hotter than before. But the commander did not speak. Instead, countless eyes glowed in the smoke around him—pairs of burning red, watching, unblinking. Dragons.
Their gaze pinned me like a blade. My breath caught, the weight of their attention crushing. The commander raised his hand, and the eyes flared brighter, as if acknowledging me.
Then silence. A silence more terrible than his voice.
I woke with a start, heart hammering, wrists searing once again.
In the dark, I whispered to myself, "They see me."
And for the first time, I wasn't sure if that meant hope—or doom.