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Isolated and proud, the cabin stood apart from the village proper, a deliberate distance that spoke volumes. Built in the old style, rough-hewn logs chinked with clay and moss. It was one of the few that still bore protection runes carved into its doorframe. Most villagers had abandoned such practices, claiming they were superstitious remnants of darker times. But Mother kept them fresh, renewing the carvings each full moon.

The path to the village twisted through, The Stepping Grove, named for the narrow way carved through the hoop pines. Their massive trunks rose like pillars into the grey sky, bark furrowed deep enough to hide secrets. Green moss clung to their northern faces, thick and slick with morning dew. Some said you could tell true north by the moss, but in these woods, directions had a way of shifting when you weren't looking.

The air hung thick with the smell of damp earth and pine resin, sharp and fresh, mixed with a sweetness I recognized as snowdrop flowers. They bloomed only in this season, their small white petals peeking out from the mossy underbrush like shy ghosts. The ground beneath my boots was soft, almost spongy, each step sinking slightly into the wet soil. The crunch of fallen leaves and twigs broke the stillness, my own footsteps louder than I intended in the quiet of the woods.

I'd always found peace here, in this space between worlds. The solitude gave room for thoughts to breathe, to settle. But lately, those thoughts had talons.

The dreams wouldn’t leave me alone. Vivid, brutal images of warriors in strange armor, their faces twisted with rage, blood-soaked battles that felt far too real to be mere dreams. And then there’s her. With golden hair like summer wheat, eyes clear as mountain lakes. Her presence anchored me, even in chaos, but the comfort she brought only raised more questions.

Ducking under a low-hanging branch, the rough bark grazing my forehead as I muttered to myself, “Who in the seven hells are you, Valerie?” The question burned in my throat, my voice sharp with frustration. She wasn’t real. She couldn’t be. But her face, her voice, the feel of her near me. They felt real, more real than anything I’d ever known.

The path widened as the trees thinned, opening onto the village fields. The change was always jarring from ancient woods to ordered rows of wheat. The stalks swayed in the strengthening wind, rippling like a golden sea. The air changed, too, losing the damp forest mustiness for the dry, grainy scent of nearly ripe wheat mixed with fresh-turned earth.

Above, the clouds hung lower than they had any right to, a ceiling of grey wool that seemed to press down on the world. No rain should have fallen at this time of year, yet the air felt heavy with it. The old women in the village would cross themselves and mutter about ‘Obscure weather’, times when the sky held its breath too long and unnoticed.

“It smells like rain in the air.” I looked at the dark clouds, hovering over the village.

The sounds of village life reached me before I saw it, the calls of farmers, the bleating of goats, the cries of babes. Normal sounds that somehow felt forced today, as if the village was trying too hard to pretend everything was ordinary.

Mistwood wasn't much to look at, truth be told. Just a cluster of buildings huddled together like sheep in a storm. The houses followed the old ways, timber frames filled with wattle and daub, thatched roofs pitched steep to shed the heavy northern rains. Smoke rose from clay chimneys in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of breakfast fires and morning bread. The paths between buildings were pressed earth mixed with straw, turning to mud at the slightest rain. Drainage channels, carved with simple water-turning runes, lined the main ways, one of Mother's contributions to village life, though few would acknowledge it as we were ‘foreigners’ to them.

Near the village heart stood the small meeting hall, its peaked roof little higher than the rest, crowned with a weathervane shaped like a perched raven. The wood was darkened with age, and its walls bore hundreds of small marks, names carved by generations of villagers. Some were so old their memories had been forgotten.

The villagers moved through their morning routines like actors in a well-rehearsed act. Women drew water from the central well, its stone walls covered with moss. They would pause in their gossip as I passed, some making the old sign against evil - three fingers drawn across the heart, then flicked outward. A gesture as natural to them as breathing, though they tried to hide it.

"Fell weather we're having," an old woman muttered as I passed, her gnarled fingers clutching her shawl tighter. The gesture wasn't meant to ward off the cold. "Ravens been quiet too. Never bodes well, that silence."

The mud clung to my boots, each step accompanied by a wet sucking sound. Summer had lingered too long this year, the heat baking the ground hard before these strange, heavy rains turned everything to muck. The wheels of laden harvest carts had carved deep ruts in the earth, now filled with murky water that reflected the brooding sky.

Children played near the granary, their game of chase interrupted as they spotted me. Their laughter died like a snuffed candle. The brave ones stared openly, as children always did, while others ducked behind barrel stacks or doorways. One small girl, no more than six, met my gaze directly. Her eyes widened, not with fear but fascination.

"Mama says your eyes are cursed," she called out, voice clear as a bell. "Says they're the mark of the de—"

"Lily!" A woman rushed forward, snatching the child back. "Beg pardon, Master Einar," she mumbled, not meeting my gaze. "Children's tongues run loose as spring rivers."

I forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "No harm done." The words tasted bitter, familiar as an old scar.A few of the hidden children peered out from their hiding spots, their own eyes glinting in the shadows – browns and greens and blues, safe, normal colors that would never draw a second glance.

The world was full of superstitions, especially in villages such as this, where old beliefs clung like moss to stone. They believed your eyes told your fate and deeds of your past life. According to their beliefs, gold eyes belonged to those blessed by the gods, marked for greatness and divine purpose, and were considered sacred by the old churches. Orange eyes marked the fire-bearers, full of power and ambition, destined for fame or infamy.

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But red eyes? Red was the mark of death, of souls stained dark in previous lives, a curse no one wanted to get close to. The deep crimson that set me apart had made me an outcast in my own village, where mothers clutched their children closer and merchants counted their coins twice when I passed.

My lips twisted into a bitter smile as I walked past the granary, the whispers following in my wake like autumn leaves.

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Smoke announced the blacksmith's forge long before it came into view—the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil, the hiss of hot metal meeting water, the acrid smell of coal smoke. It sat at the village edge, partially separated from other buildings as a precaution against fire. The structure was older than most, its stone walls blackened by decades of smoke. A sign with a hammer on the anvil hangs at the front, beneath it the weathered letters spelled out ‘Dusk Forge’ in faded black paint.

Heat rolled out in waves from the open doorway, carrying sparks that danced like fireflies before dying in the damp air. Loth's massive frame filled the forge entrance, his hammer rising and falling in steady rhythm. Each strike sent a shower of sparks cascading over his leather apron, the light catching in his salt-and-pepper beard.

"Einar!" His voice echoed loudly over the sound of the anvil. "Right on time, lad." The final word stretched into 'laad' in the northern way, betraying his mountain origins.

The heat from the forge wrapped around me as I stepped closer. Loth didn’t flinch at my eyes, never had. His tanned skin set him apart from the others, making him seem foreign in this region. His dark hair, streaked with shades of grey, and his deep black eyes, along with a large beard that reached his chest, gave him a dwarf-like appearance from the stories that mother told. However, his imposing mountain figure was too large to be mistaken for a dwarf. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a rag, his beard gleaming with droplets of sweat as he grinned.

“Looking forward to it, aye?” He asked, his voice gravelly as he gestured toward the sword lying across the anvil.

“You know how much I have been waiting for it, Loth.” My eyes fixed on the blade with a grin that came instinctively.

The air smelled of molten metal and burning coal, thick and almost suffocating. The sword gleamed in the firelight, its polished surface reflecting the flickering flames.

Loth carefully unwrapped the cloth covering the sword, revealing its full length. The iron shone bright, the blade sleek and perfectly balanced. The hilt, wrapped in black leather, felt smooth and firm in my grip. The blade was longer than most swords, yet it was slim, its short metal guard ending in a black dragon's head—the last remnant of my father's blade. Like a ghost made solid, it was the same sword I had seen many times before, in my dreams. The same type that I used to slice through my enemies, as effortlessly as a hot knife cuts through butter.

“There she is,” Loth said with pride, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Made it just how you wanted, though I couldn’t resist tweaking them balance a bit.”

I tightened my grip around the hilt, the leather warm against my palm. The moment my fingers closed around it, a strange sensation washed over me—a deep, bone-level familiarity. It felt right, like an extension of my arm. I gave it a small test swing, the blade slicing through the air with a quiet whistle, the weight shifting easily in my hand.

Loth watched me closely, his eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve held swords before, lad. Ain’t this your first?”

Without thinking, my body shifted into a stance, knees bending, feet planted firmly on the ground. I swung the sword again, faster this time, feeling the blade move effortlessly. Another swing, then another, each one fluid, precise, it felt like I had trained with this sword for years. But I hadn’t; in fact, it was the first time I held a sword, other than an axe.

Loth’s expression darkened as he stepped back, watching me with a mix of awe and suspicion. “By thee gods… where’d you learn to do that?”

I stopped mid-swing, the sword still humming in my hand, my breath coming faster. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked down at the blade, my reflection distorted in the polished steel. “I… I don’t know,” I muttered, my voice rough. “I’ve never…”

Loth’s black eyes studied me, suspicion clear in his gaze. “Never trained with swords, yet you’re swinging it like your life depends on it. What’s going on, lad?”

I swallowed hard, trying to shake the unease that crept up my spine. “Instinct, maybe.”

Loth snorted, shaking his head. “Instinct my ass,” He rubbed his beard, still eyeing me like I’d just grown a second head. “That wasn’t instinct, lad. That was something else.”

I stared down at the sword, my fingers tightening around the hilt. The reflection staring back at me didn’t feel like mine—it looked older, harder. It reminded me of the faces in my dreams, the ones I couldn’t explain. Faces worn by battle, by war.

Loth sighed, his voice softening. “Why do you even need a sword? Axes yeah, but sword?”

“Well… you know that forest behind my home, I will have to go there to train with Alira, she can only awaken there.”

“Iris Lake, you mean.”

“Yeah. That forest may seem fine on the outside, but some creatures can lurk at its edges. It gives me the creeps.”

“On that, I agree. Well, lad, why don’t you visit an alchemist and buy some potions for yourself? You never know when you might need one. There is no healer around here.”

“Good advice, Loth. Thanks.”

I was about to turn when felt Loth’s arm on my shoulder, his face was serious this time. There was fear in his eyes, fear of myself and what I just did before with the sword. It even made him fearful, even if little.

"The iron that I melted from yer father's sword to forge this one..." Loth's voice rough as stone on steel. "Wasn't easy to come by, this metal. 'Cold Iron,' they named it in the old era. Don't know how yer father came to hold such a thing, but you'd best keep it safe. Old metals carry old powers, they do."

"Cold Iron?" I frowned. "Mother never mentioned it. She taught us everything about survival, about crafts, about magic—but never about the old era, or her past, or my father's."

"Aye, and that's well enough." Loth's voice hardened like quenched steel. "Some things weren't meant to be carried forward, lad. She did right by you both." He paused, eyes dark as winter storms. "Just don't go getting yourself killed in them woods. No playing hero, that's for them story books, not for folk like us. And that's all I'll say on it."

I forced a smile, but it felt hollow. "I know. I'm just a woodcutter, Loth."

Loth barked a laugh, harsh as the northern wind. "Aye, that you are." His eyes fixed on the sword. "Just keep that blade close, boy. Keep it close."

He clapped me on the back, the force of it nearly making me stumble. I nodded as I moved towards the middle of the village, though my mind was already elsewhere, caught between the fog of my flashes and the strange pull of the sword in my hand. Something inside me had shifted, something I couldn’t name.

But for now, I have a promise to keep to my little sister.

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