Ravendale wasn't always dead. Once, it screamed with life.Then something came.Now the streets were graves, the houses were broken shells, and the great oak tree lay split and burned, as if even the sky had tried to kill it. Whatever destroyed this place hadn't just taken lives—it had erased them.
Aelar walked through the ruin, boots crunching against dirt and shattered glass. He didn't look at the broken homes for long. Some wounds didn't need touching. A bundle of twisted weapons hung from his back, clanking too loudly in the silence.
"Feels more like a graveyard than a village," he muttered.
The cottage stood where it always had—crooked, scarred, stubborn. He shoved the door open. Dust burst into the air, choking him. The smell of smoke and rust still clung to the walls.
"Father?" he called.
Nothing answered.
Then came the slow, heavy thump of boots from the back room.
Aelar's hand went to his sword.
Rioran stepped into the doorway, broad as an anvil, his beard streaked with gray. For a moment, his eyes were hard. Then they softened.
"You're back," he said.
Aelar dropped the pack on the table. Metal rattled inside. "And I brought what you asked for."
Rioran opened it and snorted. "A bent spear. A cracked blade. And… this thing used to be a knife, I think."
"You said any metal," Aelar replied.
"Didn't say it had to be ugly." Rioran closed the bag. "Sit. I made stew."
Aelar blinked. "You… cooked?"
"Careful, boy."
"I still remember the burnt bread."
"Eat," Rioran said. "Before I remember how heavy this hammer is."
The stew was thin but warm. For a moment, the ruined village outside didn't exist.
Aelar laid the broken weapons on the table. "It's not much."
"It's steel," Rioran said, turning a cracked blade in his hand. "And steel can be reborn."
"I want to help this time," Aelar said. "Not bellows. Not polishing. The real work."
Rioran studied him, eyes sharp. Then he smirked. "Tomorrow. Don't cry when your arms fall off."
Aelar smirked back. "Just don't cry when I out-hammer you."
"Boy," Rioran said, "I am the hammer."
The forge roared again for the first time in years.
Fire chased away the cold. Sparks leapt like stars. Iron screamed under the hammer's bite. Father and son worked until their arms shook and their throats burned. Ravendale stayed silent, but inside the forge, life returned.
Days became weeks. Weeks became years.
When Aelar finally held his first sword, it wasn't beautiful. But it was strong. Balanced. His.
"It's done," he whispered.
Rioran tested the weight, swung it once, then handed it back. "It's yours."
Aelar couldn't stop smiling.
Then Rioran's voice dropped. "Aelar… if I told you to leave Ravendale, would you?"
Aelar froze. "Leave?"
"This place is dead," Rioran said. "Out there, people still live. Still fight. You need to see that world."
Aelar swallowed. "If you come with me."
Rioran's mouth twitched into a rare smile. "Then we leave at dawn."
Mist clung to the river. A small boat waited at the shore.
"You built this?" Aelar asked.
"While you slept."
"Took you long enough."
"Took me a year."
They loaded supplies in silence. Aelar turned back to the village. No tears. Just a long look.
"Where are we going?"
"Padas," Rioran said. "An old friend waits there."
The boat pushed away.
Aelar gripped his sword, heart pounding with fear and hunger for what lay ahead.
"You think we'll come back?" he asked.
Rioran stared into the fog. "If we do… we won't be the same."
Aelar nodded.
Whatever waited beyond Ravendale, he was ready to meet it.