The sun hung low, a pale disk shrouded in ash and smoke. Its light filtered into the forge through gaps in the warped wooden walls, catching the haze of soot that hung in the air. Arin Emberforge leaned against the edge of the workbench, his hands blackened with grime and his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of hard labor. Before him, the tools of his trade lay scattered: a hammer, a pair of tongs, and a half-forged blade that glowed faintly on the anvil.
But his gaze was distant, fixed not on the fire or the metal, but on the sliver of sky visible through the forge's open door. A flock of crows wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the muffled hum of village life. They soared beyond the boundaries of Ember Hollow, their wings carving paths into the limitless expanse above.
For a fleeting moment, Arin imagined himself among them, leaving behind the soot-streaked streets and the Pyrelords' oppressive gaze. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking free in verdant valleys, or forging weapons of legend in a grand hall where no noble dared set foot. The thought kindled something within him, a spark of longing, of rebellion.
"Daydreaming won't forge the blade," came a voice sharp as a hammer's strike.
Arin started, his reverie broken. Ena stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light. The old forge master carried a bundle of kindling under one arm, her presence as solid and unyielding as the anvil at the heart of the workshop.
"I wasn't daydreaming," Arin replied hastily, though his tone betrayed him.
Ena's lips quirked into a knowing smirk as she strode inside, her boots scraping against the floor. "You've been staring at the sky long enough to melt steel. What's on your mind this time? The world beyond our little corner of ash and iron?"
Arin hesitated, then nodded. "Don't you ever think about it? What's out there?"
Ena sighed, setting the kindling down by the hearth. She straightened and fixed him with a steady gaze, her gray eyes glinting like tempered steel. "What's out there, boy, is a world that doesn't care for people like us. You'd do well to keep your head down and your feet planted."
"But that's just it," Arin pressed. "Why should it be like this? Why should they have everything while we..."
"Enough," Ena snapped, her voice cutting through his words. She stepped closer, her hands on her hips. "You think you're the first to dream of more? The first to wonder why the Pyrelords sit in their castles while we toil? Let me tell you something, Arin. Those thoughts are dangerous. They're the kind of sparks that burn villages to the ground."
Arin's shoulders tensed. "So we're just supposed to accept it? To live like this forever?"
Ena's expression softened, though her voice remained firm. "We survive, boy. That's what we do. And we don't survive by drawing attention to ourselves. Remember that."
Arin fell silent, but the embers of his defiance smoldered beneath his skin. He turned back to the anvil and picked up his hammer, its weight familiar in his grasp. The fire in the forge hissed and spat, filling the quiet with its ceaseless murmur.
As he worked, Ena lingered nearby, her gaze heavy on his back. She seemed to wrestle with something unspoken, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the workbench.
"You've always had a restless spirit," she said at last, her voice low. "It's not a bad thing. But you need to channel it wisely."
Arin glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "What do you mean?"
Ena hesitated, then moved toward a corner of the forge where a heavy chest sat half-hidden beneath a tarp. She knelt, brushing soot from its surface, and ran her fingers over the iron lock.
"This forge," she began, "has been in my family for generations. It's more than just a place to shape metal. It's a legacy, a responsibility. And there are things here that must be protected."
"What things?" Arin asked, his curiosity piqued.
Ena's gaze darted to the forge's open door, as if ensuring they were alone. Then she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Secrets, boy. Things you're not ready to know yet. But one day, you might have to."
Arin set down his hammer, stepping closer. "What kind of secrets?"
Ena straightened, her expression hardening. "The kind that can get you killed. And that's all you need to know for now."
Frustration bubbled within Arin, but he bit back his questions. Ena's tone left no room for argument, and the weight of her words settled heavily in the air.
Outside, the sound of approaching footsteps reached their ears. Ena's eyes flicked to the door, and her face darkened. "Get back to work," she said briskly, pulling the tarp back over the chest.
Arin obeyed, returning to the anvil as a villager entered the forge, a wiry man with a harried expression. "Ena," he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "The Pyrelords' men are in the square again. They're asking questions."
Ena's jaw tightened. "What kind of questions?"
"About rebels. About weapons."
The man's words hung in the air like a threat. Ena nodded curtly. "Tell them the usual. We're just blacksmiths. Nothing more."
The man hesitated, then nodded and left, his steps fading into the distance.
Ena turned to Arin, her expression unreadable. "Remember what I said," she murmured. "Keep your head down. And whatever happens, trust the forge."
Arin met her gaze, the unspoken weight of her words pressing against his chest. He nodded, though his mind churned with questions and doubts. As Ena moved to stoke the fire, he cast one last glance at the chest in the corner.
The secrets of the forge remained locked away, but the spark of rebellion within him burned brighter than ever.