Three years had passed since Dorian first received the pendant from the green-cloaked bard. Every morning without fail, he made his way to the old oak tree behind his house, the cool dawn air brushing against his skin as he sat cross-legged with the pendant cradled in his hands. The hollow circle within the wing-shaped design remained empty, showing no sign of the red gemstone he'd been promised.
Despite this, Dorian persisted, closing his eyes and steadying his breath each day. Meditation became a part of him—a ritual that sharpened his focus and kept his dream alive. Still, his friends teased him about it relentlessly.
"So… what exactly is it you're waiting for again?" Lucas asked one morning, sprawled beneath a tree and watching Dorian meditate.
"For the world to speak to me," Dorian said with utmost seriousness, his voice steady as his hands gripped the pendant.
Lucas exchanged a look with Bogo, who was carving something with a small knife nearby. "And if the world says, 'Sorry, I don't know you,' what then?"
"It won't." Dorian cracked a smile, not bothering to open his eyes.
Bogo chuckled as he polished the edge of a curved wooden piece. "For what it's worth, you're stubborn enough to make anything happen eventually. That's why I'm doing this."
Dorian cracked one eye open. "Doing what?"
"You'll see when it's finished," Bogo said, smirking. "Consider it a commemoration for putting up with you for three years."
Until one day…
The day began like any other in Suntails Hollow—farmers tending to their fields, children darting around barefoot, and neighbors exchanging greetings as they passed along the cobblestone paths.
Then came the sound: a low rumble, distant at first, like rolling thunder on a clear sky. The villagers paused their work, heads lifting in concern. The rumble grew louder, until the ground beneath their feet quaked with the approach of heavy hoofbeats and clattering steel.
A column of knights and soldiers poured into the village square, their polished armor gleaming menacingly in the midday sun. The village fell silent, the cheerful bustle of everyday life frozen in their imposing presence.
Dorian, standing at his family's wagon with his father, clenched his fists as the knights dismounted, surveying the village with cold, calculating eyes.
A man in an ornate breastplate and royal crest strode forward, his voice commanding as he addressed the gathered crowd. "By order of the Crown, your goods are hereby requisitioned for the royal expedition. Cooperate, and you serve the kingdom well. Resist, and suffer the consequences."
There was no room for protest. Soldiers fanned out, taking crates of produce, sacks of grain, and even barrels of stored cider. They paid no mind to the villagers' protests.
"This is theft!" bellowed Master Gresham, his small gnome frame practically shaking as a soldier seized a wheelbarrow full of cabbages.
"It's royal requisition," the soldier growled in reply, brushing him off with ease.
At the Highspire farm, soldiers filled their arms with sacks of wheat, crates of vegetables, and even jars of preserves. Dorian stood frozen with fury as one particularly smug soldier upended a crate of ripe tomatoes into a sack without so much as a glance.
"Hey! Those are—"
"Dorian, no," Gorlan said sharply, stepping between his son and the soldier, gripping his shoulder and pulling him back. "Not now."
"They're stealing from us!" Dorian hissed, his voice trembling. His hand shot to the pendant, clutching it so tightly that the edges dug into his palm. His eyes burned with anger as he glared at the soldier, without anyone knowing there was a glint of red for a second.
The knight sneered. "Silence, peasant. Your goods are needed for a noble cause."
Elira wrapped her arms around him protectively, whispering, "Dorian, please. Don't make this worse."
But the glare Dorian fixed on the soldier could have burned through steel. If a glare could kill, the entire column of knights would have perished a hundred times over.
By the time the soldiers left, the village was a shadow of itself. Empty shelves, broken fences, and fields stripped bare. Suntails Hollow no longer felt like home—it felt like a ghost town.
In the aftermath, the villagers wordlessly came together to clean up what they could. It was a sight Dorian had never witnessed before: the adults, once filled with laughter and pride in their work, now moved as if under a heavy weight. Teens who usually spent their evenings playing were now hammering broken cart wheels back into place or picking up overturned goods from the dirt.
Dorian carried a broom as he and his friends swept shattered glass and debris from the square. Lucas broke the heavy silence first.
"Well, that was horrible," he muttered, leaning on his broom. "The worst."
"Not the worst worst," Ryssa offered half-heartedly. "At least no one got hurt."
"Speak for yourself," Dorian muttered under his breath, his fingers brushing the pendant at his chest. He stared down at his feet, his eyes sharp with thought.
The villagers spent the rest of the day repairing what they could. Tools were shared, fences were patched, and silent tears were brushed away as everyone worked side by side. Even the laughter of the village children was muted, their games abandoned.
As dusk fell, Gorlan gathered a group of neighbors near the small square. "This isn't how Suntails Hollow should be," he said, his voice steady but weary. "Let's come together tonight. We'll share what we have, sit by the fire, and remember what makes this village strong—us."
Though resources were sparse, every family brought something to contribute: a loaf of bread, a jug of cider, a basket of fruit that had escaped the knights' notice. Beneath the simmering orange glow of lanterns and the crackling warmth of a shared fire, the community gathered in solidarity.
Dorian sat with his friends, the silence between them as loud as their laughter had once been. At last, Ryssa elbowed him lightly. "Hey, future bard. You're not going to sit there sulking all night, are you?"
Dorian looked up, startled. "What do you want me to do? Make bread grow back with a song?"
"That would be incredible," Lucas quipped, earning a chuckle from Bogo.
Bogo's smile lingered as he stood, disappearing into the dark for a moment before returning with something tucked under his arm. He placed it in front of Dorian: a simple yet elegant lute, polished and strung to perfection.
Dorian's mouth fell open. "You… made this?"
Bogo shrugged, his cheeks flushed. "Yeah. Someone had to keep up with your bard dreams. Besides, I've seen how serious you are when you meditate. Figured you'd need this someday."
Staring at the lute, Dorian's lips slowly curved into a smile. He rose to his feet, gripping the lute tightly. "All right," he said, his voice steady, "if that's how it's going to be, let's turn this day into a story worth remembering."
Holding the lute in his hands, Dorian turned back to the villagers. "This isn't the end of Suntails Hollow. Not tonight." He raised the lute, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "This is just another story. And you know what? Stories don't end in the middle. We rise, we grow, and we fight back—with every bit of who we are."
Dorian strummed the lute tentatively at first, the notes clear but soft. He looked around at the weary villagers and raised his voice.
"In shadows deep, our voices low,
Through fields laid bare where once crops grow.
But fire burns where embers gleam,
We rise again, we chase the dream.
Through sorrow's haze and bitter pain,
Our hands rebuild, we strive, sustain.
Oh, hollow hearts, lift voices strong,
Our light will shine, it won't be long."
The first verse carried into the night like a spark, igniting the air. A second verse followed, and by the third, the somber mood began to shift. Faces lifted, hands clapped in time, and laughter rippled through the square.
Dorian played faster, the strings of the lute thrumming under his fingers. For the first time, he felt it—an energy, a connection, flowing through him like warmth.
Lantern light brightened, feet tapped in rhythm, and a cheer erupted as someone began to dance. The mood transformed completely. Children ran in circles, elders clapped and sang along, and for the first time since the knights had come, Suntails Hollow felt alive again.
When Dorian finally lowered the lute, the square was full of smiles. He met his parents' eyes, their pride shining back at him, and he realized the magic wasn't just in the pendant or the lute. It was in the people, their stories, and their spirit.
And for the first time, Dorian truly believed he could change the world—one song at a time.