Morning in Rionne carried a softness that seemed unchanging.
Elira woke to the crow of a rooster and the thin shafts of sunlight filtering through the shutters. She rose quietly, tying her long silver hair into a braid, the color catching the light like moonlit threads. Her blue eyes lingered briefly on the silent forge beside the house. The walls were blackened, the anvil rusting, the hammer still hanging where her father had left it. She could lift it now, but something inside always stopped her hand.
She stepped outside, bucket in hand. The morning dew chilled her bare feet as she crossed the grass toward the well. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, mingled with faint traces of soot. Villagers were already beginning their chores: shepherds leading their flocks, the baker lighting his oven, children darting between doorways.
"Up early again?"
Elira turned. Rho stood in the doorway, hair tousled black and crimson eyes still hazy from sleep. She dragged her blanket like a cape, trying to look stern but failing.
"Habit," Elira replied with a smile.
Life in Rionne was plain, but the scars of war lingered. Ten years had passed since the great conflict, yet the silence of her father's forge was a constant reminder. Still, the village endured. They had raised Elira and Rho with kindness — a loaf of bread slipped into their hands, a bundle of wood left at their door. To the villagers, they were the blacksmith's daughters. To each other, they were all that remained.
Elira did more than survive. She worked. Every morning after fetching water, she mended tools too small for the smith's hammer, patched broken fences, and carried firewood for neighbors whose backs had grown too bent. When the healer called, Elira would follow into the woods, searching for herbs: mint for fever, willow bark for pain, lavender for restless sleep. Her sharp eyes always spotted plants others missed.
At midday, she often stopped by the baker's. His wife would scold that Rho was too thin, pressing warm loaves into their hands, and Elira always returned the kindness by chopping wood for the oven or repairing shutters when the wind tore them loose. In the evenings, she helped herd sheep back from the hills, or carried buckets for the well when younger children grew too tired.
The villagers had come to rely on her. And though she never said it aloud, Elira liked it that way. It meant she could give something back. It meant she was useful.
That night, after the fire had burned low, Rho tugged at Elira's sleeve. "Tell me a story. The one about the hero."
Elira sighed softly but sat at the edge of the straw mattress. Rho burrowed under her blanket, eyes bright with anticipation.
"All right," Elira said. "But just one."
Her voice lowered, weaving memory and legend:
"Ten years ago, the Demon Lord rose, shrouding the land in fire and shadow. His armies spread across the continent, burning cities, tearing down kingdoms. Even the capital trembled. But one man stood against him — the Hero. He gathered the people, led the armies, and bore a spirit unlike any seen in centuries. His Contract Spirit took the form of a radiant sword, and together they cut through the dark."
Rho's eyes widened. "A real spirit? Like the ones in the songs?"
Elira nodded. "Yes. Spirits can take many forms. Some are beasts with little more than instinct. Others… others are like people, with voices and will of their own. Strong ones can fight beside you. The Hero's spirit was said to speak, to guide him. And when the final battle came, it was that spirit's light that struck the Demon Lord down."
Rho's small fists clutched the blanket. "So the Hero won?"
"He sealed the Demon Lord away," Elira corrected gently. "But victory always leaves scars. The war ended, yet many lives were lost."
Rho bit her lip. "Could a spirit ever betray its partner?"
Elira hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Yes. They are not tools, but wills of their own. The contract is built on trust. Without it, power becomes dangerous."
Silence hung for a moment, then Rho's eyes gleamed. "Then someday, I'll have one too! A sword spirit that can talk to me. I'll be a magic swordsman — strong enough to protect everyone!"
Elira laughed softly, brushing her sister's hair from her forehead. "A magic swordsman, hm? Then you'd better stop skipping chores."
Rho stuck out her tongue, but the smile on her face lingered as her eyes fluttered shut. Elira stayed a while longer, watching the steady rise and fall of her sister's breathing.
That night, sleep brought no rest.
Elira dreamed of fire devouring the horizon. Shadows writhed like serpents at the edges of her vision. A sword of blinding light split the dark, while a crown of black flame hovered above the earth.
"Elira…"
A voice called her name, distant yet near, resonating inside her chest. She reached toward it, and the world collapsed in searing fire.
She awoke with a gasp, sweat cold on her skin. Rho slept soundly beside her, unaware. Elira pressed a hand to her chest, heart racing. It felt as though the battle had been real.
The next day, she told Rho of the dream.
Rho frowned, her usual playfulness gone. "We should ask the Oracle. He always says dreams mean something."
They went together to the shrine at the village's edge. The Oracle was an old man, bent with age, his eyes clouded but sharp as embers beneath ash. He listened quietly as Elira spoke, his hands moving slowly through unseen patterns.
At last, he spoke. His voice was dry as withered leaves.
"Dreams are threads of fate. They stir before storms, whispering to those who listen. Yours, child, speaks of fire… and of shadow."
Elira's stomach knotted. "What does it mean?"
"It means something is coming. A change. A path you cannot yet see."
Then his expression darkened. "Tell me — have you dreamed of wolves?"
Elira blinked. "No."
Rho shook her head.
"Good." The Oracle's gaze sharpened. "For the dream of wolves is rare. But it carries only one meaning: endless fury, vengeance unbound, and a road drowned in blood. Pray such a dream never comes to you."
Rho clutched Elira's hand tightly. Elira tried to smile, but unease coiled deep inside.
That evening, Elira walked alone past the silent forge. She laid her hand on the cold anvil, her fingers brushing the hammer. It no longer felt too heavy, yet lifting it seemed impossible. A pressure lingered in her chest, like the weight of a storm waiting to break.
Children laughed in the distance. Smoke curled gently from chimneys. To the eye, Rionne was safe, steady, unchanged.
But as Elira raised her gaze to the darkening horizon, the dream's echo returned, whispering in her veins.
Something was waiting. Something within her, silent but stirring — ready to wake.