The forge had settled into a contemplative silence after Jhaeros's tale of Jaban, the Predator. The flickering light of the forge's embers cast long shadows, giving the moment a sense of weight, of history pressing in around them.
Lyra leaned back against the workbench, arms crossed, her expression thoughtful.
"Well, since everyone's telling stories of legendary figures," she said, glancing at the others, "I suppose it's my turn."
Kalem smirked. "Another warrior?"
Lyra shook her head. "No. A scholar. A visionary. A man who didn't conquer through war or battle, but through knowledge and ambition."
Garrick snorted. "Sounds boring already."
Lyra shot him a look. "You won't think that once you hear who it is. This is the story of Hedgar—the elven founder of the Western Alchemical Council, of which the Everwood nobility has been a part of since its very inception. A pioneer obsessed with greatness."
The name carried weight, even among those unfamiliar with alchemical history. Kalem straightened, interest sparking in his gaze.
"Alright," he said, "I'm listening."
Hedgar: The Elven Pioneer of Alchemy
"Hedgar was born into an era of stagnation," Lyra began. "Alchemy existed, but it was fragmented—different schools hoarded their secrets, refusing to share knowledge. Progress was slow, and to him, that was unacceptable."
Jhaeros nodded. "A familiar story. Change is always resisted."
Lyra smirked. "Hedgar wasn't just a researcher—he was ruthless. He believed that alchemy wasn't just a tool for scholars and healers. To him, it was power. He sought to unify knowledge, to create a system where alchemy would become the backbone of civilization."
Kalem's eyes narrowed. "And how did he do that?"
Lyra's expression darkened slightly.
"He stole. He bought. He extorted. Whatever it took, he acquired knowledge. He traveled across nations, gathering every scrap of alchemical theory he could. If a kingdom refused to share their research? Mysteriously, their alchemists started disappearing. If a scholar declined to work with him? A better offer—or a worse threat—changed their mind."
Garrick chuckled. "A bit extreme, isn't it?"
Lyra shrugged. "Greatness requires sacrifice."
Kalem folded his arms. "So he conquered alchemy, but not through battle—through knowledge."
"Exactly," Lyra said. "Through sheer force of will, he founded the Western Alchemical Council, a body that centralized alchemical research. For the first time, alchemy wasn't just a scattered art—it became an institution."
"But Hedgar wasn't satisfied," Lyra continued, her tone shifting. "Unifying knowledge wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted to create something legendary."
Jhaeros tilted his head. "And did he?"
Lyra's gaze flickered with something unreadable. "Depends on how you define 'legendary.'"
She took a breath before continuing.
"Hedgar's obsession led to his greatest project—the Grand Transmutation. A ritual that, in theory, would allow him to create the philosopher's stone."
Garrick whistled. "That old myth?"
Lyra smirked. "Back then, it wasn't a myth. It was his life's work. He dedicated decades to refining the process, experimenting, adjusting, pushing the boundaries of alchemy further than anyone had before."
Kalem leaned forward. "And?"
Lyra's voice dropped lower. "And it failed."
A silence settled over them.
Jhaeros raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
Lyra exhaled. "No one knows exactly what went wrong. Some say the transmutation went too far, that it created something unnatural. Others say he succeeded but paid a price too great to bear.
"But one thing is certain—Hedgar vanished. His laboratory was found in ruins, his research destroyed beyond recognition. And the council, the very one he founded, declared his project forbidden."
Garrick scoffed. "Let me guess. They didn't want anyone else trying it."
Lyra nodded. "They erased as much of it from history as they could. They feared what he had tried to do, feared the implications of his work."
Kalem tapped a finger against the table. "But you said your family has been part of the council since the beginning. Surely, some records must remain."
Lyra's lips curled into a slow smile.
"Maybe."
Kalem studied her expression. "So what do you think? Did he die, or did he succeed?"
Lyra shrugged. "I think he transcended."
Jhaeros frowned. "What does that mean?"
Lyra's voice took on a more thoughtful tone.
"Hedgar didn't seek immortality in the way most would. He didn't want to live forever—he wanted his work to live forever. And in a way, it has." She gestured around her. "Every alchemical breakthrough since his time? Every elixir, every transmutation, every enchanted metal? All of it traces back to his principles."
Garrick folded his arms. "So you're saying his ideas lived on, even if he didn't."
Lyra nodded. "That's what makes a true legend, isn't it? Not just power, not just achievements—but something that persists. Even in death, Hedgar still shapes the world."
Kalem leaned back, thoughtful. "A different kind of conqueror."
"Exactly," Lyra said. "Not one who wielded a sword, but one who reshaped the very foundation of knowledge."
The forge crackled softly as the story settled into the air between them.
Jhaeros exhaled. "Your people tell interesting stories."
Lyra smirked. "You expected anything less?"
Nara stretched. "I still prefer warriors over scholars. But… I respect the ambition."
Garrick shrugged. "I don't know. Sounds like the guy took himself too seriously."
Kalem, however, was silent, lost in thought. After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"There's something to be learned from all of these stories."
Jhaeros raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Kalem nodded. "Bucephalus ruled a kingdom, but it died with him. Narasha fought battles that made her legend, but only because she endured. Jaban didn't just survive—he became something greater. And Hedgar? He never sought to rule, never sought battle, but his influence has lasted longer than any kingdom."
Lyra smiled. "And what does that tell you?"
Kalem met her gaze.
"That power comes in different forms. And the greatest legacy… isn't always the one people see."
The group fell into silence once more, the weight of the stories lingering. The embers of the forge burned low, casting shadows that stretched toward the walls—like echoes of the past, still whispering in the present.