The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the small forge, the rhythm steady and relentless. Aelric Valeron stood at the anvil, his muscular frame hunched over as he hammered a glowing bar of iron. Sparks flew with every strike, casting brief flashes of light that illuminated the soot-stained walls of the workshop. His hands, calloused from years of work, moved with precision, but his mind wandered far from the heat of the forge.

The fire from the forge had nothing on the fire that burned in his memories.

It had been five years since that night, but the images were seared into his mind as though it had happened only yesterday. The sky, once clear, had turned a violent red. The air had smelled of burning wood, flesh, and something far worse. He had seen his village swallowed by flames, the people he had known his entire life screaming in terror. They had called it a punishment from the gods, but Aelric had seen something in the heart of the destruction—a shadow, a force that tore through their homes with no mercy, a force that had come for them.

Only he had survived.

Aelric shook the thoughts from his head and focused back on the task at hand. The sword he was working on was nearly finished, the steel taking on the perfect shape, but he had lost track of time. He realized he'd been hammering longer than necessary when Old Rurik’s voice cut through the din.

"You're at it again, boy," the old blacksmith grumbled from his seat near the back of the workshop. "You’ll pound that sword into dust if you’re not careful."

Aelric stopped, looking up from the anvil. The blade was already sharp, its edge gleaming in the dim light. He set the hammer down, feeling a brief surge of annoyance at himself. “Sorry,” he muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

Rurik stood and shuffled over, his hunched form moving slower than it used to. He eyed the sword and grunted in approval. “Good work, as always. You’ve got a hand for the craft, no doubt about it.”

“Thanks,” Aelric replied, his voice lacking any real emotion. Rurik meant well, but the old man didn’t know what haunted Aelric’s thoughts. He didn’t know what it felt like to carry the weight of a past that wouldn’t die.

The truth was, the work kept him from thinking too much about it. If he let his mind wander for too long, he always ended up back there—back in the village, watching the world he knew burn around him.

Rurik, sensing his apprentice’s mood, clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “That’ll do for today. Go on home, lad. Get some rest. I’ll finish up here.”

Aelric nodded, not arguing. He cleaned his tools and hung up his apron, his movements slow and deliberate. By the time he stepped outside, the sun was already sinking below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of purple and orange. A cold wind blew through the town, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the faint smell of wood smoke from the evening hearths.

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Delsworth, a small and unremarkable town, lay nestled between the Blackridge Mountains and the sprawling Murkwood Forest. The streets were narrow and winding, the houses made of wood and stone, their roofs thatched and sloping. The people here kept to themselves, living simple lives far from the troubles of the wider world.

And that suited Aelric just fine. He had come to Delsworth after fleeing the destruction of his village, hoping to find some measure of peace in the quiet, isolated town. It was a place where no one asked questions, and no one offered answers. The perfect place to disappear.

He walked through the winding streets, his cloak pulled tight against the evening chill. The townsfolk were already inside their homes, preparing for the night. A few stray dogs wandered the streets, sniffing at the refuse left in the gutters. The sound of a baby crying echoed faintly from one of the houses, but otherwise, the town was quiet.

As Aelric passed by the town square, he caught sight of the old well, its stones weathered and cracked from years of use. He paused for a moment, staring at the well, his mind drifting back to a time long past.

He remembered the well in his village, the one his father had built with his own hands. He remembered the way his mother used to draw water from it every morning, humming a soft tune as she worked. The memory brought a brief, sharp pain to his chest, and he quickly turned away, forcing the images from his mind.

The past was gone. There was no point in dwelling on it.

By the time Aelric reached his small shack at the edge of town, the last light of the day had faded, leaving the world cloaked in darkness. His home was little more than a hovel, a single room with a straw mattress, a table, and a few worn chairs. But it was enough for him. He had never needed much.

He lit a candle and set it on the table, the flickering flame casting long shadows on the walls. The room was cold, but Aelric had grown used to the chill. He shrugged off his cloak and sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes drawn to the scar that ran across his chest—a jagged, ugly line that marked the place where the flames had licked at him that night.

It was a reminder that he had survived, but also a reminder that he had failed to save anyone else.

Aelric lay back on the bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. His mind raced, as it often did at night, with thoughts of what had happened, what he could have done differently. But the answers never came. They never would.

The villagers had said it was a punishment, a curse brought down upon them by their own sins. But Aelric knew better. He had seen the truth in the flames, had felt the raw, ancient power that had surged through him in that moment of chaos. It was something he couldn’t explain, something he didn’t understand.

Magic. It had been magic, of that much he was certain. But magic was rare, feared, and outlawed in these lands. Those who wielded it were hunted down and killed without mercy. He had seen it happen with his own eyes, had watched as a man accused of witchcraft was burned at the stake in the town square, his screams echoing through the streets.

Aelric clenched his fists at the memory. He had hidden his own abilities ever since that night, burying them deep inside himself, hoping they would never surface again. But sometimes, in the stillness of the night, he could feel it—the magic, pulsing beneath his skin, waiting.

He didn’t know how long he could keep it at bay.