The forest hums with life, a chaotic symphony that thrums in Brenna’s ears as she tightens her grip on the worn leather strap of her pack. The Fae Wilds stretch around her, vibrant and alive in ways that make her chest tighten with both wonder and unease. Leaves shimmer like emerald glass, refracting the light of twin suns high above the canopy. Branches twist and curl unnaturally, their surfaces slick with dewdrops that glisten like liquid crystal. The air carries a tangy, electric charge, the telltale sign of wild magic crackling just beneath the surface of everything.
The group of adventurers she hired trudges ahead, their murmurs blending with the forest's sounds—the gentle rustle of sentient plants shifting against one another, the low, melodic hum of distant Fae creatures, and the occasional sharp crack of a branch falling under its own impossibly heavy weight. The air is warm but damp, the cloying scent of earth and wildflowers mingling with the faint metallic tang of her forge-scarred hands.
Brenna’s boots crunch softly against the mossy ground as she trails a step behind the group. Her muscles ache slightly from the trek, but it’s a familiar ache—acquired from years of demanding work at her father’s forge. She adjusts the hilt of her large two-handed hammer strapped to her back, it’s reassuring weight grounding her as the forest around her seems to shift and breathe with its own life.
“Watch your step,” one of the adventurers calls back, his voice sharp and wary. He points to a patch of moss writhing faintly, its movement unnerving. Brenna nods absently, her mind already on the commission waiting back at the forge. A sword, this time, for one of the nobles of Eldralor. She’d been tasked with acquiring a specific ore found only in the Fae Wilds—ores imbued with the unpredictable magic of this place.
The deeper they venture, the stranger the forest becomes. A faint taste of sweetness lingers on the air, like honey, though there is no sign of a hive. Brenna catches her reflection in a nearby puddle, distorted and stretched by the faint glow emanating from the ground. Her chestnut-auburn hair is pulled into a tight braid, loose strands clinging to her damp forehead. She reaches up, wiping a bead of sweat away, her calloused fingers brushing against her tanned skin.
As the group presses forward, a faint, melodic sound catches her attention. It isn’t the hum of the forest or the chittering of unseen creatures—it’s a song, wordless yet alluring, threading through the trees. She halts, glancing back at her companions. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” one of them asks, his eyes scanning the surroundings warily.
Brenna frowns. The song is faint now, almost drowned out by the forest's ambient noise. Shaking her head, she steps back toward the group, only to feel a sudden pull at her core. It’s as if the forest itself calls to her, urging her off the path. Her pulse quickens, her stomach churning with a mix of curiosity and dread.
The group moves ahead, unaware as Brenna hesitates. The pull grows stronger, an invisible thread tugging at her.
“I’ll catch up,” she calls, her voice firmer than she feels. Before anyone can argue, she steps off the path, the dense foliage swallowing her.
The air grows cooler as she pushes deeper into the forest, the light dimming. The song is clearer now, resonating in her bones, and the scents shift—sharper, earthy, with a hint of something metallic. The chaotic vibrancy of the Fae Wilds fades into an eerie stillness, the plants less vibrant, the colors muted as she stumbles upon a clearing.
A vast lake stretches before her, its surface unnaturally smooth, reflecting the sky with unnerving precision. The Mirror Pool. Brenna heard whispers of it before, tales of visions and prophecy, of truths too dangerous to be spoken. Her breath catches in her throat as she steps closer, the edge of the lake rippling faintly under her boots. The water glows faintly, its sheen like molten silver, and when she looks upon its depths, she doesn’t see her reflection.
Instead, shifting images dance within—a battlefield drenched in rain, a towering forge surrounded by flames, and then… a figure. A shadowed figure, both familiar and unknown, their presence radiating something inexplicably important. Brenna's chest tightens as the image vanishes, the water settling back into stillness.
“Do not look too closely, child,” a voice rings out, soft but resonant. It feels as though it comes from everywhere at once, settling into her very bones. Brenna whirls, her hammer instinctively in her hands, ready to fight, though she sees no one.
From the lake itself, a figure rises, cloaked in flowing veils of light that shift and shimmer like the surface of the pool. Their face is obscured, their form ethereal, but the weight of their presence is undeniable. The air crackles around them, and Brenna feels her heart pounding as the taste of iron floods her tongue.
“Who—what are you?” Brenna asks, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to sound strong.
“I am an Enigma,” the figure replies, their tone calm but weighted with an otherworldly authority. “A keeper of truths hidden in shadows, of paths yet to be taken. An oracle and guide of sorts if you will.”
Brenna tightens her grip on her hammer, her knuckles white against the handle, “Why did you call me here?”
The Enigma’s veils shift as if carried by an unseen wind. “You are at a crossroads, Brenna Eisele, daughter of flame and forge. You seek a path forward, but the fires that forge you will also test you.”
“I don’t understand,” Brenna says, her voice cracking with frustration.
“You will,” the Enigma says simply, and the images in the pool begin to shift again. A figure appears once more—the same shadowed form.
“Who is that?” Brenna whispers, her breath catching.
"One unknown, yet tethered to you by unseen threads," the Enigma intones, their voice flowing like a whisper carried on ancient winds. "When the moment arrives, will you wield mercy and kindness, or let them falter? Through him, the path shall unfold—a course bound for salvation or ruin, a truth veiled in the shadows of the future."
The pool dims, and the figure begins to fade back into the water. Brenna takes a step forward, her pulse roaring in her ears. “Wait! What does that mean?”
The Enigma does not answer, their form dissolving into light as the clearing plunges back into the chaotic noise of the forest. Brenna stares at the still lake, her hammer slack in her hand, the weight of the Enigma’s words heavy on her chest.
Brenna’s pulse quickens as a familiar voice calls out from the dense forest behind her. “Brenna!” The sound cuts through the unnerving silence of the Fae Wilds, grounding her momentarily in the present. Turning, she sees her hired adventurers stepping into the clearing, their forms illuminated by the fading sunlight filtering through the towering trees.
The leader, George, moves ahead of the group. His broad shoulders and weathered leather armor mark him as a seasoned swordsman. His dark hair is cropped short, and his piercing gray eyes glint with a mix of concern and suspicion. His hand rests on the hilt of his longsword, a habit Brenna has come to recognize as his default stance in unfamiliar territory.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his deep voice steady but edged with impatience. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“What?” Brenna responds, still reeling from the strange encounter moments ago. Her auburn hair catches the light as she shakes her head, trying to make sense of everything. “No, I found a lake—a vast, glassy lake. An Enigma emerged from the water and spoke to me. It… it felt like a warning or a foretelling.”
The group exchanges uneasy glances, their skepticism clear. Merida, the archer, steps closer. Her lithe frame is wrapped in muted greens and browns, blending almost seamlessly with the forest. A single braid falls over her shoulder, and her hazel eyes narrow as she surveys the clearing.
“What lake?” George asks, his tone sharper now.
Brenna blinks, confused, and gestures behind her. “The lake behind me,” she says, turning. But instead of the breathtaking expanse of water, she’s greeted by more dense trees, their twisted branches clawing at the sky. To the left, a small cave opening yawns in the shadows.
“No!” she exclaims, stepping forward as if to chase a phantom. “It was here—a lake so clear it mirrored the sky! How does a whole lake disappear?”
Merida crosses her arms, her bow hanging loosely at her side. “An Enigma? Are you sure? Trickster Fae are notorious around here, Brenna. They can weave illusions so intricate, it’s impossible to tell what’s real and what’s not. Maybe you saw something they wanted you to see.”
Brenna’s jaw tightens as she spins to face Merida, her hammer glinting faintly in her hands. “No,” she says firmly. “It wasn’t an illusion. The lake was real. The Enigma was real. It spoke to me—showed me someone. He looked familiar, but… I don’t know.” Her voice falters slightly at the end, but her conviction remains.
George steps closer, his imposing figure towering over Brenna’s sturdy frame. He places a hand on her shoulder, his touch firm but not unkind. “We’re not saying we don’t believe you,” he says evenly. “But you know as well as I do that Enigmas don’t just appear for no reason. If it truly were one, it makes sense they’d use magic to conceal their presence after they left. That’s their way.”
Brenna exhales sharply, frustration flickering across her tanned face. She hates the uncertainty that comes with their words, even if she knows they’re right. Her eyes drift back to where the lake should have been, the absence of its brilliance gnawing at her resolve.
George straightens, his eyes scanning the horizon as the shadows grow longer. “Listen, we can’t stay here. It’s almost dark, and you know what happens in the Wilds at night. The Fae’s are most active, and we don’t want to risk an encounter. We need to move.”
Merida nods, her expression tightening. “He’s right. Whatever’s in this forest, it’s not worth our lives.”
Brenna turns toward the small cave opening, her chest tightening as she closes her eyes to focus. The faint hum of magic tickles at her senses, like a soft vibration beneath her skin. The taste of metal lingers in the back of her throat, familiar and unmistakable—the ore she needs is nearby. The earthy scent of moss and damp stone wafts toward her, confirming what her instincts already know.
“There,” she says, pointing to the shadowed cave entrance. Her voice steadies as she adds, “The ore I need is in that cave. I can feel its magic.”
George nods, unsheathing his sword. “Then let’s move quickly.”
Brenna tightens the strap on her hammer and squares her shoulders, stepping toward the cave. Though uncertainty still churns within her, one thing is clear—she won’t leave this forest without the materials she came for, no matter what dangers lie ahead.
*****
The cavern is cool and damp, the walls glistening with moisture and flecks of luminescent fungi that emit a soft, ghostly glow. The air smells sharp and metallic, tinged with a faint sweetness that makes Brenna’s nose wrinkle. She crouches near a jagged outcropping of rock, her calloused hands brushing over a vein of ore embedded in the wall. The faint hum of magic resonates through her fingertips like the thrum of a forge at work, a sensation that steadies her in this unruly wilderness. She exhales slowly, the earthy scent of wet stone filling her lungs.
“This is it,” she says, her voice hushed but firm. With practiced ease, she pulls out a small hammer and chisel from her leather tool belt and begins to chip away at the ore, the sound of metal striking stone echoes faintly in the cavern. The ore glistens softly in the dim light, a deep, dark flowing purple, alive with energy. Behind her, Merida, the archer, keeps a vigilant eye on the cave’s mouth. Her light leather armor hugs her lithe frame, and her movements are precise, almost feline as she scans the dense shadows outside, her bow held loosely in one hand, an arrow nocked but not drawn.
“Let’s hurry,” Merida says, her tone clipped. The tension in her voice matches the tautness in her shoulders.
Standing near the entrance, their defense, Roderic, adjusts the heavy shield strapped to his arm. The shield is a hulking slab of iron, battered and scarred from years of use but still formidable. His broad chest rises and falls steadily beneath his plate armor, and his square jaw is set in a stoic expression. Roderic’s dark eyes flicker between the cave’s entrance and the work Brenna is doing.
“We’ve got your back,” he says in his deep, gravelly voice. “But let’s not tempt fate by lingering. The sun will be setting soon.”
The steady dripping of water echoes softly, accompanied by the rhythmic clinking of Brenna’s hammer and chisel striking the rock. Each strike sending vibrations up her arm and a dull hum through the cavern, as if the ore itself is alive, reacting to her touch.
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“That’s the last piece,” she mutters, her auburn hair clinging to her damp forehead. She holds up a large junk of ore, its purple glow reflecting in her yellowish-hazel eyes. The magic within it makes her fingertips tingle, like tiny sparks dancing along her skin.
She turns to the others, her voice firm, “Let’s get out of here.”
George nods, his sword already drawn. His broad frame casts a long shadow against the cavern wall, the worn leather straps of his armor creaking as he shifts. “Right. Roderic, take the lead. Merida, keep an eye on our rear.”
By the time they exit the cave, the forest has transformed. The vibrant greens of the Fae Wilds are now muted, cloaked in the deep purples and blues of twilight. The trees, massive and gnarled, stretch their limbs like skeletal hands, their shadows twisting unnaturally. The air is thick with the earthy smell of moss and decaying leaves, mingling with a faint metallic tang of magic. A cool breeze brushes against their skin, carrying the distant chirps and hums of nocturnal creatures awakening.
“Well, this isn’t good.” Merida mutters, glancing nervously at the darkening sky. “We need to move. Now.”
The group picks up their pace, weaving through the overgrown paths of the forest. Roderic in the lead, his heavy boots crunching against fallen leaves and snapping twigs. George standing by his side, his eyes sharp and alert, scanning their surroundings as the darkening forest seem to hum with a pulsing, almost sentient energy. Brenna lingers in the middle, her hammer securely strapped to her back and the ores carefully stowed in her satchel. She tucks the satchel into her tool belt. Merida brings up the rear, her bow at the ready as her eyes dart between the shadows. The leaves on the trees begin to emit a soft, otherworldly glow, while the flowers scattered across the grass radiate a faint luminescence, their gentle hum resonating with an unseen energy. As night descends, the entire forest seems to stir to life, its magic awakening in a vibrant, eerie symphony.
They’re nearing the edge of the forest when the air shifts. A faint, mischievous giggle ripples through the trees, followed by a rustling sound to their right. The group stops in their tracks, muscles tensing as the giggle grows louder.
“Fae,” Roderic growls, raising his shield.
Merida draws her bowstring taut, her eyes narrowing as a figure emerges from the underbrush. It’s a Wildling—a mischievous, child-sized Fae with glowing, leaf-like skin and eyes like gleaming emeralds. Its grin stretches unnaturally wide, revealing tiny, sharp teeth. It carries no weapons, but its fingers are long and clawed, and it exudes an aura of volatile magic that makes the air buzz with tension.
“Hello, travelers,” the Wildling sings, its voice melodic yet unnervingly off-key. It darts around them with unnatural speed, its movements a blur. “Leaving so soon? But the night is so young!”
The Wildling cackles and snaps its fingers. A burst of volatile magic erupts around them, sending leaves and dirt swirling into the air. Brenna staggers back, her heart pounding as the scent of singed earth fills her nose.
“Enough of this!” Merida shouts, loosening an arrow. The projectile flies true, striking the Wildling in the arm. It yelps and scurries back into the shadows, but not without retaliating. A flick of its wrist sends a small explosion of light and sound toward them, disorienting the group.
“Get ready!” George barks as a hoard of Wildlings emerge from the shadows. They’re small, but their movements are unnaturally fast, darting between the trees like flickers of light. The air growing thick with the scent of ozone as the Wildlings begin weaving their magic.
The forest explodes with chaos as the Wildlings streak through the glowing foliage, their erratic magic crackling and popping like distant fireworks. Each burst unleashes cascades of shimmering, disorienting colors, painting the clearing in a kaleidoscope of shifting hues that blur the senses and fray the nerves.
Brenna feels the dizziness claw at her mind, but she grips the fire burning in her core, steadying herself. She smells the acrid tang of magic in the air, sharp and metallic, mixed with the earthy scent of disturbed soil. She grabs her hammer, and it flares to life, flames snaking up to its length, casting flickering light over the chaos.
Merida loosens an arrow, the sharp twang of her bowstring cutting through the noise. The projectile pierces a Wildling's leg, and the creature screeches—a sound like nails on glass—before vanishing into the foliage. Another one leaps at Roderic, who meets it head-on with his shield, the metallic clang reverberating like a tolling bell. The creature's claws scrape across the iron, shrieking sparks as Roderic grunts and shoves it back as George lunges and stabs the creature in its small chest.
Brenna swings her large hammer in a fiery arc, striking a Wildling mid-leap. The flames engulf the creature, its shriek drowned out by the roaring blaze as it crumples to the ground. The sharp, acrid scent of burning foliage fills her nostrils, the heat from the flames prickling against her skin.
“We need to keep moving!” she shouts, her voice slicing through the pandemonium. “There are too many of them!”
The Wildlings retaliate with renewed ferocity. Their magic intensifies—flashes of light and bursts of sound overlap in chaotic rhythm, threatening to overwhelm the group. Brenna catches sight of George slashing through one Wildling, his blade glowing faintly as it cuts through the creature’s wild magic. Nearby, Roderic braces against the onslaught, his shield a solid bulwark as the Wildlings crashes into it with frenzied claws and bursts of chaotic magic. Each impact rattles his frame, the sharp clang of blows mixing with the cacophony of pops and cracks from the Wildlings’ wild spells. Behind him, Merida fires arrow after arrow with unerring precision, her shots finding their marks amidst the shimmering chaos. The air is thick with tension, the whistle of her arrows slicing through bursts of flickering light and disorienting sound.
George carves through the fray, his glowing sword absorbing the Wildlings’ magic with each swing. The blade hums with energy, releasing bursts of radiant power that scatter the creatures in blinding flashes. With each strike, he pushes forward, his movements sharp and efficient, creating openings for the group to rally as they fight to hold their ground against the relentless horde.
“We’re getting surrounded!” George shouts, his voice taut with urgency.
The group are now back-to-back, with each one facing a direction outward toward the oncoming onslaught of Wildlings as they are surrounded.
Brenna glances over her shoulder, her heart pounding like a war drum as the chaos of the Wildlings surges around them. Their screeches echo through the forest, a relentless cacophony that claws at her senses. She catches sight of George and Roderic locked in combat, their movements precise yet desperate, while Merida loosens arrow after arrow with trembling hands. The forest itself seems alive, glowing flowers pulsing in rhythm with the Wildlings’ chaotic magic, and the air is heavy with the acrid tang of ozone and sweat.
“Bunch up close behind me!” Brenna shouts, her voice cutting through the noise. Her auburn hair clings to her damp face as she plants her feet, the heat of her magic already building within her. “I’ll make us an opening toward the forest edge—be ready to run!”
George slashes at an approaching Wildling, his glowing sword scattering its magic in a burst of light. “We’re with you!” he calls back, his tone grim but resolute.
Merida scrambles to reload her bow, her hazel eyes darting toward Brenna, and nods sharply. Roderic grunts in acknowledgment, his shield braced against a relentless barrage of claws and wild magic, the force vibrating through the air like a war drum.
Brenna grips her hammer tightly, her palms slick with sweat. Her heart races as the energy within her coils tighter, demanding release. The Wildlings press closer, their erratic movements and bursts of chaotic magic creating disorienting flashes of light and sound. Brenna’s breath comes fast and sharp, the wild heat in her chest rising to a near-breaking point.
“Get ready!” she yells, her voice raw with determination.
The group tightens behind her, weapons drawn, their faces etched with grim resolve. She raises her hammer high, its surface blazing with fiery energy, and lets out a raw, guttural roar as she slams it into the earth with all her strength.
The ground explodes beneath her weapon, a shockwave of flame ripping outward in a violent burst. The fire roars to life, searing and blinding, devouring the forest floor in its relentless path. The shockwave slams into the Wildlings, sending them hurtling backward, their screeches turning to guttural screams as the flames consume them. The barrier doesn’t just ignite—it expands, a swirling inferno tearing through the clearing, reducing plants and even tree roots to smoldering ash. The air thickens with the acrid stench of burnt earth and charred flesh, choking and suffocating, as the heat ripples outward in waves that seem to bend the very air.
The Wildlings scatter in panic, their twisted forms writhing and contorting as they flee the flames. The fire’s ferocity pushes the creatures back into the shadows, where their hisses and guttural snarls fade into the distance. The ground glows a hellish orange, embers dancing in the air as Brenna stands in the center of the devastation, her chest heaving, sweat streaking her soot-covered face.
“Move!” she screams, her voice hoarse yet commanding, cutting through the raging inferno.
The group bolts, darting through the searing opening Brenna’s magic created, the flames licking at their heels as they charge toward the forest’s edge. The acrid smell of burning foliage and the suffocating heat cling to them as they sprint, dodging between smoldering trees and leaping over embers scattered across the forest floor. As they burst into the cool night air, the oppressive heat gives way to a blessed chill. Brenna slows, her chest heaving, and glances back at the blazing forest. Her sweat-soaked skin prickles in the cool breeze, and the group’s collective sighs of relief mix with the faint crackling of distant flames.
George sheathes his sword, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he catches his breath. “That was too close,” he mutters, wiping his brow.
Merida leans against her long bow. “Close doesn’t even begin to describe it,” she says, her voice shaky but tinged with relief.
Roderic rests his shield against a boulder, his hands on his knees as he exhales heavily. “Good thinking with the fire,” he says to Brenna, his tone gruff but sincere.
Brenna nods, her chest heaving as she catches her breath. The faint scent of smoke clings to her, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest. She brushes a strand of her auburn hair from her face, her eyes scanning the darkened woods behind them.
Just as she turns to follow the group toward the town, a faint whisper brushes against her ears. She freezes mid-step, her skin prickling, the sound too faint to make out yet unmistakably calling her. It’s soft, almost a breath, but it holds an eerie insistence, drawing her gaze back toward the smoldering forest now cloaked in shadow. The trees sway gently, their glowing leaves now dimmed, the Wildlings’ presence a distant memory.
Come back…
Her heart skips, the whisper clearer this time, weaving through her thoughts like a thread of unease. Brenna scans the tree line, half-expecting to see a figure emerge, her hand instinctively tightening on her hammer. The Enigma. The memory of its cryptic warning rushes back to her, and the whisper seems to echo with the same otherworldly resonance. Her chest tightens as if the forest itself is pulling her gaze back.
“Brenna?” George’s voice snaps her out of the trance, distant but steady.
She blinks, shaking her head as if to dispel the strange pull. Her eyes linger on the shadowed forest for a moment longer, the weight of unfinished business pressing against her resolve. But there’s nothing, only the rustling of leaves and the faint crackle of distant flames. Forcing herself to turn away, she hurries to catch up with the group.
George greets her with a faint smile, his broad shoulders slumping in relief. “Thought we lost you to the forest back there. How about we treat you to a round at the tavern? You’ve earned it after saving all our necks.”
Merida nods in agreement, her hazel eyes gleaming with gratitude, “Seriously, Brenna, that was amazing. Quick thinking and fire magic? Without you, we’d probably be trapped in cages at the Twilight Court right now, serving as entertainment for those damn Fae.”
Even Roderic, usually reserved, chimes in. “Let us thank you properly.”
Brenna allows herself a small smile, her earlier unease giving way to a flicker of pride. “I didn’t do it alone,” she says, pulling the satchel of ores from her tool belt and holding it up. The faint, purple glow of the chaos-imbued ore shimmers through the fabric, catching the moonlight. “But I’ve got what I came for—enough to forge the sword my client ordered.”
“Still,” George says, slapping a hand on her shoulder, “you didn’t have to go as far as you did. Let us buy you a drink. Celebrate the job well done and surviving the Fae Wilds.”
Merida grins, nudging Brenna with her elbow. “And maybe talk you into joining our team with the adventurer’s guild. We could use someone with your skills.”
Brenna chuckles softly, shaking her head as a wry smile tug at her lips. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but I’m a blacksmith through and through. The forge is where I belong, not out here in the chaos.” Her voice is steady, laced with warmth but resolute. “And besides, I’m a proud member of the Ironclave Blacksmith Guild. If I traded my hammer for adventuring, they’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“Your drinks, though,” Brenna adds, slinging the satchel back onto her tool belt. “I won’t say no to those. Lead the way.”
As they near the town, the flickering lantern light casting warm glows against the encroaching darkness, a voice drifts on the wind, low and melodic, yet steeped in an eerie, unsettling undertone. “Return... where truths are hidden, and threads are spun…” The words curl through Brenna’s mind, not a command, not a plea, but something far more haunting, more mysterious.
She pauses, her chest tightening as she glances back over her shoulder. The forest looms like a black shroud against the star-speckled sky, its edges alive with whispers and faint, glowing traces of Fae magic. The unease settles deep, gnawing at her resolve. Not tonight, she tells herself, clenching her fists as she turns back toward the town.
*****
As Brenna steps into the welcoming glow of the town’s gates, the tension of the Wilds finally begins to loosen its grip. The hum of tavern chatter drifts through the air, mingling with the clinking of mugs and the rich aroma of roasting meats. She takes a deep breath, the familiar scents and sounds wrapping around her like a soothing balm. For the first time in hours, her shoulders relax, and the weight of the satchel at her side feels lighter.
Then it comes—a faint chime, soft yet resonant, like the ringing of a distant bell carried on the wind. It doesn’t come from the town or her surroundings; it reverberates deep within her, threading through her very core. The sound isn’t loud, but it sends a ripple of warmth coursing through her, like sparks catching kindling.
She halts mid-step, her heart skipping. It’s familiar, yet strange, a sensation she hasn’t felt in years.
[Progress Achieved: Emberheart Magic – Flame Barrier Upgrade Unlocked.]
[Emberheart Magic – Flame Barrier Upgraded to Flame Barrier Burst]
[Skill points achieved: +8]
The words are not spoken but felt, as if inscribed directly into her being. For a moment, Brenna just stands there, her thoughts racing. Magic progression—of course it’s common enough in Eldralor, where mages and smiths alike pursue the refinement of their crafts. But for her? She’d thought she’d stagnated, stuck at the same level for far too long.
Her lips curl into a small, satisfied smile. Progress. Real progress. It’s not just a reward for her work—it’s proof that she’s still moving forward, still capable of achieving more. The warmth inside her swells, rekindling a spark of pride and hope she hadn’t realized had dimmed.
Her companions walk ahead, unaware, their laughter echoing faintly in the crisp night air. She takes a final glance over her shoulder, back toward the looming Wilds. The faint chime lingers in her mind like a whispered promise. For all its dangers, something about that place—and what had happened there—had shifted her path.
Brenna turns back toward the town, her hand brushing the satchel of ores at her side. The whispers of the Wilds, the Enigma’s cryptic words, and now this advancement—pieces of a larger puzzle. A mystery that both unnerves and excites her.
Tonight, she will celebrate. Tomorrow, she will work. But beyond that… she will just have to wait and see.