The path from the house wound through the thick woods, the trees standing like sentinels, ancient and unmoving. Their branches whispered softly as Einar passed beneath them, the low murmur barely distinguishable from the wind. He had always liked the solitude of the woods—out here, away from the village, the quiet gave him time to think. Unfortunately, lately, those thoughts had become anything but peaceful.

The dreams. They’d been getting worse, more vivid. Warriors, blood, battles that felt too real. And always her. The woman with golden hair. Celestia.

Einar ducked under a low branch, his brow furrowed. “Who in the nine hells is Celestia?” he muttered, almost angry with himself for the question. She wasn’t real. She couldn’t be. But in the dream, she felt more real than anyone he knew. Her voice still echoed in his mind, soft and familiar, like he’d known her his whole life.

That’s what frustrated him the most. How could he feel something—anything—for someone he’d never even met? It didn’t make sense. And yet, when he thought about her, something inside him stirred. It wasn’t just the dream. It was more than that. It was... familiar.

“Ridiculous,” he grunted, shaking his head as if the motion could somehow rid him of these thoughts. But it didn’t work. It never did.

The trees soon gave way to open fields, golden wheat swaying gently in the morning breeze. It was harvest season, the village bustling with life as farmers worked under the clear skies. Their laughter, their shouts—it all felt so far away, even though he was right there, walking among them.

People here were full of superstitions. They believed a person’s eyes dictated their fate—gold for the blessed, orange for fire mages, and dark red... well, dark red meant cursed. Death. Misfortune. It was one of the reasons the villagers kept their distance from him. That, and the fact he wasn’t one of them.

Einar’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Guess I’m stuck with the curse,” he muttered, kicking a small stone down the dirt path. “At least Alice got the good eyes.”

The village stirred ahead, the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer cutting through the air. Harvest season meant the streets were busier than usual—farmers loading wagons with crops, children running between stalls. Einar walked through it all like a shadow, nodding at familiar faces, though no one ever met his gaze for long.

The blacksmith’s forge loomed ahead, its heat already radiating into the cool morning air. Bron, the blacksmith, was at his anvil, hammer raised.

“Einar!” Bron’s voice boomed over the clatter of metal. “Right on time. Got your sword here.”

At least Bron didn’t look away. He never seemed bothered by Einar’s eyes.

As Einar stepped forward, the warmth from the forge wrapped around him, but it did little to chase away the cold that lingered inside him.

The forge crackled with heat, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and burning coal. Bron stood over the anvil, his hulking figure cutting a shadow against the orange glow of the flames. His hands, calloused and strong from years of hammering steel, held the sword delicately, like he was handling something sacred.

“Looking forward to it?” Bron grunted, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty rag. His voice, like gravel, filled the smithy.

Einar stood on the other side, his crimson eyes fixed on the blade. “Yeah.” His voice was measured, calm, but his hands itched to hold the sword. Deep down, he felt a pull toward it, a need that he couldn’t explain.

Bron moved to the workbench and slowly unwrapped the cloth, revealing the sword’s sleek steel, gleaming in the firelight. The black leather grip was smooth, tight, and without a guard—just like Einar had described when he commissioned it.

“There she is,” Bron said with a satisfied grunt, holding the sword out. “Made it exactly how you wanted, though I made sure it had better balance. Couldn’t help myself.”

Einar’s breath hitched when his hand wrapped around the hilt. Something surged through him—a strange familiarity, as though the sword knew him. His grip tightened, the leather warm against his palm. The blade felt right in his hand, almost too right. He gave it a small test swing, feeling the weight, the control. A flash of memory—no, a dream—flickered in his mind. The battlefield. Celestia.

He blinked and shook it off, trying to hide the confusion boiling under the surface. “Feels perfect,” he murmured.

Bron raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he watched Einar carefully. “You look like you’ve held that sword before, lad. Something I don’t know?”

Einar ignored the question. His body had already moved on its own, his feet shifting into a stance, knees bent, blade raised. It was a stance he didn’t recognize—or did he? Before he could think, the sword sliced through the air, sharp and precise. He pivoted, swung again, faster, the blade whistling as it cut. Another swing, then another. His movements were fluid, effortless, like he had trained for years. But he hadn’t. He was just a woodcutter.

Bron stood frozen, his eyes wide. “By the gods...” He took a step back, wariness creeping into his voice. “Where in hell did you learn that?”

Einar halted mid-swing, his breath heavy. The sword still hummed in his hand. He looked down at it, his mind reeling. “I... I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never...”

Bron stared at him, suspicion growing in his eyes. “You’ve never trained with a sword, yet you’re swinging like you’ve seen more battles than most soldiers. What’s going on, Einar?”

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Einar swallowed hard, forcing a shrug. “Instinct, maybe.”

“Instinct, my ass.” Bron’s gaze darkened. “That wasn’t instinct. It was like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

Einar looked at the sword again, his reflection staring back at him in the polished steel. But the face didn’t feel like his. It was older, harder, more battle-worn. He felt a chill run through him, a reminder of the dreams that had haunted him for months.

Bron scratched his beard, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not telling me something, lad. But that’s your business, I suppose. Just don’t get yourself killed trying to be someone you’re not.”

Einar forced a weak smile. “I’m just a woodcutter, Bron.”

Bron’s laugh was rough, but it held no humour. “Sure you are.” He shook his head, then slapped Einar on the back with enough force to make him stagger. “Look, you’ve got the sword, but if you’re taking Alice out to that lake to train, best you stop by Eliza’s place for some potions. Never know what’ll come crawling out of the woods.”

Einar nodded, though his mind was still trapped in the fog of his dreams and the strange pull of the sword. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

Bron’s eyes softened, but there was still a hint of worry in them. “Just... be careful, alright? That sword’s no ordinary weapon, and from the way you’re handling it, neither are you.”

Einar shifted on his feet, the weight of the blade still settling in his mind. “It’s just training, Bron. Alice wants to practice her magic near Iris Lake, and I’ve been taking her there. Thought it’d be smart to have something better than my axe, just in case.”

Bron raised an eyebrow, setting his hammer down on the anvil. “Iris Lake? Huh.” He wiped his hands on the rag. “That place has its share of strange stories. Not sure I’d call it the safest spot for a kid to practice magic.”

Einar shrugged. “It’s quiet, and Alice feels comfortable there. But you’re right... the forest’s been different lately. Feels like something’s hiding, watching.”

“Aye,” Bron muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s why I’m saying—go see Eliza. She’s got potions that’ll help if anything decides to crawl out of that forest and cause trouble.”

Einar nodded, though he wasn’t sure what Eliza’s potions could do if they ran into anything truly dangerous. But there was something in Bron’s tone that made him uneasy. The blacksmith rarely showed concern, and if he thought the woods were a risk, Einar wouldn’t ignore it.

“I’ll stop by on the way,” Einar said, adjusting the sword at his side.

Bron’s wary expression didn’t change, but he nodded. “Good. And keep that blade close. You never know what’s lurking out there. Wolves, bandits... worse.”

Einar smirked, trying to lighten the mood. “You make it sound like we’re going to war.”

Bron didn’t laugh. “Might as well be, lad. The world’s changing, and the forest knows it before anyone else. You’d be wise to listen.”

With that, Bron turned back to his forge, his heavy footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

Einar left the smithy, the weight of the sword at his side feeling heavier than he’d expected. The name Celestia whispered again in his mind, like a memory he couldn’t quite grasp.

** **

The sword at Einar’s side felt heavier than it should have. Not just the steel, but the meaning behind it. Bron’s words echoed in his mind: “Keep that sword close.” He let out a low, bitter laugh, fingers brushing the hilt as he walked. It wasn’t just a weapon in his hand—it was a line between life and death, a tool that could end or save in a single stroke. You were either a hero or a villain, sometimes both. And lately, the line felt too thin.

The village square spread out before him, deceptively calm. The peacefulness of it grated against him. It was wrong, like a still lake that hid something dangerous just below the surface. His thoughts slipped back to the battles he’d seen, not in this life, but in the dreams. He could still see her there—Celestia—her blade flashing beside his, her golden hair whipping in the wind as blood spattered the ground. Always her. Always that damn dream.

His hand tightened around the hilt of the sword, dragging his mind back to reality. Eliza’s shop stood ahead, ivy clinging to its weathered stone walls as though it was trying to pull the building under. Maybe it should.

He hesitated at the door, feeling the weight of the past settle on his shoulders like a burden he couldn’t shake. There had been a time when walking into Eliza’s shop had felt different, lighter. When her laugh had been enough to pull him out of whatever gloom hung over him. Now, though, it felt... wrong. Like he was betraying something. Celestia.

He shoved the thought away and pushed open the door. The scent of dried herbs hit him immediately, sharp and familiar. For a moment, he wondered if Eliza ever used her own potions—ones that could keep the past from haunting you. If so, they weren’t working.

“Eliza?” His voice came out rougher than he intended.

There was a shuffle from the back room, and then she appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes lit up when she saw him, warm and welcoming. He didn’t deserve that warmth. Not now.

“Einar.” Her voice was soft, as was the smile that followed. “It’s been a while.”

He forced a smile in return, though it felt awkward on his face. “Yeah. How’ve you been?”

“Same as always.” She sighed, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Busy with the shop. You know how it is.”

Their words flowed easily, too easily, and it bothered him. She was standing there, talking like nothing had changed. But everything had changed. He couldn’t even look at her without feeling a surge of guilt he didn’t quite understand. She smiled at him like he wasn’t a mess of tangled emotions, and he almost hated her for it. Almost.

“I need a minor healing potion,” he said abruptly, cutting through the small talk. “Alice and I are heading up to Iris Lake.”

Eliza’s smile softened as she turned toward the shelves. She moved with the grace of someone who had done this a thousand times before. “Alice, huh? She’s something else, that one. Awakening her magic so early—without even needing the proper resources. Practically unheard of.”

She plucked a vial from the shelf, turning back to hand it to him. Her fingers brushed his for a brief second, sending an unwanted warmth through him. Einar swallowed, forcing himself to focus.

“Yeah, she’s... different.” He managed a small smile despite the heaviness inside him. “She’s been practicing hard. Harder than most.”

“You’re lucky to have her as a sister.” Eliza’s voice was soft, her eyes lingering on his longer than he liked. “She’s going to be a force to reckon with.”

Einar’s grip tightened around the vial. “Yeah. She will be.” He felt her gaze lingering, seeing something in him that made him uneasy. There was warmth in her voice, something familiar, and it pressed against the walls he’d built up inside. He couldn’t return that feeling. Not now. Not with Celestia’s name constantly running through his thoughts, pulling him in like gravity.

“That’ll be ten Teks,” Eliza said, breaking the silence with a practiced lightness in her tone.

Einar reached into his pouch, pulling out the coins. He stared at them for a second before handing them over—the phoenix emblem on the coins catching the light. Rebirth. If only it were that simple.

“Thanks, Eliza.” His voice was quieter now, his eyes avoiding hers.

“Anytime, Einar,” she replied, her voice gentle. It was like she wanted to say more, something important, but the words never came. They never did.

He nodded and turned for the door, the weight of her gaze pressing on his back as he left the shop.

Outside, the wind cut through him, but it wasn’t enough to clear his head. Celestia’s name was still there, a whisper in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away.