Arindor had lived in the city of Gesa all his life.
If you asked him to describe it, he would say what all it inhabitants would say: Gesa was nestled within a very wide valley and surrounded by snow-dusted peaks that rose sharply against a cold, clear sky. Gesa was ancient, built on stone foundations older than memory, with winding streets and sloping rooftops that seemed to lean in, as if they were sharing secrets with each other. Cobblestone paths ran through the city like the veins, and they connected the market square to inns, the inns to the alleys, and the alleys to the grand palace that loomed over everything like a silent sentinel.
In winter, Gesa felt softer, touched by the quiet hush of snowfall. This time of year, smoke curled from chimneys in thin, wispy trails and filled the streets with the rich scents of hearthfire and roasted chestnuts. People moved about more quietly. Their laughter and murmurs were muted under heavy woolen cloaks, their steps crunching in the slush and the snow.
In the heart of the city, stood the market square, a bustling hub of merchants' stalls, bright banners, and rows of goods displayed for all to see. The square was alive with color every time of the year. From the deep greens of herbs bundled by apothecaries to the bold reds of fabric unfurled by weavers. Even the voices had a sort of warmth to them, the bartering and laughter mingling in a harmonious hum. And it was here, in this lively square, that Arindor's blacksmith shop stood—a modest workshop with a single window. Its worn sign swayed gently in the cold breeze.
Inside, Arindor worked alone. He was lost in the familiar rhythm of his craft. He moved with practiced ease, hammering the blade he was working on until it hardened and took the shape he wanted. The rhythm of work held him until he felt a presence at the door.
Arindor glanced at the door to find a woman watching him in the half light of morning.
"Eloween?" he said.
"It is me," she told him, sauntering into the workshop. "Don't worry. I mean you no harm. I am only here to watch."
Her eyes raked over him. He realized just then that he was not wearing a shirt and sweat glistened on his body. He felt himself blush. Eloween was the only woman that has that effect on him. With others, Arindor was cool, composed. Two nights before, when Fiona, the bartender at the Merchant's tavern got drunk on her own merchandise and tried to kiss him, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, he fended off her advanced with ease and helped her into a chair. It was the same with Mallory. And Grace. And Charlotte. And Emily… you get the idea.
But not Eloween. She stood there with a gentle smile. Her hair was a dirty blonde and it shone golden in sunlight. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Eloween contrasted against the rugged shop, a whisper of spring in the heart of winter.
"You're always so busy," she teased, her voice light as she stepped into the warmth of the workshop. "I don't think I've seen you leave this place in days."
"Well," he replied, wiping his hands on his workcloth with a grin, "you know me—no rest for the wicked." He hesitated, his eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary, but before he could think of a clever line, she reached out with her own news.
"A rider came through the gates today," she said, tilting her head, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. "They found him bloodied and battered… and the guards took him to the king."
Arindor's eyebrows rose. "The king actually agreed to see him? He is not called Garroc the Mute for nothing."
Eloween nodded. "Garroc the Mute, in the flesh." She smiled slightly, amused by his shock. "He hasn't seen a visitor in years."
"He has that chamberlain of his to keep everyone away," Arindor said, shaking his head. "I always figured he let the castle grow cold and dusty while the poor chamberlain handled everything."
They laughed together, exchanging glances that lingered longer than either intended. There was a warmth between them, something budding in those shared looks and gentle jests. But just as he was about to ask if she'd like to come by for dinner, a loud clamor echoed through the square.
Their heads whipped toward the sound, and Eloween moved aside as Arindor strode to the door, his face creased with irritation. The street outside was gathering a small crowd. All of them were watching a scene unfold just a short distance from the blacksmith shop.
At the center of it, Arindor's master, Fonrir, was surrounded by a pair of rough-looking youths. Arindor pushed his way through the crowd. His heart burned with anger when he saw the smug expressions of the men facing down Fonrir. Fonrir, a large man, once formidable, now showed signs of his age: graying hair, rounded belly, and shoulders slumped from the years.
"You think you are clever, old man?" one of the youths sneered, his hand resting on a crude blade. "Cheating us at dice, then hoping we'd be too drunk to notice."
"I won fair and square," Fonrir retorted, but his voice was less certain than usual.
Arindor took a single step forward. He was tall, towering above most of the crowd, and he was bare-chested even in the cold. It was natural that all attention turned to him.
"Let's end this before someone gets hurt." He said to the men. "Take your coin and leave."
The sight of him gave them cause to pause. The taller youth turned, eyes narrowing as he sized up Arindor. "And who are you?" he growled.
"His apprentice," Arondir answered cooly.
"This isn't your business. Our quarrel is with the old man. Besides what can a blacksmith's apprentice do to us?"
"Enough to put you in the infirmary."
At his words, the shorter youth sneered and stepped forward, gripping the hilt of his knife. Arindor's face hardened, and before the youth could make a move, Arindor stepped forward, disarming him with a swift twist of his arm. The man's knife clattered to the ground, and with a powerful swing, Arindor's fist connected with his jaw, sending him stumbling back. The second youth lunged forward, but Arindor ducked, landing a sharp blow to his ribs, the crack audible in the cold air. Within moments, both were down, holding their sides, grimacing with pain.
Arindor stood over them, his voice calm and commanding. "Take your coin and go. I won't ask you again."
Reluctantly, the youths scurried away, but not without casting a dark glare over their shoulders. Fonrir clapped Arindor on the shoulder with a wheezy laugh. "Good lad! Quick as lightning, as always."
Nearby, a few merchants offered applause and words of approval, and Arindor felt a small swell of pride. Eloween stood by the door, her eyes bright, watching him with admiration and a quiet, pleased smile.
But before he could even return the smile, the clear, deep toll of the city bells rang out, splitting the air with a somber, resounding call. The market fell into silence, every face turning toward the towering castle that overlooked the city. The bells tolled again, their sound heavy, echoing across the valley.
Arindor felt his stomach drop. In all his years here, he had heard those bells sound only once. And his world as he knew it ended that day.
"They can only mean one thing," Eloween whispered, her hand gripping his arm. Her face was pale, her wide eyes full of dread.
A shiver ran down Arindor's spine. The bells continued to ring. Arindor felt a sense that something long dormant had been awakened, something that could change everything they had ever known.