The morning sunlight spilled over the rolling hills surrounding the Highspire farm, casting a golden hue across the fields of ripening wheat and rows of vegetables. At the modest wooden barn near the house, seven-year-old Dorian Highspire was busily loading the family's creaky wagon with burlap sacks of potatoes, crates of carrots, and wooden baskets brimming with ripe tomatoes, his small frame moving with the kind of energy only excitement could bring.
His mother, Elira Highspire, leaned against the doorframe with a soft smile, a kerchief tied around her head and her hands dusted with flour from the morning's baking. "Easy there, Dorian," she called. "You're not in a race." Her smile was both tender and amused. "Careful with the basket of eggs, Dorian," she said. "Don't stack anything on top of them this time."
"Yes, Mama, but if I get an early start, maybe I'll sell everything before lunch!" he replied with a grin, adjusting the last crate of carrots. His untamed mop of brown hair glinted in the sunlight, and his green eyes sparkled with excitement.
His father, Gorlan Highspire, strode up with a toolbox in hand. "Wagon's ready," he announced, patting the side of the old vehicle. "Wheels are greased, axles checked. Should make it there and back in one piece."
"Thanks, Papa." Dorian climbed onto the front seat of the wagon, gripping the reins. The chestnut-colored draft horse snorted and shifted its hooves, eager to start the journey.
"Now, remember—keep your distance from anyone looking too keen on deals that are too good. Silverhill has a way of testing a young man's wits." Gorlan says.
"I know, Papa," Dorian said earnestly, hopping onto the driver's seat. "Don't worry. No fancy deals, just straight trades."
Elira handed him a bundle wrapped in cloth. "Here's your lunch. Don't let it sit in the sun, or it'll be as hard as your papa's anvil by the time you eat it."
"I heard that," Gorlan grunted.
Laughing, Dorian waved goodbye and snapped the reins. The sturdy brown draft horse snorted and pulled forward, the wagon creaking down the dirt road.
The road wound its way through Suntails Hollow, the small farming village that Dorian called home. A smattering of timber cottages and stone-walled gardens nestled amidst the rolling fields, all bustling with the sounds and smells of early morning life.
As the wagon passed a picket fence overgrown with wildflowers, Dorian spotted old Gresham Reddle, the retired gnome farmer. The short, stout figure stood ankle-deep in a cabbage patch, waving one grubby hand while balancing a wide-brimmed straw hat on his head.
"Good morning, Master Gresham!" Dorian called with a smile.
"Mornin', lad!" Gresham hollered back, his high-pitched voice cheerful. "Don't forget to bring me back a gossip or two from town!"
A little farther down, Mrs. Yara Tulls, a burly dragonborn woman with golden scales, leading her hulking lumberbeast by the reins. The animal looked like a small, woolly barn waddling alongside her. She raised a clawed hand in greeting. "Off to Silverhill, Dorian?"
"Yes, ma'am!" he chirped. "What's the beast carrying today?"
"Flour sacks," Yara replied, scratching the creature behind its knobby ears. "Good flour, too! You tell the folks there that Silverhill doesn't know quality unless it's Tulls milling!"
"I'll tell everyone!" Dorian promised with a grin as the wagon creaked on.
Finally, he passed Jenni Fenbark, a tiefling girl walking her bright-blue puffhound, a yipping, cloud-like creature that bounded alongside her. "Heading out, Dorian?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yep! Silverhill today!"
"Don't spend all your coins on sweet rolls again!" Jenni teased, tossing her violet hair over one horn.
"Only if they're fresh!" he called back with a laugh, as the wagon rolled on, past Highspire's cozy homes and tidy farms.
At the edge of the village, the road narrowed into a corridor framed by thick oaks, their branches forming a canopy overhead. As the wagon slowed to squeeze through, Dorian caught sight of movement ahead.
Blocking the path were three little kids: Lucas Branwell, a human boy with sun-streaked hair, stood in the middle, arms crossed as if ready to duel. To his right was Ryssa Emberfall, a tiefling with small horns and a cocky smirk, and to his left, Bogo Ironfoot, a broad-shouldered dwarf whose round cheeks and gap-toothed grin betrayed him immediately.
Lucas with his arms crossed took a commanding step forward. "Halt, traveler! Where are you going, squirt?" he demanded.
Dorian sat up straighter, his nose tilting upward as he waved a hand regally over his cargo. "Step aside, peasants! I'm not a mere traveler—I'm escorting a queen to her rightful castle!"
Ryssa gasped, "Queen?" echoed in surprise. "Oh my, how grand!"
Bogo scratched his head. "Wait. Aren't we supposed to be guards protecting the queen?"
Dorian faltered, blinking in realization. "Eh… sorry, I forgot," he admitted sheepishly.
The three other kids let out an exaggerated groan. Lucas smacking his forehead. "Dorian! You're ruining the play! How are we supposed to have an ambush scene if you don't stick to the promise?"
"Sorry! My mistake!" Dorian burst out laughing, waving his friends aboard the wagon.
Ryssa giggled, shaking her head. "Just get us on the wagon, storyteller."
With dramatic flair, they climbed on, squeezing between crates of farm goods.
The wagon jolted back into motion, the draft horse clopping steadily along the path toward Silverhill. Lucas leaned back, scanning the bounty of produce piled around them. "Wow, Dorian," he said, his voice tinged with playful awe, "there's quite a haul this time! What'd you do, rob a rich farmer?"
"No," Dorian replied with mock indignation. "I think it's because of my dream last night, so my luck carried through this morning!"
That piqued Ryssa's curiosity. "A great dream?" she asked, her tail curling lazily in interest. "What was it about?"
"It was amazing," Dorian said, his grin widening. "I was the ruler of a huge floating castle! I had servants and guards and a great hall with golden thrones. I even held court with all the nobles in the land!"
Lucas nudged him with a smirk. "Let me guess, you ordered a hundred sweet rolls."
"No!" Dorian replied indignantly, but his cheeks betrayed a hint of guilt. "It was about justice and… uh… great banquets."
Ryssa snickered. "Uh-huh. And what does a floating castle ruler do all day?"
"Tell stories, of course!" Dorian said, leaning forward eagerly. "Great rulers inspire their people. I'd be like a king who rules with imagination. Stories that make people feel brave, wise, or happy—that's better than just yelling at them all the time."
"You just want to make stuff up and sit in a chair," Lucas teased, tossing a strand of hay at Dorian.
"Well, yeah!" Dorian laughed.
As the countryside rolled by, each of them began spinning tales of what they'd do if they lived in Dorian's dream castle.
"I'd be the court wizard," Ryssa declared, throwing her arms in the air dramatically. "Summoning dragons and fireballs to protect your castle!"
"I'd be the captain of the guard," Bogo said, puffing out his chest. "No one would mess with the fortress under my watch!"
Lucas tapped his chin. "I'd plant a huge orchard in the castle's sky-garden. Trees that grow pies instead of fruit."
"Sounds amazing," Dorian said dreamily.
"Yeah, and guess what?" Lucas added with a smirk. "You wouldn't have to move an inch to grab one!"
Their laughter echoed down the road, the excitement of shared dreams carrying them closer to Silverhill, a town full of opportunities—and unknown adventures—waiting just ahead.