The sun rose over Edran's Hollow like a shy maiden, her rosy fingers brushing the horizon before revealing her full brilliance. Pale morning light filtered through mist-laden hills, casting a gentle glow upon the village where smoke erupted in slender spirals from humble cottage chimneys. The hush of dawn was broken by the rhythmic crow of a rooster—first a single, questioning note, then a triumphant chorus as fellow fowl joined in. As birds scattered in startled flight, the village stirred from slumber, anticipating the day's festivities. Banners of embroidered cloth fluttered on makeshift poles: swirls of verdant green and amber gold, symbolizing spring's renewal after the long winter frost. A small stage, hastily erected in the central square, awaited musicians who would play lute and flute for the festival ball at dusk. Stalls groaned under the weight of fresh produce, pastries, and crafts. The air tasted of dew, newly baked bread, and the expectant hum of communal excitement.
Julian Arthel emerged from the forge just as the first tendrils of sunlight warmed the cool earth. His father, Harric, labored over the final pieces of ironwork—ornate gates destined for the new barn at Old Bracken's farm—while apprentices Palen and Mirella scurried about, fetching coals and quenching glowing steel. The forge's interior glowed like a living hearth, embers dancing in the air, stoking the furnace's roar. Julian's muscles ached from the previous day's labor, but the ache held a peculiar comfort: the reminder that his body was alive, tempered by toil, and capable of creation.
Harric glanced up from his workbench, where delicate iron scrolls were being affixed to a gate's framework. "Julian," he called, raising a soot-streaked hand. "I have orders from Old Bracken, but finish those hinges—take your time. The festival doesn't begin until twilight. You've earned a brief respite." He offered a small, proud smile. "Merely help me tune these gate hinges to quiet the creak. We'll give him a week's peace from squealing iron."
Julian nodded, slipping on a pair of leather gloves. He approached the half-finished gates, inspecting the mortise of each hinge. With concentrated patience, he applied a thin film of grease, then affixed the hinge to the iron bar—hammering softly until the pin slid smoothly, whisper-quiet. The result was pleasing: a gate that would open and close with barely a breath of sound.
Palen, an eager adolescent apprentice, hovered nearby, notebook in hand. Brown-eyed and perpetually curious, he peered at Julian's hands as they worked. "Master Julian," he said, voice squeaky with youthful enthusiasm, "how do you make the hinge so smooth? When I tried yesterday, the pin caught at the slightest misalignment and the hinge groaned."
Julian paused, wiping soot from his brow. He considered the question carefully. "Patience, Palen," he replied, placing the hinge in his left hand and the hammer lightly in his right. "Feel the metal, as if the iron itself speaks to you. See how it aligns between pin and leaf? You must see the hint of resistance before it occurs." He tapped the pin, then gently wiggled it. "When it slides with only the barest friction, stop. Over-hammering will swell the hinge and you'll need to file it down. Precision is born of listening." He smiled kindly. "It will come with practice. Don't rush."
Palen scribbled in his notebook, wide-eyed. "I will practice more tonight. Thank you, Master Julian."
Julian inclined his head and returned to his work. Though he spoke simply, Palen sensed there was something deeper—an almost instinctual rapport between Julian's mind and the iron in his hands. Curious as to how someone so young could possess such innate understanding, Palen decided to follow Julian's example rather than rely solely on instructions.
Meanwhile, the forge door swung open as Mirella—a young woman of seventeen, auburn hair tied in a neat braid—brought in a fresh supply of charcoal. Her cheeks bore the soft glow of health, and her eyes, a pale green reminiscent of spring leaves, flickered with both determination and secret worry. She placed the coals in the pit, then paused, regarding Julian thoughtfully. "Palen says you speak of metal as if you know its history," she observed quietly. "How did you learn to hear it so clearly?"
Julian straightened, setting aside his tools. "My teacher was a master who believed the metal had a soul, if you would," he said softly. "He would tell me: 'Every piece of iron was born from molten earth. Treat it with respect—only then will it reveal its hidden potential.'" His gaze drifted to the cooling forge, and he closed his eyes for a moment, recalling cloistered courtyards and more elaborate forges of another era. But he pushed the memory away; here and now, he was Julian Arthel, a blacksmith's son learning his craft. He forced a gentle smile at Mirella. "Maybe the metal speaks to me—but it asks that I listen."
Mirella blinked, lips curving in a half-smile. "Well, I'm glad we found you when we did last night. Father thought you'd been felled by a fever. He said…" She trailed off, glancing sidelong at Julian. "Father said: 'Don't push so hard, or you'll hurt yourself.' But I think he misunderstands you." A moment of hesitation flickered across her features before she turned away, returning to stoke the bellows. Her concern lingered in Julian's mind: had he really been overexerting himself, or was there something else stirring beneath the surface?
As the morning wore on, the forge pulsed with activity. Julian's father peered over his shoulder, inspecting each hinge's alignment, while apprentices worked on simpler tasks—horseshoes, plowshares, nails, and farming implements. Each clang of hammer on iron wove into an unspoken symphony of industry. The village's livelihood depended on the forge's daily yield; farmers needed tools, merchants required decorative metalwork, and travelers passing through sought repairs. To Julian, every piece he forged felt like a reaffirmation of his place in this world. It was monotonous, predictable—yet strangely comforting in its rhythm.
By midmorning, the forge's clang grew softer; Harric announced, "We'll break now. Eat, rest, and ready yourselves for the festival." He wiped his brow with a linen cloth, revealing lines of soot glanced with silver hair. "I'll need you to return by sunset—those granary hinges must be lifted into place before tomorrow's dawn, or Old Bracken's harvest plans unravel."
Apprentices dispersed in droves. Palen sprinted toward the baker's stall, eager for sugar-dusted pastries, while Mirella retrieved her leather satchel and joined a group of friends heading into the village. Julian lingered, leaning against the forge's stone wall. The sun, now high in the sky, struck the forge's roof, beckoning him to shed his soot-blackened tunic and feel the warmth on his skin.
His father approached, ladling thick stew into earthen bowls. "Eat," Harric insisted, shooing Julian to a low wooden bench near the hearth's embers. "Do not dawdle. I have errands to run—one forages for the festival's cake, another hoards wood for warming pies. This day is a whirlwind; stand ready."
Julian accepted the bowl of stew—beef, potatoes, spring greens—involved but hearty fare. The mingled aromas of onion and parsley reminded him of his mother's cooking, though her memory remained blurry. He sank onto the bench, spooning the thick broth into his mouth. The warmth spread through his chest, and for a moment, he let himself relax, closing his eyes against the roar of chatter outside.
A soft knock roused him. He opened his eyes to find Mariel Sorelle standing in the doorway, her basket of wildflowers clutched to her chest. Though she smiled, a shadow danced in her cerulean irises—worry, or late worries of what would happen if the festival's revelry spurred too much celebration. Mariel wore a simple gown of pale blue linen, the color of spring skies. She had tied a single sprig of lavender in her hair; she smelled faintly of honey and grass.
"Julian," she said softly, stepping inside. "I thought you might like these." She offered the basket. Inside, daisies, forget-me-nots, and lavender nestled together—flowers carefully chosen to decorate the festival's maypole and tables. "The elders said your touch is steady—would you help me arrange them at the square?" Her tone made it sound like a small request, but Julian sensed the weight of her asking: involving him in public projects often led to questions about his past light work.
He paused, spoon halfway to his lips, and met her earnest gaze. "I—need to return to the forge by dusk. Father insists." He placed the bowl on the bench, feeling the unfinished meal press against his hunger. The memory of the forge's heat pulled at him—but he also sensed an unspoken urgency in Mariel's request. "But if there's time, I can accompany you for a while."
Mariel's smile widened. "That's all I ask." She turned as Julian rose, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Meet me at the square's entrance at noon. We'll take things slow. The others will arrive with tables and decorations. They'll need someone to arrange the flowers."
Julian nodded and dressed quickly, pulling on a fresh linen tunic and trousers—an unusual luxury, for most days he wore clothes stained with soot. He left the forge, a wave of cool air washing over him as sunlight bathed the village in a bright haze. Palen dashed past, trailing ribbons and giggling, while Mirella and other young villagers carried baskets of fruit and table linens, converging on the central square to begin preparations.
Julian took a slow breath: the cobblestones underfoot, the cry of vendors hawking spiced mead and fresh cheese, the laughter of children as they chased each other with wooden swords. All felt vivid, anchoring him to the life before him. Yet in the deepest recess of his mind, he felt unsettled—a flicker of recollection that receded each time he tried to catch it: the soft voice of an advisor, the shimmer of ceremonial robes, a throne lost to flame. He shook his head once, as if to dispel phantom wisps, and walked toward the square's entrance—where Mariel awaited.
---
The central square of Edran's Hollow was modest by any grand standard, but to its inhabitants, it brimmed with life and shared purpose. Stone-paved paths radiated outward from a low stone fountain at the center—its waters iced by winter but now trickling with newfound warmth. A simple maypole, its timber unadorned, stood sentinel nearby, awaiting ribbons for the afternoon's dances. Oak tables were arranged around the square's edges, their legs sinking slightly into the spongy turf. The scent of freshly baked bread, sweet honey, and forest pine mingled with the distant echo of a lute's melodic hum as troubadours prepared to serenade the festival-goers.
Julian found Mariel kneeling beside a stack of woven baskets lined with damp moss—each ready to cradle an array of fresh-cut flowers. Her slender fingers sorted daisies and wild roses into small, caring bouquets. Beside her, Korrin—an Earthshaper in training—knelt on a patch of soil, coaxing tendrils of ivy to twist around the base of the maypole, binding it with living green strength. She was tall and lithe, with dark hair pulled into a tight braid. Under her calm exterior lay a reservoir of sorrow: her family's ancestral lands had been seized after a decade of poor harvests, and though she strove to honor the village, each leaf she shaped felt like a reminder of her shattered heritage.
At Julian's approach, Mariel looked up, offering him a warm smile. "I'm glad you came." She handed him a basket. "Palen is setting up the tables, but he'll need your help to fasten the ribbons." Her tone was gentle, but behind it lay the unspoken understanding: Julian's knack for precision made him ideal for the intricate work of tying hundreds of vibrant ribbons to the maypole.
He knelt beside her and ran a hand through the soft moss lining the basket, inhaling the fragrant scent. "You've done well," he said, examining the blooms. "These will brighten the square."
Mariel's cheeks flushed. "I thought you might like the colors—amber, rose, lilac. They'll bring out the gold and green of the banners." She tapped the edge of the basket. "The elders asked for you to help because they know you… care about details."
He felt a surge of warmth at her words—recognition of his talent without questioning its origins. He nodded and rose to his feet, lifting the basket in both hands. "Come, Korrin," he called, offering a nod to the earthshaper. "Let's bind these together." They walked toward a low bench hewn from a single oak slab—its surface scattered with thin ribbons of silk: forest green, rose-red, and sun-gold.
Korrin wiped soil from her hands as Julian laid out the flowers. "Your work at the forge was quiet," she said softly. "But I could see how carefully you tempered each piece. It was… as though the metal itself bowed to your will." Her voice held no envy—only respect and a hint of curiosity. She dabbed a strand of hair from her brow, glancing toward the maypole. "I wish I could shape the earth as freely. My last attempt to lift a piece of bedrock nearly collapsed the ground beneath me."
Julian smiled gently. "Strength comes with time—isn't that what you always say at the guild hall?" His tone was teasing, though kind. "You've mastered delicate vines and barriers. One day, you'll coax boulders from the bedrock—no need to rush." He picked up a length of gold ribbon and began weaving it around a small bouquet of lavender and daisies, knotting it with a simple bow. "Start with small steps. Let your hands learn the earth's currents before you command mountains."
Korrin nodded, her stern expression softening. "Easy for you to say. You shape the unyielding metal as if it were clay." She smiled wryly, but Julian could detect the pain beneath—memories of her family's fall and her own fear that her power might betray her.
He offered her the finished bouquet. "Here." The lavender echoed Korrin's thoughts: solace in struggle, hope amidst grief. She accepted it with a quiet nod. "Thank you." Her fingers brushed his for a moment—a fleeting contact infused with unspoken gratitude.
Meanwhile, Mariel flitted among nearby villagers, placing flowers on tables and draping blossoms over a small stage where musicians stretched their fingers along lute strings and tuned flutes. As she moved, she paused to align petals, her face serene and focused. Julian watched her for a moment, awed by how effortlessly she united practical purpose and gentle artistry. She seemed to glide among the crowd, sharing a laugh with a neighbor here, offering a fresh bouquet there.
A sudden commotion erupted by the fountain: a young boy—Finnian—stumbled backward, clutching his ankle. His cheeks were streaked with tears, and he whimpered from pain. He had tripped on a loose cobblestone while racing to join the festival. Before Mariel could reach him, Korrin had already knelt beside the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder, earth rippling beneath her palm as she coaxed a small cushion of soft grass to cradle Finnian's ankle, alleviating the sharp pain.
Julian hurried to their side. The boy winced but seemed relieved by the gentle cushion under his foot. "Easy now," Korrin murmured, her voice calm and matronly. "Let me mend this. Breathe deeply." She placed a second hand atop the ankle. A faint blue glow rippled across her palms as she wove essence into the injured limb—drawing inflammation away and knitting torn fibers so crisp grass blades twined like thread around the boy's skin. Finnian's sobs softened to sniffles; tears still pooled in his eyes, but the pain eased.
Mariel hovered, concern etched on her face. "Does it hurt less?" she asked, patting Finnian's back reassuringly.
The boy nodded, eyes wide with wonder. "Thank you, Miss Korrin," he said hoarsely. "I… I feel better."
Korrin rose, brushing hair from her brow. "Stand, Finnian." The boy gingerly tested his foot, then took a small step, smiling as relief washed over him. "Mind your footing," she admonished gently, though her heart soared at returning his mobility. A sudden flush tinged her cheeks—gratitude from the boy, Mariel's approving gaze, and Julian's silent nod of respect. In that moment, Korrin felt purpose: her power, once a reminder of her family's ruin, was a gift that brought healing rather than harm.
As Finnian scampered off to rejoin friends, Mariel approached Julian and Korrin, holding two baskets brimming with flower arrangements. "Well done, both of you," she said warmly. "The square looks splendid." She glanced at Julian. "Shall we hurry? The maypole's ribbons await."
Julian nodded and turned back to the maypole. Beneath the midday sun's glare, he grasped a spool of silk ribbon—emerald green—and threaded it through his fingers. Slowly, deliberately, he wound it around the maypole's circumference: over, under, twisting until the ribbon caught a stray branch of ivy that Korrin had secured earlier. The heat of his hands warmed the fibers, bending them to his will. Mariel symbolically linked her bouquet to the ribbon's base, draping lavender sprigs in place of knots. The mingling scents of fresh flora and sun-baked wood perfumed the air.
As the maypole took shape—woven with swirls of green and gold, dotted with clusters of daisies—the villagers paused in their tasks to admire Julian's handiwork. Several elders—stout figures in woven cloaks—exchanged approving nods. One of them, Elder Therren, a broad-shouldered man whose once-dark hair had gone silver with age, approached Julian and tapped his shoulder. "Your steady hand has given our festival its heart," he said, voice resonant. "Edran's Hollow is grateful. Tonight, the maypole will spin under joyous feet, thanks to you."
Julian inclined his head, cheeks flushed. Compliments unsettled him—yet he accepted them graciously. "Thank you, Elder Therren. I only did what a craftsman should—shape what was given." But inside, the familiar flicker returned: of a throne and courtly applause, though the cheers in a royal hall were colder than the warmth of gratitude he felt here. He shook his head, banishing the memory. He was here now, among these simple folk whose appreciation was honest and heartfelt.
---
Just as Julian straightened, a hush rippled through the gathered villagers. At the square's far edge, the heavy gate to the forge swung open once more. All turned to see who approached. A rider on horseback emerged, cloaked in a deep-blue traveling cloak, the hood drawn low. The horse, a large bay stallion, trotted with weary grace, its flanks flecked with dried mud. Two mounted guards in the rider's retinue followed: one tall and silent, his lance resting against his shoulder; the other shorter, burly, with arms like ironwood. The rider reined in the horse at the fountain's edge, lowering a hooded head to dismount with unexpected deftness.
Even from a distance, the villagers recognized heraldic sigils: a silver falcon soaring upon a field of midnight blue. A noble crest, one that once belonged to the Duchy of Tharevyn—a province known for both its wealth and its ruthless enforcers of order. Whispered gasps rippled through the crowd. Noble travelers seldom visited Edran's Hollow, especially unannounced. And those who came often carried business more dire than concern for springtime merriment.
Julian's chest tightened. He met Korrin's anxious gaze—her earthshaping had momentarily dipped as Finnian recovered, but now she stood poised; a single twitch of her hand could summon earthen barriers. Mariel's hand closed around the basket's edge; she glanced at Julian, as if seeking guidance. Julian's gaze flashed to his father, who had emerged from the forge with Palen and Mirella, eyes narrowed in cautious curiosity.
The rider removed his hood, revealing an angular face framed by dark hair shot through with silver at the temples. Sharp, hawk-like features and piercing gray eyes swept across the assembly. Beneath his cloak, a pale leather tunic bore subtle embroidery of feathers and talon. Though his expression remained guarded, Julian sensed a keen intelligence—and something else: a glimmer of purpose that went beyond mere trade or travelers' curiosities.
The guards dismounted and strapped their lances to their saddles, standing alert at the rider's side. The rider paused, scanning the square, and then lifted his voice—low but carrying. "People of Edran's Hollow, I bear a message from Duke Halvian of Tharevyn." The lilt of authority in his tone silenced murmurs. "He extends his greetings and requests an audience with the man known as Julian Arthel—if one by that name stands among you."
A collective gasp rose. Julian's pulse thundered in his ears. He glanced at his father, whose pale face betrayed shock. Harric stepped forward, placing a hand on Julian's shoulder. "Speak," Harric said, his voice steady though his heart pounded. "He requests your presence?"
The rider inclined his head once. "Indeed. His Grace holds urgent business: a dispute along the northern border—there are reports of metal golems massing in the Ironwood Forest. The border guards fear for the villages beyond. His Grace requests your expertise, for he has heard of your skill with metalwork and is keen to assess whether these rumors are true—or if there is darker craft at play."
At "metal golems," a hush fell upon the villagers. A metal golem was no mere legend: constructs of living iron, animated by Essence Artistry—rare, dangerous, and believed extinct in the northern wilds since the War of the Bladed Crown a century past. Rumors had circulated for decades that rogue artifice thrived in hidden corners of Ateryne, but to see such rumors manifest in a duke's summons was unprecedented.
Mariel's hand gripped Julian's arm. "Julian… what will you do?" she asked, voice barely audible.
He swallowed, heart racing. The offer—or command—came from a powerful noble with the means to compel him. If he refused, it could cast suspicion upon himself. He met his father's resolute gaze: Harric's chin was raised, jaw set in pride. Palen hovered behind, eyes bright with awe. Even Korrin's normally impassive demeanor held a flicker of fear and respect. To refuse was risk; to accept was to set foot beyond the protective cocoon of Edran's Hollow.
Julian inhaled deeply, forcing himself to speak. "I—I will go." His voice trembled, yet carried enough conviction to still the murmurs. "Tell Duke Halvian that Julian Arthel will stand before him—at dawn's first light tomorrow—in Tharevyn's capital." He turned to the rider. "But know this: I have duties here. The festival and… my family."
The rider inclined his head. "His Grace understands the urgency. He requests but a single day's reprieve." He glanced beyond Julian, locking eyes with Korrin. "Lady Korrin—to you I will entrust the well-being of the forge and the village. Mariel Sorelle, ensure our… guest's absence does not disrupt celebrations."
Korrin's jaw tightened; she nodded solemnly. Mariel's cheeks flushed with restrained worry, though she lifted her chin—ever stalwart. Julian felt his throat constrict. He wanted to turn away and remain in this quiet village—where metal and earth and water and flame were tools of creation and community, not instruments of war. Yet the words of the rider echoed like a clarion call: metal golems—creatures that once wreaked havoc—were stirring again.
Harric laid a firm hand on Julian's shoulder. "Go," he said gruffly, with unspoken love and unspoken fear. "Show them the spirit of a true Artificer." The older man's eyes glistened, but he refused to let them fall. "We will manage here. But promise me one thing: be cautious."
Julian bowed his head to his father, then to Korrin, then to Mariel. "I promise." His voice cracked—fear and determination warring within him. He turned to the rider. "I will depart at first light, as demanded. Until then, I remain Julian Arthel of Edran's Hollow."
The rider nodded and stepped back. "I shall return at dawn. Until then, celebrate with your people." He wrapped his cloak about himself, mounted his horse with the silent grace of a panther. The two guards followed suit, the thud of hooves fading as they retraced the road from which they came.
A stunned hush fell across the square. Slowly, murmurs rose. Elder Therren cleared his throat and stepped forward. "The duke's emissary leaves us now, but know this: Edran's Hollow stands with Julian Arthel." He raised his voice to carry to the gathered crowd. "He goes forth to keep our villages safe. Let us not dwell on fear, but on gratitude—for his courage in the forge and his heart among us." He gestured toward the maypole, now radiant in sunlight, ribbons dancing in the breeze. "Tonight, we will celebrate under this symbol of hope. We shall dance beneath these ribbons, remembering that even when darkness calls, light—like a simple ribbon—can bind us together."
Cheers rose, echoing through the square. Palen jumped up, clapping his hands. Mirella laughed; children scampered to her side. Korrin exhaled, her tension melting as she wrapped an arm around Finnian, now giggling at a stray kitten batting at an ivy tendril. Mariel exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and offered Julian a small, tremulous smile.
Julian swallowed, gazing at the maypole—its ribbons twisting like braids of sunlight and leaf. He felt hope and fear entwined within him like a pair of warring twins. The path ahead beckoned—a road fraught with metal storms and ancient magic. But as the villagers turned back to their joyous preparations, Julian felt a surprising comfort in their faith.
He placed a hand upon the rough bark of the maypole, grounding himself in the village's rhythms: the steady pulse of hammer meeting anvil, the hushed energy of earth awaiting a shape, the trickle of water in the well, the flicker of flame in a cooking hearth. Away from the forge's roar, the world still spun on simple joys: a child's laughter, a friend's gentle touch, the warmth of bread broken and shared.
The festival's song rose around him as villagers unfurled tablecloths, placed bread loaves in wicker baskets, and strung lanterns between rooftops. A group of musicians began to pluck a lively tune, their reeds and strings weaving a melody that spoke of spring's return. Women in embroidered gowns poured sweet wine into wooden goblets and passed plates of honeycakes dusted with powdered sugar. Laughter and chatter wove through the evening air, promising comfort against the unknown.
Julian closed his eyes, savoring the moment: a swirl of colors, sounds, and scents—wildflowers on a breeze, the coppery tang of forging metal, bread's warmth in his belly, the softness of Mariel's hand resting on his arm. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—distant roads, wary nobles, hidden magic—but tonight, he was home.
He opened his eyes to see Korrin and Mariel approaching with baskets of strawberries and buttered bread. Palen dashed by, offering a hunk of sweet cheese and grinning from ear to ear. His father, wiping soot from his hands, beckoned Julian to stand with him near the forge's entrance. Julian followed, and together they watched as Edran's Hollow's simple square blossomed into a tapestry of celebration.
Harric placed a hand on Julian's shoulder, voice low. "Whatever comes tomorrow, remember this night—remember who you are and why you began forging." His gaze swept the bustling square. "You are one of us. We stand behind you." He squeezed Julian's shoulder. "We always will."
Julian swallowed, heart full. "Thank you, Father."
As dusk settled over Edran's Hollow, lanterns kindled one by one, casting a soft glow upon faces radiant with joy. The maypole's ribbons twirled in the gentle breeze, and laughter rose to meet the moon. In that moment, Julian realized that his strength would not emerge in isolation. Rather, it would be woven from the shared hopes, the tragedies overcome, and the everyday aspirations of those he called family and friends. In the forging of steel, one's hammer might shape metal alone—but in the forging of a life, community was the anvil upon which destiny was formed.
And so, as the first notes of a lute drifted into the night sky and a soft chorus of voices joined in song, Julian Arthel—once a king without a crown—stood among his people, ready to face a dawn of uncertainty. For when metal stirs and ancient powers awaken, only a heart tempered by compassion, resilience, and the bonds of fellowship can withstand the coming storm.
The festival's flame of hope burned bright throughout the square. Yet beneath that flame lay an ember of foreboding—a whisper that tomorrow's dawn would carry Julian into realms of danger and discovery. But for now, he would dance beneath the ribbons, savor sweet bread, and find solace in the embrace of Edran's Hollow, where every heart beat with the promise of a new beginning.