The village of Ember Hollow nestled like an ember in the shadow of the Pyrelords' dominion, its blackened chimneys and soot-streaked homes a testament to its identity as the kingdom's heart of iron and fire. Hammers struck steel with a defiant rhythm, the sound carrying through the dense, ash-laden air as though each clang dared the nobles to remember the village's resilience. But under the iron song, a hush of oppression lingered, a silence so thick it seemed to weigh down even the most spirited hearts.
Inside the village forge, Arin Emberforge worked the bellows with a steady, measured pace. The fire roared to life, illuminating the darkened interior of the smithy. His wiry frame glistened with sweat as he hefted a heavy iron bar, its surface glowing a sullen orange. Sparks leaped into the air with each hammer blow, the metal bending to his will. The blacksmith's apprentice had a practiced rhythm, strike, turn, quench, born from years of labor under Ena's watchful eye.
The old forge master's voice echoed in his mind: "A blade reflects its maker. Weak hands forge brittle tools." Ena's teachings had carved themselves into his very being, shaping his movements as instinctively as breath.
Yet today, the forge felt heavier than usual. Outside, the village streets lay unnaturally quiet, the typical chatter of neighbors reduced to hushed murmurs and sideways glances.
Arin paused mid-strike, the hammer suspended above the anvil. He glanced toward the half-open door of the forge, where the dim light of the overcast sky cast elongated shadows of passing villagers. Their faces, gaunt and pale, betrayed the burden of lives lived under the Pyrelords' iron rule. A familiar knot of anger twisted in his gut.
"Back to work, Arin," he muttered to himself, driving the hammer down with renewed force. The clang of iron against iron filled the silence, a sound too loud, too bold for a place where boldness was punished.
The Pyrelords' sentinels had been spotted in the village that morning, their crimson banners and polished armor a stark contrast to the soot-streaked walls of Ember Hollow. It was a cruel reminder of their subjugation. Taxes, tithes, and fear, these were the gifts the nobles bestowed upon the village in exchange for their labor.
"Dreaming won't reshape the metal," Ena's voice cut through his reverie, startling him. She emerged from the shadows at the back of the forge, her gray hair tied back and her hands blackened with soot. Ena's presence was as steady as the anvil itself, her expression hard but kind.
"I wasn't dreaming," Arin replied, though his tone lacked conviction. He set the iron back into the flames, avoiding her knowing gaze.
"Worrying about things beyond your control, then." Ena crossed her arms, the lines of her face deepening. "You've always been too restless, boy. Leave the Pyrelords to their arrogance. Our work is here, in the forge."
Arin hesitated. "It's not right, Ena. They take everything, and we..."
"Stop," she interrupted, her voice sharp as a blade. "Speak those thoughts too loudly, and they'll hang you before the forge cools. Do you understand me?"
He nodded, but the words burned in his throat like unspoken curses.
Ena sighed, her tone softening. "I know the world's unfair, Arin. But we don't change it by dying for nothing. Focus on the craft. There's strength in creation, even when the world around you burns."
The hammer fell silent as Ena stepped forward, placing a hand on Arin's shoulder. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise," he said, though the fire in his heart whispered otherwise.
The air in the forge thickened as the afternoon wore on. Arin worked in grim silence, forging nails and tools for the villagers who came and went with hurried steps. Outside, the shadow of the Pyrelords loomed ever larger.
As he quenched another blade, the faint sound of hooves echoed through the streets. Arin froze, his heart pounding. He moved to the forge's entrance and peered out.
The Pyrelords' enforcers rode into the village square, their armor gleaming with cruel precision. Their leader, a man with a fiery emblem etched into his breastplate, dismounted and surveyed the village with cold disdain. The villagers scattered like leaves before a storm, ducking into doorways and alleyways.
Arin gritted his teeth, his fists tightening. He turned back to the forge, his jaw set. The tools he forged today would serve his people, but his thoughts drifted to the day when his hands might craft more than hammers and nails, when they might create weapons capable of striking back.
For now, all he could do was work.