The first light of dawn filtered through the towering pines, painting the forest floor with a soft glow. Ashmere, nestled at the base of the Tarnmount Range, sat in peaceful silence as the village stirred into its daily rhythm. The faint sound of axes striking wood echoed from the smithy, and the scent of pine mixed with the earthy aroma of fresh bread from the bakery. For most, it was just another quiet morning in the rugged, alpine forest that had long been home.
But not for Cyrus Locke.
Cyrus lay awake in his small, humble bed, staring up at the wooden beams of his ceiling, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. The hum of the world beyond the walls of his house—the rhythm of life in Ashmere—felt distant to him, like an uninvited guest. This village, these people, they were all steeped in tradition. To them, the mountain was an obstacle to be conquered, the forest a resource to be harvested. But to Cyrus, it was a vast, untapped mystery—a world that stretched far beyond the small confines of Ashmere.
As the village roused itself, Cyrus finally pushed himself out of bed and dressed in his simple work clothes—a dark tunic and well-worn trousers. The smell of pine sap and damp earth greeted him as he stepped outside. His boots crunched on the gravel path, the sound punctuated by the distant calls of woodpeckers and the rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush.
"A fine morning to break a sweat," he muttered to himself, glancing toward the smithy, where his father, Alden Locke, was already at work. The old forge's rhythmic clang rang out like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding. Cyrus had always admired his father's dedication to the work, but there was a part of him that resented it. There had to be more to life than this.
He had always felt it.
It wasn't that he hated the village or his family—far from it. But Ashmere and its people, for all their strength and stubbornness, were bound by traditions that ran deeper than the roots of the ancient trees surrounding them. They believed in the land's endurance, in the necessity of staying rooted and never questioning the way things had always been. It was their way of surviving the harsh winters, the rugged terrain, the isolation that had been forced upon them by the Tarnmount range.
But Cyrus wasn't sure he wanted to survive anymore.
The pull of something far greater, something unknown, gnawed at him. He had spent his entire life in this village, but it never felt like home. He would spend hours staring up at the mountains, wondering what lay beyond them—beyond Ashmere, beyond the Tarnmount range, beyond the simple existence he'd been born into.
The thought of leaving had always been a distant fantasy, one that he kept buried deep within himself. But today, it felt more like a possibility. Maybe today was the day he would finally leave.
The rhythmic clang of the hammer against metal echoed through the village, the only sound that could be heard beneath the towering trees of Ashmere. It was the sound of Cyrus' life—a steady, unyielding rhythm that matched his days in the forge. Every swing of the hammer was a reminder of what his father had built here, what he had inherited, and what he couldn't seem to escape.
Alden stood at the anvil, his broad shoulders hunched in concentration, sweat dripping from his brow. He was as much a part of this village as the trees that surrounded it, his hands calloused from years of shaping metal. His forge was a temple of sorts, the hammer and anvil his sacred tools.
"Morning, boy," Alden said without looking up, his voice gruff as always. "Got another batch of nails to make for the mill. Get over here."
Cyrus nodded, grabbing a nearby hammer. The familiarity of the task settled his nerves, at least for a while. The clang of metal, the heat of the forge, the smell of iron—all of it was something he could rely on, something he understood. But his thoughts always wandered. They had to, didn't they? No one else in Ashmere had ever felt the pull of the outside world the way he did.
His father worked without pause, never once glancing toward the towering peaks of Tarnmount, which loomed in the distance. The snow-capped mountains were a reminder of the world outside Ashmere, a world that had never felt as distant to him as it did to others. But the village was a prison, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. He needed more. He needed something beyond this place, beyond the forge, beyond the life his father had carved out for them.
Cyrus couldn't understand why he always felt so restless. Everyone in Ashmere seemed content with their lives—stubbornly enduring, just as the villagers always had. They worked their fields, raised their families, and stayed where they had always been. But he didn't belong here. Not really. He couldn't shake the feeling that his life had always been meant for something else.
He was jolted from his thoughts by the sharp clang of metal striking metal. He looked up to find his father studying him, his brows furrowed in mild irritation.
"What's got you distracted this time?" Alden asked, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Just thinking," Cyrus muttered, not quite meeting his father's gaze. "About the ironwork."
"Thinking again, huh? You spend too much time doing that. Focus on the task, boy. No one's ever gotten anywhere by daydreaming."
Cyrus forced a smile, but his father's words felt like a tightening noose. It was all he could do to keep from saying something he would regret. He knew his father meant well, but it was hard to find the courage to speak up about what he truly wanted. The mountains, the forests, the world beyond—they called to him.
Before he could respond, a strange noise broke the monotony—a rustling sound coming from the woods to the east. At first, it was subtle, but then it grew louder, a rhythmic thumping that seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath them.
Cyrus froze, his hand still gripping the hammer. His father turned, narrowing his eyes at the woods.
"Must be an animal," Alden muttered. "Nothing to worry about."
But Cyrus didn't move. His heart had begun to race, and he couldn't shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching.
The thumping grew louder, closer. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it—a figure darting through the trees, fast and silent. A silhouette. Tall, cloaked, with something that gleamed faintly in the sunlight.
He blinked, and in that brief moment, the figure was gone.
"Cyrus," his father snapped. "Focus. Quit staring into the woods. This is real work."
"I... I thought I saw something," Cyrus said, though he wasn't sure if he believed it himself.
"Probably just the wind. Now get back to it."
But Cyrus couldn't shake the unease. He tried to go back to the work at hand, but the sensation lingered. The strange figure, the way the air had seemed to shift, the unsettling feeling deep in his gut.
It was the sort of feeling that set his nerves on edge, the same feeling he had when something—or someone—was drawing near.
For the rest of the day, his mind refused to quiet. And that evening, long after his father had gone to bed, Cyrus stood by the window, staring out toward the mountains, the edge of the village disappearing into the thick trees. It wasn't just the village that felt confined—it was him, too. He could feel the walls closing in.
He thought about the figure in the woods, and for the first time in years, he wondered if it had been more than just his imagination. Something was stirring in the world, something he couldn't quite understand. And maybe, just maybe, it was something that had been waiting for him.