The rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs echoed through the village of Seabrook, carried by the wind as it swept in from the vast, open ocean. A small figure stood at the edge of the land, where the grassy hills met the craggy rocks, gazing out at the endless horizon. The boy's eyes were fixed on the distant line where the sky blended with the sea, as if searching for something just out of reach.
He stood there often—alone, lost in thought, with only the gulls and the salty air for company. His clothes were simple, worn, and patched in places. His hands, though young, were rough and calloused, bearing the marks of hard work. Despite his youth, there was a quiet strength in the way he held himself, as if the weight of the world had already pressed against his shoulders.
The boy's name was unknown to most who passed by, though his face was familiar in the village. He was often seen running errands, carrying heavy loads, or tending to chores that seemed endless. His days were filled with labor, yet here, at the cliff's edge, he found a brief escape—a moment of peace before returning to the forge.
The village itself was small, with stone-and-timber houses huddled together for warmth against the biting sea breeze. Narrow paths wound their way through Seabrook, leading down to the harbor below, where fishing boats bobbed gently on the tide. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, and the distant shouts of fishermen echoed across the water, mingling with the ever-present roar of the ocean.
Yet, the boy remained apart from it all, as if the village life wasn't enough to hold his interest. There was something more in his gaze—an unspoken desire to see beyond the limits of Seabrook. His thoughts wandered with the waves, reaching for distant lands he had only heard of in passing conversations or old tales.
As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the water, the boy finally turned away from the sea. He made his way back toward the village, his steps steady and purposeful. The forge awaited him, with its glowing embers and the familiar sound of metal striking metal.
Inside, the fire burned hot, casting shadows on the stone walls. A man, older and more worn by the years, stood at the anvil, hammer in hand. He glanced up as the boy entered, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment before returning to his work. The boy moved to his place without a word, picking up where he had left off—stoking the flames, preparing the tools, and helping with the heavy lifting.
His name, the villagers would say, was Roderyk. But to most, he was simply the blacksmith's son, a boy of few words and many tasks. His age? Perhaps sixteen summers, though it was hard to tell. His face, half-hidden beneath unruly dark hair, bore the marks of both youth and responsibility. His skin, tanned from the sun, was often smudged with soot, and his frame, though lean, hinted at the strength of someone accustomed to hard labor.
Yet even as he worked, Roderyk's mind drifted back to the sea. The waves, the horizon, the distant lands—one day, he would find out what lay beyond. But for now, his place was here, in the village of Seabrook, helping his father and waiting for the day when he could follow the call of the ocean.