The sun rose slowly over the town of Delsworth, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. The cool morning air smelled of earth and smoke, and the sound of clinking metal and clattering hooves echoed faintly in the distance. Aelric stood at the entrance of the forge, wiping his hands on a rag as he surveyed the quiet town. The early hours always held a sense of calm that he appreciated, a brief respite before the noise and bustle of the day began.

He liked to come here before dawn, before the townsfolk filled the streets with their chatter and gossip, before he felt the weight of their eyes on him. His chest tightened at the thought of their suspicion, though they didn’t yet know why they should fear him. If they did, he’d be dead by now.

The hammering of metal began inside the forge, the sound sharp and purposeful, a reminder that the day had begun. Aelric set the rag aside and walked back into the heat of the workshop, where Old Rurik was already busy at the anvil. The blacksmith had been up before the light, as usual, his back bent over the glowing coals of the furnace, shaping iron with a rhythm that was steady and sure.

"You’re late today, boy," Rurik muttered without looking up, his voice a gruff rumble.

Aelric smiled faintly. He wasn’t late; he’d been at the forge before Rurik had even started working. The old man just liked to remind him who was in charge. "Barely past dawn," Aelric replied.

Rurik grunted. "Well, dawn doesn’t wait for slackers. Neither do swords." He gestured toward the pile of unfinished blades lying on the workbench. "Get to it."

Aelric nodded and picked up a nearby sword, its edges rough and unpolished. He set it on the anvil, feeling the familiar weight of the hammer in his hand. The steady rhythm of the forge settled into his mind, each strike of metal bringing focus and clarity. For a moment, all thoughts of magic, fear, and the past slipped away, leaving only the work in front of him.

As the hours passed, the streets outside the forge began to fill with the sounds of daily life. Merchants hawked their wares in the marketplace, children’s laughter rang out as they chased one another through the streets, and the distant murmur of conversation carried on the wind. Delsworth was alive, and for a brief moment, it felt like any other day.

But then the murmurs grew louder, more anxious, and Aelric noticed something shift in the atmosphere. People were talking—whispering, really—in tones that carried a hint of fear.

"You hear about what happened in Riverbrook?" came a voice from the street, sharp and hushed.

Aelric’s hammer froze mid-swing, his heart skipping a beat.

"Another witch burned," said another voice, barely above a whisper. "They say he summoned a storm to destroy the crops. Cursed the whole village."

Rurik, who had been tending the furnace, glanced up at the mention of Riverbrook. His eyes met Aelric’s for a brief moment before returning to the fire. He said nothing, but his face was tight, as if the words weighed on him too.

Aelric resumed his work, trying to push the conversation from his mind. But it clung to him, the words lingering in the air like smoke. The witch hunts were becoming more frequent, spreading like wildfire through the kingdom. The townspeople feared magic more than anything, and that fear had turned into a deadly paranoia.

It had only been a matter of time before the hysteria reached Delsworth.

"You’d best keep your head down, boy," Rurik said quietly, his voice breaking through the heavy silence of the forge. "Times like these, people get ideas. They’ll see something that ain’t there if they’re scared enough."

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Aelric looked at him, unsure how to respond. There was something in the old man’s eyes—something more than concern, as if Rurik knew more than he let on. But the blacksmith turned away before Aelric could ask, leaving the warning hanging in the air like the heat from the forge.

The day passed slowly, each hour marked by the dull thud of metal against metal and the oppressive weight of the growing tension in town. By the time Aelric finished his work for the day, the sun had already begun to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the streets. He cleaned his tools and wiped the sweat from his brow, but the unease that had settled over the town hadn’t left him.

The streets were quieter now, most of the townspeople having retreated to their homes for the evening. Aelric walked the familiar path toward the edge of town, his steps slow and deliberate. He kept his hood pulled low, the fabric casting a shadow over his face as he passed the other villagers. Most of them didn’t even look at him, but Aelric could feel their presence—their eyes lingering just a moment too long, their whispers following him in the dark.

As he neared his shack, a voice called out from behind him.

"Aelric!"

He froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, he turned to see one of the town’s guards approaching, a heavy-set man named Calder. The man’s face was grim, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.

"What is it?" Aelric asked, his voice steady despite the panic rising in his throat.

Calder stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms over his chest. "You hear what they’re saying about Riverbrook?"

Aelric nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral. "I heard some talk in the market."

"Yeah, well, it’s not just talk. A man got burned alive, accused of being a witch. And now people are getting ideas." Calder’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze hard. "Strange things happen, people start looking for answers. Even in a quiet town like Delsworth."

Aelric clenched his fists at his sides, his pulse racing. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying people are scared," Calder said bluntly. "You keep to yourself. Don’t talk much. Some folks think that’s strange."

Aelric swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Calder’s gaze. "I’ve done nothing wrong."

Calder studied him for a long moment, his eyes searching Aelric’s face as if looking for some hidden truth. Finally, he grunted and shook his head. "Maybe not. But be careful, Aelric. People get ideas. And ideas can get you killed."

With that, Calder turned and walked away, leaving Aelric standing alone in the fading light.

Aelric let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He stood there for a moment, staring after Calder, his mind racing. The guard’s warning was clear—people were starting to look for something, someone to blame for the strange happenings in the kingdom. And Aelric knew all too well that once suspicion took root, it was almost impossible to shake.

He entered his shack, the door creaking as it closed behind him. The small room was cold, the air thick with the smell of damp wood and old straw. He lit a candle, its soft glow flickering in the darkness, and sat down at the edge of his bed.

His mind was still racing, thoughts of Riverbrook and witch burnings swirling in his head. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Calder’s warning was just the beginning—that it was only a matter of time before the people of Delsworth turned their suspicions toward him.

Aelric’s hand drifted to the scar on his chest, his fingers tracing the jagged line that ran across his skin. The memory of that night came flooding back—the flames, the screams, the overwhelming power that had surged through him. He had tried to bury it, tried to forget, but it was always there, lurking beneath the surface.

The magic. The fire.

Aelric stood and walked over to the small table near the window. He placed his hand over the candle’s flame, his fingers hovering just above the flickering light. He could feel it—the energy, the power, the same force that had saved him that night. It pulsed beneath his skin, waiting.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the flame, willing it to bend to his will. For a brief moment, it flickered, swaying toward his hand as if drawn by some invisible force. Aelric’s heart raced, his breath quickening as the magic stirred within him.

But then, just as quickly as it had come, he pulled his hand away, snuffing out the candle with a quick breath.

He couldn’t afford to lose control. Not now. Not here.

Aelric sat back down on the bed, his mind heavy with the weight of his secret. He knew the truth—sooner or later, someone would find out. And when they did, everything would change.

But until that day came, he would keep his head down, just as Rurik had warned. He would pretend to be nothing more than a simple blacksmith’s apprentice, a quiet man living in a quiet town.

But deep down, he knew that it was only a matter of time before the fire inside him would burn too bright to hide.