Talon had always felt like an outsider, even in the quiet town of Veilridge.
The morning sun cast a soft golden glow over the cobbled streets, where the familiar bustle of market stalls and the chatter of villagers filled the air. It was a peaceful, uneventful morning—just the way Talon liked it. He didn't mind the simple, predictable life he led. Most days, he spent his time repairing tools or helping his father with the modest forge they ran on the edge of town. It was a good life, stable and steady, and yet…
Yet there was something inside him that couldn't help but ache for something more.
He watched as villagers went about their daily routines, laughing with each other, exchanging news. They all had their places, their roles, and they seemed content with their lot in life. Talon, however, felt as though he was drifting, like a ship on calm waters with no clear direction. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't aware of that gnawing feeling inside him—the sensation that there was something more to the world, something just out of reach.
With a heavy sigh, he returned his focus to the hammer in his hand, driving the metal rod into shape. He had spent hours at the forge this morning, working with the steady rhythm of the hammer and anvil. There was a certain comfort in the repetition, in the heat of the forge, but even that couldn't fully drown out the restlessness in his chest.
The clang of his hammer was interrupted by a voice from the door of the forge.
"Talon," his father's gruff voice called.
Talon looked up to find his father, Bran, leaning against the doorframe, wiping sweat from his brow. Bran was a large man with calloused hands, his thick beard flecked with gray. His face, weathered by years of hard labor, softened when he looked at his son, but Talon could see the concern in his eyes.
"How's the blade coming along?" Bran asked, stepping inside.
Talon wiped his brow and gestured toward the nearly finished sword on the workbench. "Almost done. Just need to smooth out a few more edges."
His father nodded, but there was an air of quiet apprehension about him. Bran had always been a man of few words, but when he spoke, it was usually to impart wisdom or give guidance. Today, however, he was silent for a moment too long.
Finally, Bran spoke again, his voice low and measured. "I've been meaning to talk to you, son."
Talon's grip tightened around the hammer. He wasn't sure what his father was about to say, but something in the tone made him uneasy.
"I'm not sure how to put this, but… you've been distant lately," Bran said, his gaze steady but soft. "More than usual."
Talon lowered the hammer, wiping his forehead. "I'm fine, just tired. A little too much work."
Bran's brow furrowed. "That's not what I meant. You've been looking out beyond the town again, haven't you?"
Talon tensed. He hadn't realized his father had noticed, but then again, there wasn't much that Bran missed. Talon tried to shrug it off, but his father wasn't easily fooled.
"I just feel like there's something out there," Talon muttered, more to himself than to his father. "Something… I don't know, bigger than all of this." He gestured vaguely toward the forge and the small village beyond it.
Bran let out a long sigh and stepped forward, placing a large hand on Talon's shoulder. "I know you've got dreams, son. But dreams have a way of getting people into trouble. You're not like the others in this town—you've always been different, I can see it. But sometimes… sometimes, it's better to let go of those dreams."
Talon shook his head, feeling the familiar frustration bubbling up inside him. "I can't just… ignore it. I can't just stay here forever, doing the same thing day in and day out."
His father's eyes softened, but there was a seriousness behind them. "And what if you're wrong? What if this world isn't ready for you to go chasing after things that aren't meant to be found?"
The question lingered in the air, and for a moment, Talon didn't know how to answer. It was easier to stay silent, to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut, but that wasn't who he was. He had always felt that he was destined for something more, something that couldn't be ignored.
Before he could respond, a loud crash echoed from outside the forge. Talon and Bran both jumped, their heads snapping toward the door. Without thinking, Talon grabbed his father's spare sword from the rack and rushed outside, his heart pounding in his chest.
The village square was a flurry of activity. People were running, shouting in confusion, but there was no immediate sign of danger. A few farmers were standing by, looking at something in the distance with wide eyes. Talon's eyes followed their gaze.
And then he saw it.
A flicker in the air, like a heat shimmer rising off the ground—but there was no heat. It pulsed, flickered again, and then vanished. A strange, iridescent light that left a trail in the air, like a thread being pulled taut in the fabric of the world itself.
"What in the gods' names was that?" Bran's voice broke through Talon's stunned silence.
Talon didn't answer at first. His pulse was racing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. That light—it was something he had seen before, in fleeting dreams, in half-remembered visions. The same unsettling feeling from the pit of his stomach returned, stronger than ever.
Without thinking, Talon turned to his father. "I need to follow it."
Bran's hand shot out, gripping his arm. "Don't be foolish, Talon. That could be dangerous. You don't know what that was."
But Talon pulled away, his resolve firming with every heartbeat. "I don't care. I have to know what it is."
He could feel his father's eyes on him, watching him with that same quiet concern, but Bran said nothing. Talon turned and ran, his legs carrying him toward the unknown, toward the strange light that had just appeared—and toward whatever it was that had always called to him from the distance.