In the heart of a vast, ancient forest lay a village called Eldenwood. It was a quiet place, wrapped in a blanket of trees so tall they seemed to touch the sky. The forest was alive with the songs of birds and the rustling of leaves, while streams of clearwater twisted through the land like silver threads. Around the village stretched fields of green, dotted with wildflowers that danced in the breeze. It was a place of peace, where nature and magic lived side by side.
The people of Eldenwood were simple folk, but they had a gift—a kind of magic that was as much a part of their lives as the air they
breathed. It wasn't the kind of magic that summoned storms or raised mountains. No, theirs was a quieter power, used to make their daily lives a little brighter and their work a little easier.
Farmers would whisper to their crops, encouraging the plants to grow tall and strong. With a wave of a hand, they could call a gentle rain to quench the earth's thirst or guide the sunlight to where it was needed
most. In the fields, you might see a farmer plucking ripe tomatoes from a vine that bent willingly toward their touch, as if grateful for
the care it had been given.
In the cottages scattered through the village, magic flickered in small but wonderful ways. A broom swept the floor on its own, following its owner's soft command. Pots bubbled over magical flames that didn't need wood or matches. Lanterns glowed with a steady, golden light,their warmth chasing away the shadows of the evening.
Even the craftsmen of Eldenwood had their own magic. Tailors wove clothes that never tore, no matter how hard the work. Blacksmiths forged tools that stayed sharp and strong through countless seasons. Musicians strummed harps and flutes that seemed to carry the soul of the forest in their tunes, making listeners smile or sigh with a deep, quiet peace.
In the middle of the village stood a great oak tree, its wide branches sheltering the marketplace below. Every morning, villagers gathered there to trade vegetables, enchanted tools, and other wares. Laughter
and friendly chatter filled the air as children ran through the crowd,their pockets jingling with bright stones they'd found in the forest.
Beneath the oak's roots, it was said, lay the heart of Eldenwood's magic—a source of energy that fed the village and the forest, keeping them in perfect balance.
The people of Eldenwood lived by simple rules: care for the land,respect its magic, and never take more than you need. The elders, wise and kind, reminded everyone of these truths. "The forest gives, and so
we must give back," they often said, teaching the younger ones to use their magic with care. To them, the harmony of Eldenwood was a precious gift, something worth protecting above all else.And so, life in Eldenwood went on, steady and gentle. It was a place where the extraordinary felt ordinary, where magic hummed softly through the air, and where every day began and ended with the quiet joy of living close to the land.
If you ever visit Eldenwood, you might find yourself wandering toward the edge of the village, where the forest meets the fields.
That's where you' ll find my home, nestled among the trees. It's not the biggest house, but it's strong and warm, built from smooth wood that gleams golden in the sunlight. Ivy climbs the walls, and flowers spill from the pots my mother, Silvilya Silver, hangs along the porch. It's the kind of place that feels alive, like it belongs right where it is.
Our garden is the first thing you'll notice. It stretches around the house like a green blanket, full of rows of herbs and flowers. Mother says it's the heart of our home—and maybe she's right. Lavender, mint, sage, and chamomile grow there, along with bright flowers like marigolds and calendula. The air always smells fresh, like the forest after rain. At the center of the garden, we have a fountain enchanted by my father, John Silver. The water sparkles with a faint silver glow,
and I swear the plants closest to it seem to stand taller, like they'reproud to be part of something magical.
Inside, the first room you'll step into is the common room. It's my favorite place, full of warmth and stories. There's a big stone hearth where we light fires on cool evenings, and above it, two swords hang crossed. One is Father's old blade, the one he carried as a knight, with a hilt carved from dragonbone and a blade sharp enough to cut through
steel. The other is smaller and plain—it was his first sword, from when he started training as a boy. I like looking at it and imagining what it must have been like for him, swinging it for the first time. Next to the swords, there's a shelf of magical trinkets. Some of them are Father's, like a glowing crystal that can light up a whole room, and a mirror that's supposed to show things that are hidden (though all I've ever seen in it is my own reflection). Mother keeps her favorite book
of spells there, too, though she doesn't use it often. She says the best magic is the kind that grows naturally, like the herbs in her garden.
The kitchen is where Mother spends most of her time. It's always alive with movement—herbs drying from the beams, jars of powders and potions lining the shelves, and something bubbling in her cauldron. That
cauldron is special, enchanted to stir itself and keep its temperature just right. Jeannie, my little sister, loves to sit there and help—or
sneak tastes when she thinks no one
's looking. Tara, our maid, says, "Jeannie's going to grow up to be just like Mother, always mixing something magical."
Father's study is the quietest room in the house. It's lined with shelves filled with books about herbs, magic, and his adventures as a knight. He has a ceremonial sword hanging above his desk, with glowing runes
etched into the blade. I asked him once what the runes meant, and he said they were a promise—to protect what matters most. He keeps his old armor in there, too, though it's been years since he's worn it. I think he prefers the life we have now, growing herbs and helping the village.
Upstairs, Jeannie and I share a room. It's small, but it's ours. My side is decorated with wooden carvings I've made—animals, mostly. The fox is my favorite. Jeannie's side is covered with her drawings. She's always sketching flowers or magical creatures, like
unicorns or dragons.
We have a little lamp shaped like a mushroom that glows softly at night. It makes the room feel cozy, like the forest is watching over us
while we sleep.
Father and Mother's room is just down the hall. It's simple, with a big wooden bed and a chest at the foot of it. Father keeps his most
precious magical items in that chest—a ring that can create a shield of light and an amulet that glows faintly when danger is near. Mother has her dried flower wreaths on the walls and a small collection of rare herbs in glass jars.
Tara has her own room at the back of the house. It's small but comfortable, with a bed, a chest for her belongings, and a desk where
she likes to write letters or do embroidery. Sometimes she grows flowers in her little corner of the garden, bright things that remind
her of her own village far away.
This house, with its creaking wooden floors and warm hearth, is my whole world. It's where I've learned about magic, about the strength of a sword and the gentleness of an herb. It's where my family gathers every evening, laughing and telling stories while the fire crackles.
Father says a house isn't just a place to live—it's where your roots grow, just like the plants in the garden. And here, surrounded by the
hum of magic and the love of my family, I think he's right.