Dorian took a hesitant step forward, his gaze locked on the green-cloaked bard. He wanted—no, needed—to talk to him, to ask how he could perform stories that way, weaving magic into words. The harp's golden shimmer seemed to still glint in the late-afternoon sun.
"Excuse me—" he began to call out, breaking into a run.
But as suddenly as the bard had appeared, he was gone. The illusions and the man himself vanished into thin air, leaving behind only murmurs of amazement from the crowd and a few whispers questioning where he'd gone.
Dorian stood frozen, panting slightly as if the weight of the moment pressed on his chest.
"What happened to you?" Ryssa's voice cut through his daze. His friends were watching him with a mix of curiosity and amusement.
"Yeah, you looked like you'd seen a dragon—or turned into one," Lucas added with a laugh.
Dorian turned to them, his face alight. "Don't you get it? This is what I want to do! My heart—it's been filled. The joy I've longed for… It's been answered. I'm ready to write my destiny, and I'll hold this quill for all my life!"
There was a beat of silence before Ryssa burst into laughter. "There he goes again with the big words."
Lucas shook his head, smirking. "You really have a flair for drama, huh?"
Bogo simply patted Dorian on the back. "Well, whatever it is, if you're this fired up, you should do it."
"Thank you, Bogo." Dorian grinned before Ryssa clapped him on the arm.
"Hold it, 'destiny-writer.' We've got plans," she said firmly. "The Silverhill kids are probably already waiting for us!"
"But—" Dorian protested weakly.
"No buts!" Lucas said. "It's time to play!"
With that, the three of them grabbed his arms and dragged him, protesting lightly, into the nearby park.
Silverhill's green was alive with the sound of children's laughter. The group joined in a lively game of tag, racing beneath the fading sunlight as the shadows grew long across the grass.
Ryssa darted like a flame through the field, her laughter ringing out as she dodged Lucas's grasp. "Too slow!" she teased.
"You wait!" Lucas shouted back, hurling himself forward and managing to snag her tail as she tried to twist away.
Dorian joined in more half-heartedly, though he did his best to keep up. While he ran and laughed, his mind kept wandering back to the bard and the vision of stories brought to life.
As the sky began to blush with the orange hues of sunset, the children returned to the wagon.
"Race you there!" Lucas called, darting ahead.
"Oh, please," Ryssa said, rolling her eyes but running all the same.
Dorian climbed into the wagon last, settling into his usual spot at the front. His friends were still laughing and jostling each other, the energy of the day leaving them exuberant and rosy-cheeked.
But Dorian was quiet, his chin resting in his hands as the horse pulled them away from Silverhill. The memory of the bard's golden harp and rich voice haunted his mind, the melodies still echoing somewhere deep in his chest.
"Hey, you alright, Dorian?" Bogo asked, looking over at him.
"Hmm?" Dorian blinked. "Oh. Yeah, I'm fine."
The others glanced at each other but didn't press.
When they arrived home, the soft glow of candlelight spilled from the windows of the Highspire farmhouse. As Dorian approached, he saw his father in the yard, chopping the last of a chicken for dinner.
"Back already, eh?" Gorlan called, glancing up from his work. "Good haul today?"
Dorian jumped off the wagon, his excitement bubbling over. "Papa! I saw—there was this bard, and he—he told stories with magic! He sang about heroes and dragons and everyone stopped to watch and I… I want to be like him!"
Gorlan laughed, his knife still poised over the chicken. "Slow down, lad. Let's save the tale for dinner, eh?"
Dorian beamed and nodded, handing over the parchment listing the transactions from Silverhill. Gorlan tucked it into his belt with a satisfied grunt. "Good work today, Dorian. Now get washed up—we will eat soon."
After a quick bath, Dorian donned simple light clothes and came to the dining table. A humble but comforting meal awaited him: roasted chicken, fresh bread, and a simple stew. As he reached to sneak a pinch of chicken, his mother slapped his hand lightly.
"Not until your father sits," she chided, though her eyes sparkled with affection.
When Gorlan finally joined, he smiled broadly at the table and led the family in a soft, reverent prayer:
"By the Twelve who guide us—Ilthar of Flame, Salyra of Mercy, Feldor of Strength, Zynwyn of Shadows, Olara of Light, Vreim of Justice, Myrran of Change, Avolar of Storms, Lyntha of Seasons, Quoril of Wisdom, Penlos of Craft, and Valea of Dreams—we give thanks for this meal and those who brought it to the table. May they guide our steps as we walk the path."
"Amen," the family said in unison.
As they ate, Elira turned to her son. "So, Dorian. How was your day in Silverhill?"
"I saw a bard! Not just any bard—a real one!" Dorian declared, leaning forward dramatically. His hands spread wide, as though trying to capture the grandeur of the moment. "He had a cloak of green—like the fields in spring—and a golden harp that caught the sunlight like it was spun from stars."
"Spun from stars, huh?" Gorlan asked, his lips twitching at the corner.
"Yes, Papa! I mean it!" Dorian's eyes shimmered with the memory. "He stood there, in the middle of the Silverhill square, with everyone around him completely silent. Not even the baker's boys were yelling about bread!"
"Even Mistress Hearthcrown's boys?" Elira raised an eyebrow.
Dorian nodded fervently, his mop of brown hair bouncing. "Even them! And you know they never shut up. But that's how magical he was."
"What did he do?" Gorlan asked, chewing thoughtfully, indulging his son's story.
Dorian inhaled deeply, preparing to deliver the moment as if it were a grand tale itself. "He sang a song of heroes—of warriors battling storms and dragons, with banners flying high! His voice... oh, Papa, Mama, his voice was like thunder and music and wind, all mixed together. It was powerful, but it wasn't loud. It was the kind of voice you feel in your bones, you know?"
"Hmm, thunder and wind in your bones," Gorlan said with a wink to Elira. "That's quite a voice."
"Oh, and the magic!" Dorian threw his arms into the air, nearly tipping his chair backward in his enthusiasm. "He didn't just sing the story. He made it appear! Right there in the square! A ship rose up, its sails so big they covered half the sky. Then there were knights charging into battle, their swords blazing with light, and a dragon!"
"Yes! It swooped down, and for a second, I thought it was going to eat us! Its wings were the size of the barn!"
"You weren't scared, though," Gorlan said with a sly grin.
"Of course not," Dorian declared confidently, puffing out his small chest. "Because I knew it was part of the story." He paused, his expression growing earnest, his hands falling to the edge of the table. "It wasn't just a performance, Papa. It was... like I could feel the story in my heart. Like it wasn't just a tale, but something real. I knew, right then and there, what I wanted to do for the rest of my life."
"You've got a gift for telling tales, lad," Gorlan said as Dorian finished.
His parents' quiet encouragement filled Dorian with hope as he licked the last bit of stew from his spoon. That night, as he climbed into bed, dreams of stories and music carried him into peaceful sleep.
———…———
The bard's hands danced upon the strings,
As villagers gasped at knights and kings.
The child's heart swelled, a drumbeat loud,
He dreamed of worlds beyond this crowd.
———…———