The forge had its own kind of music. Rhythmic. Relentless. Fire roared like a wild beast, and metal sang beneath the hammer's kiss. Aria moved to its beat with practiced ease—swing, strike, turn, strike again. Sparks leapt into the smoky air, clinging to her arms like tiny embers before vanishing.
"You're gripping it too tight again," Thorne said behind her, voice rough as gravel but not unkind. He didn't look up from the horseshoe he was shaping, just listened. He always said you could hear when a blacksmith was fighting their tools.
Aria adjusted her hold, muttered something under her breath, and resumed. The iron glowed, pliable and furious beneath her blows.
"Better," Thorne murmured.
The forge smelled of scorched leather, hot iron, and ash. It clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin—had for years. Most days, she didn't mind. The heat was a comfort, a shield from the rest of the world. In the forge, she knew who she was: Aria, apprentice blacksmith. Nothing more, nothing less.
But today, something felt… off.
It wasn't the work. Her hands moved like they always had. It wasn't Thorne—gruff, steady Thorne, who had raised her more than trained her. It was something in the wind, in the way the fire flared without reason, or how the shadows in the corners of the room seemed a little too still.
"Have you heard the latest story going around?" Thorne asked, breaking the silence. "About the founder's sword."
Aria arched an eyebrow. "Which version? The one where he killed a dragon with it? Or the one where it bursts into flame when a true heir touches it?"
He grunted. "No, no. This one says the sword wasn't a sword at all. It was some kind of ancient artifact. Magical."
Aria smirked. "Of course it was."
But inside, her chest tightened just a little. Everyone in Brindlemark grew up with tales—some harmless, others darker. Stories of hidden magic beneath the soil, sleeping gods, ancient enemies, and a hero who saved the village and vanished. Aria never believed them. She lived in a world of callouses and soot, not spells and chosen ones.
Still, the stories lingered like smoke.
Later that afternoon, just as the sun dipped below the ridge, the stranger arrived.
---
He came walking up the path from the forest, boots silent against the dirt. He wore a long coat of worn leather and a green cloak lined with silver thread. His hair was black as coal and tied loosely at the nape of his neck. His staff—yes, a staff—was carved from silverwood, runes etched deep into its grain. He didn't look lost, but he didn't quite belong either.
Aria was gathering tools when he stepped up to the forge.
"Greetings," he said, voice smooth, quiet. "I'm looking for the village elder."
She blinked. "Elara?"
He nodded once. "Then I'd ask you to take me to her. It's urgent."
Before Aria could respond, Thorne emerged from the forge, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked the stranger over, brow furrowed.
"You've come a long way," Thorne said.
The stranger's green eyes flicked toward him. "Farther than you think."
"I'll take you to her," Thorne said. "But no trouble, wizard."
The stranger inclined his head. "None from me."
And just like that, they left.
Aria stood frozen, staring at the spot they'd vanished from. Her heart beat oddly fast.
---
Later that night, the village was quieter than usual. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint whisper of rustling leaves as the wind picked up. Aria stood atop the roof of her family's house, gazing out at Brindlemark below. The village was nestled in a small valley, surrounded by towering trees and mist-covered hills. The lights from the cottages and the distant flicker of lanterns gave the entire scene a sense of peace, but tonight, there was something in the air—something different.
Something wrong.
Her thoughts turned back to the stranger—Lyrien, Thorne had called him. She didn't know what it was, but there was an unease in her chest that wouldn't leave. She didn't like it. Stranger or not, he wasn't the first to visit Brindlemark, but there was a sharpness to him that made her skin prickle.
From below, she heard Thorne's voice, low and reassuring as always. But she could barely hear his words over the pounding of her own thoughts.
"Aria!"
She jumped, almost losing her balance on the edge of the roof. Thorne's voice again, but now it was tinged with something more serious. Concern?
She scrambled down the ladder and landed in the yard with a soft thud. Thorne stood by the gate, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
"Come," he said, waving her over. "Elara wants to speak with you. Now."
---
Elara's house was on the edge of the village, near the boundary where the dark forest began to creep into the valley. It was an old stone structure, moss-covered and nestled between two giant oaks. The door was ajar as if Elara had been expecting them.
Inside, the fire burned bright in the hearth, casting a warm glow on the room's otherwise dim features. Elara sat near the fire, her silver hair braided tightly down her back, her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes—those pale blue eyes—seemed to pierce through Aria as if she could see the very heart of her.
And beside her stood the stranger, his arms folded across his chest, watching Aria with an intensity that made her uneasy.
"Sit," Elara said, motioning to the chair across from her. "I believe we have much to discuss."
Aria hesitated for only a moment before she complied, sinking into the chair. Her palms were sweating, and her heart raced, but she said nothing.
"You know of the Shadow," Elara said, her voice calm but heavy with the weight of years of knowledge.
Aria nodded slowly. "The stories, yes. The one our founder fought, right?"
"The same." Elara's gaze hardened, her fingers twitching slightly. "The Shadow was defeated once, long ago, by the hands of those who wielded light. But it has never truly gone. It lies dormant, waiting. And now, it stirs once more."
The room seemed to grow colder, the fire flickering wildly, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Lyrien stepped forward, his eyes locked onto Aria's.
"Aria," he said, his voice quiet but insistent. "You are the one the prophecies speak of. The one who will wield the Amulet of Light."
Aria blinked, her throat dry. "What? No. That can't be…"
But Lyrien's expression was unwavering. "It is the truth. You have been chosen. And your destiny is clear."
---
Aria felt her pulse quicken. Her mouth had gone dry, and a strange heaviness settled in her chest. She glanced between Lyrien and Elara, trying to make sense of their words, but the air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against her thoughts. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. For a long moment, she could only stare at the glowing embers of the fire, her thoughts scrambling for some kind of explanation.
"Me?" Aria finally whispered. "Chosen? I'm just a blacksmith's apprentice. I don't know anything about prophecy, or amulets, or—" She broke off, her voice shaking.
Lyrien took a step closer, his presence imposing yet oddly comforting. "You don't have to understand it now. But everything you've done, everything you've worked for, has led you to this moment. The Amulet of Light chooses its bearer, and it has chosen you."
The words didn't seem real. She was Aria, a girl who spent her days forging metal under the watchful eye of Thorne. She had no desire for grandeur or adventure. No, she was content in the forge, her hands wrapped around a hammer, shaping steel to make something useful. That was enough for her.
But the weight of Lyrien's gaze was hard to ignore. He was looking at her like he knew something about her, something she couldn't see. And it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
"What does the Amulet do?" she asked, trying to find her voice. "Why does it need me?"
Elara's expression softened, but there was a seriousness in her eyes that Aria had never seen before. "The Amulet of Light holds power—ancient, pure power. Power that can stand against the Shadow. Only one who is destined can wield it. And you, Aria, are that one."
"I don't understand," Aria said, shaking her head. "How can I be the one? I'm not special. I don't have any magic, no... abilities."
Lyrien knelt in front of her, his green eyes intense. "You may not see it yet, but the magic is inside you. You've always had it. The fire you wield in the forge, the way you shape metal with your hands—it's not just skill. There's something more in you. The Amulet will awaken it, and with it, you'll be able to face the Shadow."
Aria felt a cold shiver run down her spine as the words settled over her. The Shadow. A darkness that had once been banished, now stirring once more. She'd heard the stories, of course, but they were nothing more than old legends. Everyone had heard them—the hero who had fought the darkness with a sword that glowed with light, the ancient magic that ran through the land. But she hadn't believed it. She'd never believed any of it.
Until now.
Her mind raced as she thought of the village, of her friends, of her family. Brindlemark had always been safe, quiet. Nothing ever truly changed here. But what if the Shadow returned? What if it came for them?
"What is the Shadow?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "How do we stop it?"
Lyrien stood and paced slowly across the room, his staff tapping softly against the stone floor. "The Shadow is an ancient force of darkness, born from the very core of this world. It feeds on fear, on despair. It consumes everything in its path, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake."
He stopped in front of the fire, his face illuminated by the flickering light. "Long ago, the founder of Brindlemark, along with his companions, stood against it. They wielded the Amulet of Light and defeated the Shadow, but they knew it would never truly be gone. It was only a matter of time before it returned."
Elara nodded gravely. "The Amulet of Light is the only thing that can truly defeat it. And it is now yours to wield, Aria. But only if you are ready."
Aria stood, her legs suddenly unsteady. "Ready?" she echoed. "I don't even know where to begin. How do I fight something like that?"
Lyrien's gaze softened, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "You don't have to fight alone. We'll be with you every step of the way. But you must accept your destiny. The journey ahead will not be easy, and there will be sacrifices. But you have a strength within you, one you've yet to fully discover."
Aria swallowed hard, her mind whirling. She felt the weight of the world settling on her shoulders, and it was almost too much to bear. How could she, someone who had never asked for any of this, be the one to save them all?
"I… I need time to think," she said, her voice shaky. "This is too much. I don't even know where to start."
Elara's expression softened, and she rose from her seat, crossing the room to place a gentle hand on Aria's shoulder. "Take all the time you need. But know this—this choice is not one you can avoid. The Shadow will come, whether you're ready or not. And when it does, you will need the Amulet to fight it."
The weight of those words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Aria nodded slowly, feeling the pulse of uncertainty deep within her bones. She had always known that her life was meant for something more than just forging metal. But this? This was something entirely different.
Lyrien moved to the door, glancing back over his shoulder. "We leave at dawn. There is no time to waste."
---
Aria didn't sleep much that night. She lay awake, staring up at the ceiling, her mind racing. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the Amulet of Light glowing in her hands. She could feel its power, its weight, its pull. And yet, at the same time, it felt like a distant dream—something she couldn't quite reach.
She thought of her family, of Brindlemark. She had spent her whole life here, surrounded by the people she loved. How could she leave them? How could she abandon her home to chase after something that felt so foreign, so impossible?
And yet, deep down, she knew she couldn't turn her back. Not when the fate of everything she knew was at stake.
The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Aria packed her things. A simple pack—food, water, and a few tools—enough for the journey ahead. She hesitated at the door for a moment, glancing back at the forge, the familiar sights of home. But there was no time for sentiment. The world was changing, and Aria had to change with it.
She met Lyrien and Thorne at the edge of the village, just as the first light of dawn began to break across the sky. The air was cold, and the ground was covered with a light frost, but Aria felt none of it. She felt only the weight of what lay ahead.
"Are you ready?" Lyrien asked, his green eyes steady.
Aria took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "I'm ready."
And with that, they set off.