Prologue

The Forging of Fates had arrived and He was busy as a bee in his workshops. He moved constantly from workstation to workstation, His massive weight causing His massive metal boots to ring throughout the workspace. In the blazing forges metal flowed like water. Gold, silver and steel filled molds of every kind. Weapons were tempered, belt buckles cooled and all kinds of goods and trinkets were being completed. As each item was in the final stages of complete He would give each one a mighty strike of his hammer and send a surge of mana into the Gift where it would wait formlessly until commanded to take shape.

Then He would move to the other stations to perform the same tasks. The looms churned out garments of all kinds, from simple woolen shirts and cloaks to finely woven doublets and capes of fine silks. Here too He would touch each object with His hammer and imbue each one with power. The tanneries turned out leather goods, the masonries shaped fine stones and gems, and a score of other places of industry completed their wares. He passed through each one of them and performed the same act of magic with his mighty hammer.

Each item that He created helped to push back the loneliness that filled the vast and wondrous halls. Despite the sounds of industry that rang throughout the chambers there was no echo of laughter. There were no voices raised in the confines of the walls, no hint of even a whisper. The only sounds that originated from the living was the tromp of His metal sabatons on stone floors and the lingering ring of His hammer strokes.

After what felt an interminable length of time, the forges were doused, the looms’ shuttles ceased to fly and the sounds of the other workshops fell silent and the Gifts were ready. He tenderly lifted each Gift one by one and with a simple command gave them a name. The magic inside the Gifts would begin to take shape and each and every one of them became a unique masterpiece. A simple door would then appear and he would carry them in pairs through the door. When he re-emerged from the door the Gifts were no longer in his possession.

Across the world of Herald, every youth who had reached the age of sixteen in the past year was preparing to step through identical doors into adulthood. It was His task to provide each one of them with Gifts. Two Gifts for each meant He had had a lot to do. There were tens of thousands of gifts for him to make at least, perhaps hundreds of thousands every year. He tried to make each gift uniquely tailored to the individual. Weapons, armor, armor, jewelry, cooking wares, it did not matter. Each one was tailored for the youth who were the future of the world of Herald.

As each of the youths stepped through the doors He would study them, their thoughts, their dreams and ambitions. He would fashion the already changing magic contained within each Gift with the wants and needs of each individual in mind. He wasn’t omniscient of course, but after a few millennia of doing this He liked to think He had gotten rather good at determining what would help each youth achieve their best selves. One by one He finished the enchantments and watched the young men and women discover his waiting Gifts.

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His heart surged with joy and his hopes were bolstered as each Gift was found and accepted. Some accepted the Gifts with the exuberance of youth. Others accepted their Gifts with consternation and uncertainty. It would take time for each individual to unlock the true potential and meaning of their Gifts. The butcher’s son who hoped for a sword that would make him a mighty hero was resigned as he accepted the butcher's knife. It would take him time to realize that he would prefer the simple life of peace behind the bloody butcher’s block in his family’s ship, rather than the butcher’s block of the battlefield. The young man who received the shield that he envisioned would lead him to victory and glory on the battlefield would come to recognize the value of every life that he protected with it was greater than all the gold in the world.

Most would have considered the monumental undertaking He performed this time of year every year as work, but for Him it was a relaxing break from His normal work. His normal work was dark and difficult, if necessary. It was a long, lonely labor that filled Him with overwhelming urges of violence and fear. He feared for himself in part, but mostly He feared that He would fail. That the darkness would swallow Him and everything He had worked for up. So He had no choice but to keep moving forward. It made this one day of the year in which He had peace a refreshing opportunity to set aside the ways of destruction and take pleasure in making things. He would bend seconds into days, days into weeks and all the while He would be building, crafting and shaping.

Then He could set down his tools and sit back to watch in satisfaction as they took the Gifts He had made them. He could bask in delight and opportunity that abounded on this one day of joy. He could hold his breath and watch as the future generations received their third gift. The secret gift that each person had been born with and was now ready to bloom. A gift that they would have to learn for themselves.

These third gifts were not His doing. They were older and more powerful, bestowed at birth by the Creator, but only now coming to life and revealing themselves. These innate gifts could shape the world in ways that even He could not predict even after his millenia of existence.

Soon He was finished with his task and the halls were empty of Gifts. The sounds of creation had died and He faced his door. He looked around sadly. The Forging was done. One by one the youths across the world of Herald had received their Gifts and His labor of joy was done for another year. Slowly, He stood a little straighter and adjusted His grip on His hammer. It was His tool, His weapon, and His only friend through the dark and lonely years.

“We will return next year,” she whispered, “We always do.”

He nodded lethargically. He didn’t want to leave but knew he must. The lights He had nourished were stepping back out into the world through their doors. He needed to protect them. There was no one else who could do what He did. The sense of weariness that had disappeared during the Forging slowly settled back onto His shoulders and they visibly sagged, like a wagon into which a massive boulder had been placed. For a moment He felt like He might break under the weight of responsibility. Then He straightened and strode through the door and stepped into the darkness that bordered the world. His vigil had once more begun. He could not let the terrors of the dark snuff out the tiny, precious lights He had just Kindled into flame. His work was not yet done. It may never be done.