A pale dawn broke over Elderglen, washing the narrow cobblestone streets in gold. Smoke curled from humble chimneys, and the distant clang of hammer against anvil marked the rhythm of the village's heart. At the edge of town, the forge of Master Caldren blazed, its roaring fire lighting the morning mist.
Lior leaned over the anvil, sweat pearling at his brow as he shaped a horseshoe. His muscles ached, but he welcomed the burn—it reminded him he was alive, that each strike carried him closer to becoming a master blacksmith. He worked in silence, save for the hiss of steam and the occasional shout from Caldren.
"Steady, boy!" the older smith grumbled. "Don't miss the curve this time."
Lior adjusted his grip and tapped more lightly, coaxing the iron into a perfect arc. Caldren nodded once and turned away, checking a stack of completed blades. Lior wiped his brow and allowed himself a small smile: he was learning.
By midmorning the horseshoe was finished. Caldren inspected it, running a gloved hand along its edge. "Passable," he said, tossing it to the rack. "Fetch your lunch and meet me by the river—there's a cart coming, and I'll need your help unloading."
Lior grabbed his water skin and bread and wandered toward the Elder River. The path wound past rolling fields dotted with grazing sheep. Willow trees bent over the water's edge, their branches trailing like brushes on a canvas of rippling blue. He sat beneath one, breaking his bread and watching the sunlight dance across the current.
A sudden glimmer along the riverbank caught his eye. Something half-buried in the mud sparkled like a drop of flame. Curious, Lior set down his things and waded to the edge. He reached into the cool water and unearthed a small crystal fragment—no larger than a man's thumb but glowing with an inner warmth.
He turned it over in his palm. The surface was smooth, almost liquid, and it pulsed like a heartbeat. A soft hum vibrated through his fingertips. Startled, Lior blinked: the world seemed quieter now, the gentle rustle of the willows and the river's murmur fading to a distant echo.
"Lior! Hurry up!" Caldren's voice echoed from the bridge. The forge master strode toward him, cart tracks in his wake.
"What've you got there?" Caldren asked, eyeing the crystal.
"I—I found it in the riverbank," Lior stammered, holding it out. Sunlight caught the fragment's edge, and for a moment the world flared with orange light. Caldren recoiled, shielding his eyes.
"Put that down, boy!" he hissed, but Lior could not look away. Heat flowed up his arm, and in his mind he saw flickering images: rivers of molten lava, mountains aflame, and a knight wreathed in fire.
Lior gasped. The vision vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the hum in his hand. He dropped the fragment; it landed in the mud with a dull thud.
"By the gods," Caldren muttered. He knelt, scooping it up carefully. He rubbed at the mud, then peered at Lior. "This… this is no mere stone."
Before Lior could speak, the crystal blazed brighter, casting dancing shadows on their faces. A wave of warmth radiated outward, and the river's surface shimmered as if stirred by an unseen breeze. A single petal from a nearby blossom drifted toward them, suspended in midair before rising in a gentle spiral.
"They say the old legends are just stories," Caldren whispered, eyes wide. "But if this is what I think it is…" He crushed his jaw into a fist. "Keep your mouth shut about this. We'll talk tonight."
Lior nodded, heart pounding. He watched Caldren wrap the crystal in a scrap of leather and tuck it into his vest. Neither spoke again as they made their way back to the forge, but the air between them crackled with unspoken questions.
That evening, after the last customer had gone and the forge's fire dwindled to embers, Caldren summoned Lior to the back room. Old lanterns cast long shadows against the stone walls, and weapons hung like sentinels overhead.
Caldren produced the crystal, now faintly glowing in the dim light. "This," he said, voice tight, "is a shard of the Flame Crystal."
Lior's breath caught. "The Flame Crystal… the one in the legends?"
"The very same." Caldren's eyes glinted with a mixture of fear and wonder. "When the Elemental Vanguards shattered the four great crystals centuries ago, the world was plunged into turmoil. Fire… Water… Air… Earth… Balance was lost. We believed the shards lost forever."
Lior stepped forward, drawn to the shard's gentle pulse. "And this one survived here, in my river?"
"It seems so." Caldren met his gaze. "And now it calls to its bearer. I believe… it has chosen you."
Lior's pulse thundered. "Me? Why me?"
Caldren placed a hand on Lior's shoulder. "Your blood runs with the fire's echo. I felt it in your work today—the flame itself seemed to guide your hammer. There is more within you than mere skill."
Lior swallowed hard, uncertainty and excitement warring in his chest. "What happens now?"
Caldren closed his eyes, taking a slow breath. "We prepare. Tomorrow at dawn, you and I will journey to the Emberwood—where the forest meets the volcanic ridge. There, you must learn to awaken the shard's power within yourself. It will not be easy, but no great journey ever is."
He handed Lior a worn leather satchel. Inside lay a simple dagger, flint, and a folded map. "Take this. Trust your instincts, and heed the shard's call."
Lior clasped the satchel, his hand trembling with a mixture of fear and determination. As he looked at the glowing crystal in Caldren's palm, a spark ignited within him—a promise of destiny, of trials, and of the adventures that awaited beyond the quiet village of Elderglen.
Outside, the embers of the forge faded to darkness. Inside, a new fire burned bright. And somewhere, deep beneath the earth, the echoes of a shattered kingdom stirred once more.