The hum of the chisel against the wood filled the room, a sound as familiar to me as the rustle of leaves outside my window. My hands moved with practiced precision, shaping the block of oak into the delicate form of a prancing deer. It wasn't quite finished—one of the antlers still needed to be refined—but I could already see the gleam of excitement in a child's eyes when they'd hold it for the first time. I smiled to myself at the thought, leaning closer to inspect the details.
The room around me was modest, its walls lined with shelves displaying a lifetime's worth of creations. Wooden figures of all kinds populated the space—tiny horses with tails carved so fine they seemed to flicker in the light, spinning tops that hummed when they twirled, and even a miniature ferris wheel that I'd tinkered with for weeks to get just right. Each piece had a story, and while the gold they might fetch at market would have made a wealthier man of me, I treasured them more for the joy they brought to the village children.
I could almost hear their voices now, calling out with bright eyes and grubby hands, "Mr. Harith! Do you have anything new today?" The way they would crowd around my little stall on market days, squealing over the simplest of carvings—it was enough to keep me carving, even now, in the quiet of my home. I didn't do it for the money, nor the praise. I did it because it was fun. A good way to pass the time, to feel the grain of the wood beneath my fingers and see something beautiful come to life.
The chisel caught on a knot in the wood, and I paused, adjusting my grip. Patience, I reminded myself. Woodworking wasn't about speed; it was about listening to the material, letting it guide you. I worked the knot slowly, carving away the rough edges until it blended smoothly with the rest of the figure. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, glancing toward the shelf where other half-finished projects waited. Perhaps I'd move on to the little bird next—a commission from young Tally, who had recently taken to watching sparrows flit about my garden.
The memory of that gentleman came unbidden as I worked. He had arrived unannounced a few weeks ago, his fine clothing and polished boots a stark contrast to the simplicity of Willowshade. He had strolled into my garden, eyeing my work as if appraising it for auction.
"You're a master of your craft, Mr. Broadfield," he'd said, his voice oozing with practiced charm. "A talent like yours shouldn't be wasted here in a small village. Come work for me in the capital—I'll pay you in gold. More than you can imagine."
I'd thanked him, of course, but refused. Money had never been my driving force. I had enough to get by, enough to live comfortably and eat well. Besides, I couldn't imagine myself working under someone else's demands, churning out commissions without heart. No, my creations belonged here, in Willowshade, with the children who cherished them for what they were.
The deer figure was nearly finished now. I ran a finger along the curve of its back, testing for any rough edges, and smiled. This one would go to Marcy, the baker's youngest, who had been eyeing my stall shyly last week but hadn't mustered the courage to ask for anything.
Perhaps tomorrow, I'd surprise her with it.
The rhythmic sound of my chisel halted at the sudden knock on the door. I straightened in my chair, setting the unfinished deer down carefully on the workbench. My hands brushed off the fine wood shavings clinging to my apron as I stood, wondering who it might be. Visitors were rare this time of day—most folks in Willowshade were busy with their own tasks.
When I opened the door, I was met with a familiar sight: a little girl with tousled brown hair and a smudge of dirt on her freckled cheek. Her name was Nessa Thorn, the cobbler's youngest, and she stood there clutching a small bundle wrapped in a faded green scarf.
"Mr. Harith," she said, tilting her head up at me with wide, curious eyes, "are you busy?"
I couldn't help but smile. "I suppose that depends. What's brought you here, Nessa?"
She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, a habit of hers I had long since grown accustomed to. Nessa had a way of moving like she belonged wherever she went, a trait that always reminded me of Ellara.
Ellara. My heart gave a familiar, quiet pang at the thought of my daughter. Nessa couldn't have been more than eight or nine, around the same age Ellara was when she first started wandering into the forest trails, always so confident despite my warnings to stay close. I watched Nessa settle into my workshop, her little frame dwarfed by the tools and shelves, and my thoughts drifted to Ellara once more.
She was far from here now, in Iverithyn, the Elven capital. It had been years since she first left, taking that job as an emissary. I hadn't been surprised—Ellara had always been drawn to new things, to places beyond our little village. Still, I sometimes wondered how she managed there. Elves, for all their grace and beauty, could be... particular. Reserved, even cold. They weren't known for making it easy for outsiders to find their place among them, least of all humans.
But then again, Ellara had never been one to let something as small as doubt stop her. She was doing fine. No, more than fine. I was sure of it. She had a knack for finding her footing, even in the most unlikely places.
I chuckled softly, remembering one such time. She had been no older than five, stubborn as ever. There had been an older boy in the village—a bully, the kind that liked to push the smaller children around. One day, he'd snatched the little doll Ellara carried everywhere, tossing it into a muddy ditch. Most kids would have cried, but not Ellara. She'd marched right up to him, hands on her hips, and told him in no uncertain terms to fetch it back. When he laughed, she grabbed a stick and poked him until he ran. Then she retrieved her doll, cleaned it off, and returned home like nothing had happened.
That memory brought a smile to my face, even as I turned back to Nessa. She had perched herself on the stool next to my workbench, unwrapping the bundle to reveal a small wooden bird she'd been working on for the past few days. It was rough around the edges, the wings a little uneven, but it had a charm to it.
"What're you making this time?" she asked, peering curiously at the deer figure I'd set aside.
"A deer," I said, handing it to her for inspection. "Nearly finished. What do you think?"
She turned it over in her hands, squinting critically at the antlers before nodding. "Looks nice. Better than the one you made last week."
I laughed. "High praise, coming from you."
Nessa reached for her little chisel and set to work on her bird, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. I watched her for a moment, her small hands carefully scraping away at the wood, and felt a swell of quiet pride. She had taken to carving like a fish to water, and though her pieces were still rough, there was a spark of talent there.
"Don't forget to sand the wings," I reminded her, picking up my own chisel again.
"I know," she replied with exaggerated patience, mimicking my tone. "You tell me that every time."
I chuckled, turning my attention back to the deer. The quiet companionship of the workshop settled around us, warm and familiar, as we worked side by side. For a moment, the world beyond Willowshade seemed very far away, and I was content to stay in this moment just a little while longer.
As I put the finishing touches on the deer, smoothing its antlers with a piece of fine-grit sandpaper, my attention shifted to Nessa. Her small hands moved methodically, scraping at the rough edges of her wooden bird with surprising precision for someone her age. She had fallen into her usual quiet focus, humming softly to herself, but I knew well enough why she came here.
Her parents weren't exactly what you'd call harmonious. Most of the village knew it—raised voices and slamming doors carried easily through the cobblestone streets of Willowshade. I'd seen Nessa slip out of their house more than once, her face set in a determined sort of way, as though she'd decided she was better off finding her own peace elsewhere.
She never said much about it, and I never asked. But it didn't take a genius to piece things together. No child should have to grow up listening to the kinds of words her parents hurled at each other. It wasn't fair to her, to her quiet little heart.
She belonged here instead, in this small, sunlit corner of the world where the smell of freshly carved wood and the warmth of a steady fire could drown out the shouting. I never minded her company, but deep down, I felt sorry for her.
My thoughts drifted, unbidden, to memories of my own wife. My breath caught for a moment, the way it always did when I thought of Reina. I set the deer down on the workbench, the carved wood cool against my fingers, and let the memory take hold.
Reina. I could see her as clear as if she'd just stepped through the door, her auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders and her hands dusted with flour from kneading bread. She'd always laughed at how I teased her about leaving handprints on every surface. "It's how you know I'm here," she'd say, grinning as she swiped a floury hand over my shirt for good measure.
There had been a day, long ago, when Ellara was just a babe in her cradle, and Reina and I had taken a rare moment to ourselves. I remembered sitting on the hillside behind our house, the scent of wildflowers thick in the air as Reina leaned against my shoulder. We'd watched the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink. She'd squeezed my hand then, murmuring something about how the stars would look tonight, and I'd known in that moment I was exactly where I was meant to be.
Of course, not every moment was like that. Life wasn't all flowers and butterflies, as Reina would say with a wry smile. We had our arguments, too—over money, over the garden, over things I couldn't even remember now. But we'd made a pact early on: never in front of Ellara. No matter how much we disagreed, we kept our voices low and our words careful, saving our battles for when our daughter wasn't around to hear them.
A soft voice broke through my reverie.
"Do you miss her?"
I blinked, startled, and turned to Nessa. She was still working on her little bird, her chisel steady, but her tone was casual, as if she were asking about the weather.
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Nessa had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things, and this wasn't the first time she'd caught me off guard. Sometimes I wondered if she could read minds—or at least emotions—with the same ease she carved wood. Maybe she had a spark of magic in her, the kind that let her see what others couldn't.
"Yes," I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended. "I miss her. Reina and Ellara. The two most important people in my life."
Nessa paused her work, glancing up at me with those sharp, curious eyes of hers. For a moment, she seemed much older than her years, as if she understood far more than she should.
"I thought so," she said simply, before returning to her bird.
I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head as I reached for my tools. Reina always used to say I had a knack for attracting the curious ones, the ones with a spark of something special in them. As I watched Nessa carve away, I couldn't help but think she was right.
I watched Nessa as she carefully smoothed the edges of her bird's wings, the concentration etched on her young face. A thought I'd been turning over for days finally rose to the surface, and before I could talk myself out of it, I spoke.
"Nessa," I began, my voice steady but laced with curiosity. "Have you ever heard of the Archatian Academy?"
She glanced up, her brow furrowing slightly. "The magical school? The one in the capital?"
"That's the one," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I've heard it's where the best of the best go to study magic. Only the brightest and most talented students get accepted."
She set her chisel down, tilting her head as she studied me. "Why're you asking me about it?"
I smiled, trying to keep the tone casual. "Because I think you've got something special in you, Nessa. I've never seen you throw a fireball or summon an ice spear, sure. But reading minds? That's magic too, isn't it?"
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, fiddling with the bird in her hands. "I don't know if it's magic," she said softly. "Sometimes... I just know what people are thinking. Not always, just... sometimes. It's not like I can control it or anything."
"That doesn't make it any less remarkable," I said, my voice firm but kind. "You have something in you, Nessa. Something beyond what most people could ever dream of."
She shrugged, her shoulders small and weighed down. "Doesn't matter. My parents would never let me go. They don't even like it when I come here, you know."
I nodded, though it pained me to hear it. "And what about you? Do you want to go?"
She hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't know," she admitted. "It's not like I've ever tried to do real magic. What if I can't? And anyway, if it's the best magical academy, it's probably really expensive."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Money's not a problem, Nessa. I worked hard for years as a vegetable merchant, and I've saved more than enough to give someone like you a chance."
Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with surprise, but before she could respond, a sharp knock on the door interrupted us.
I straightened, glancing toward the door. Two visitors in one afternoon? That was a rarity. "Hold that thought," I said, rising from my chair.
Nessa gave me a curious look but stayed silent as I crossed the room. My hand rested on the doorknob for a moment before I pulled it open, wondering who else had come calling.
Standing in the doorway was a young elf, his striking presence enough to still the air around him. His attire was a tapestry of elegance: deep emerald and gold, tailored with a precision that whispered of wealth and status. His golden hair fell neatly to his shoulders, and though his youthful features radiated a kind of ageless beauty, his sharp eyes carried a weight of authority. Behind him stood two towering bodyguards, clad in dark leather armor accented with silver, their faces impassive and unreadable.
"Good afternoon," the elf began, his voice smooth and melodic, each word spoken with the kind of grace that made it seem like a gift. "I am Prince Laryndel, brother to King Aeryndel of Iverithyn."
The name sent a jolt through me, and I instinctively bowed, a gesture more reflexive than intentional. It wasn't every day that royalty showed up at my doorstep.
The prince inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, a faint smile gracing his lips. "I have come to deliver a message personally," he continued, "from the soon-to-be Queen, Ellara Broadfield."
The words struck me like a hammer to the chest. My daughter—soon-to-be Queen? Ellara, my little girl who used to climb trees in her patched skirts and muddy boots, was marrying a king? For a moment, I could only stare at him, my thoughts spinning.
As if reading my mind, Prince Laryndel extended a letter, pressing it gently into my hand. His touch was cool, his demeanor patient. "Her words will explain everything," he said. "I must take my leave now. My brother's bride would not forgive me if I delayed her father's journey."
With that, he gave a polite nod, turned gracefully, and left, his guards following him like shadows. I stood there for a moment, the door still open, watching their figures disappear down the quiet street.
Finally, I closed the door, my heart still racing, and turned my attention to the letter in my hand. The parchment was thick and folded with precision, sealed with a wax emblem bearing the intricate sigil of Iverithyn—a tree with branches intertwining into a crown.
With careful hands, I broke the seal and unfolded the letter, the familiar scrawl of my daughter's handwriting greeting me. My eyes scanned the opening lines, my mind barely able to keep up with the revelations they held.
Dearest Father,
I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It feels like ages since I've seen you, and I miss you more than words can express. Not a day passes that I don't think of our home in Willowshade, your garden, and the warmth of your workshop.
This may come as a surprise—no, it will come as a surprise—but I'm writing to share some news. I am to be married, Father. And not just to anyone... to King Aeryndel of Iverithyn.
I know, I know. It must sound like something out of a fairy tale, doesn't it? The truth is, it's a long story, one far too complex and winding to explain in a single letter. But what I can tell you is that he is kind, wise, and strong in a way that reminds me of you. And though I've spent years feeling like an outsider in this world of elves, Aeryndel has made me feel seen and valued in ways I never imagined possible.
Our wedding is to be held three months from the time you receive this letter. It will be a grand celebration, not just for us but for the union of our two peoples. Iverithyn is bustling with preparations already, and I cannot wait to have you here to be part of it all.
The journey will take about a month on foot, but I have no doubt you'll make it in time. Please come, Father. It would mean the world to me to have you here.
There is so much I want to tell you, so many things I want to share. But more than anything, I just want to see you again.
Take care of yourself on the road, and know that I will be counting the days until your arrival.
With all my love. Ellara, your daughter.
I stared at the words long after I'd finished reading them, my heart full and heavy all at once. My daughter—a Queen. I could hardly wrap my head around it. And yet, the thought that she wanted me there, that she needed me there, filled me with an overwhelming sense of purpose.
Setting the letter down, I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Three months. That was plenty of time to reach Iverithyn. But I didn't want to waste a single day. My thoughts began to race, mapping out the journey ahead. Though I'd never been to the elven kingdom, I knew the way well enough.
The first leg of the trip would take me to the Capital City. It wasn't far—two days' walk if I kept a steady pace. From there, the path would become more uncertain, winding through lands I had only ever heard of in stories. Iverithyn lay deep within the Glimmering Wood, a place few humans had ventured into.
I glanced at Nessa, who was watching me in silence, her small hands still resting on the unfinished wooden bird. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes—an unspoken question, perhaps a quiet yearning.
"Nessa," I said, my tone more serious than usual. "Do you want to go to the Archatian Academy? To become the best mage you can be?"
Her eyes widened slightly, the question clearly catching her off guard. She looked away, her gaze drifting toward the window. From where we sat, she could see her home in the distance—a small, worn cottage with peeling paint and a sagging roof. Her father was slumped in a chair outside, a half-empty bottle dangling from his hand as he dozed in the afternoon sun.
She didn't speak right away, but I could see the thoughts running through her mind. When she finally turned back to me, her voice was steady but tinged with quiet resolve.
"Anywhere is better than my home," she said, the words heavy with truth. "I can't take it anymore, Mr. Harith. If going to the Academy means I can stand on my own two feet... then I'll go with you."
Her answer didn't surprise me, but it struck a chord nonetheless. She was too young to carry the kind of weight I saw in her eyes, yet here she was, making a choice that even adults would struggle with. I nodded slowly, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Then we'll leave together," I said. "You'll have your chance to see what you're capable of, and we'll see you to that Academy."
"Now help me packed up, we will leave soon."
To be continued...