The sun was just beginning to dip behind the towering peaks of Tarnmount, casting long shadows over Ashmere. The village, nestled at the base of the mountain range, looked like a painting frozen in time, its buildings huddled together as though trying to shield each other from the biting winds that swept through the alpine forest. A faint smell of woodsmoke and pine clung to the air, and the hum of village life echoed through the winding streets.
Cyrus Locke stood at the edge of the village, leaning against the worn wooden railing of the bridge that crossed over a rushing stream. The sound of the water tumbling over smooth stones filled his ears, and for a moment, he let himself relax, letting the cool breeze ruffle his dark hair. The world beyond the village seemed so far away, like a dream he could never quite reach. He'd heard the stories, of course—tales of cities and kingdoms, of battles fought in far-off lands, of magic so powerful it could shape reality itself. But those were just stories, weren't they?
He sighed and turned his gaze back toward the village. Ashmere was home. It always had been, and it always would be, or so his father said.
"Cyrus!"
The voice of his father, Alden, cracked through his thoughts. Cyrus winced and pushed off the railing, rubbing his hands against the worn fabric of his trousers as he turned. Alden stood in the doorway of their forge, the door open behind him, a flicker of orange light spilling from inside. The glow reflected off his father's thick, calloused hands, those hands that had shaped steel and stone for decades.
"I've got work to do," Alden called. "The anvil waits for no one."
Cyrus didn't need to be told twice. He nodded silently, walking across the village square and through the familiar path to the forge.
The clanging of metal against metal echoed in the cool evening air as Cyrus stepped inside. The forge was as hot as ever, the fire roaring in the hearth, casting shadows against the stone walls. Alden stood before the anvil, hammering a piece of steel into shape, his face set in concentration. He didn't look up as Cyrus entered, but the rhythm of his strikes slowed slightly in acknowledgment of his son's arrival.
"Got a long one tonight," Alden muttered, his voice gruff as always.
"Another plow?" Cyrus asked, sliding a thick leather apron over his head and tying it around his waist. He picked up his own hammer, the weight familiar in his hands.
"Aye," Alden replied. "The village is growing, and we've got more fields to work."
Cyrus nodded, though his mind was far from the plow. He could feel the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. The repetitive work, the endless days blending into one another. It wasn't that he disliked it—he simply felt like something was missing.
For a while, they worked in silence. The rhythmic clanging of hammer on steel was soothing, almost meditative. But it also made the silence between them feel heavier. His father was too busy to care about his unease. Alden was a simple man. To him, Ashmere was enough. It always had been, and as far as Cyrus could tell, it always would be.
Cyrus swung the hammer, his thoughts drifting as the steel bent beneath his strikes. He was good at this—he was capable with his hands, learned from years of helping Alden in the forge. But his mind never stopped wandering. He'd always felt like there was something more out there for him, something beyond Ashmere's borders. He'd never told his father that, though. Alden wouldn't understand. To him, there was no higher calling than to settle down and make something of yourself in this quiet, stubborn village.
"What's the matter?" Alden asked, his tone suddenly softer, though his eyes never left the anvil. He had a way of sensing when his son wasn't fully present, even if he didn't know exactly what was troubling him.
Cyrus paused, looking at his father for a moment before returning to his work. "Nothing. Just tired."
Alden gave a grunt of acknowledgement but didn't push. Instead, he grunted and swung his hammer again. "The village is full of good folk. We've got work, we've got food, we've got a roof over our heads. There's nothing more you could ask for."
Cyrus swallowed the bitter taste that rose in his throat. That was the problem, wasn't it? He could ask for more. He could ask for something else, something beyond the limited world his father saw.
"I know," Cyrus said, his voice low. "But sometimes, it doesn't feel like enough."
His father's hammer paused mid-swing. For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Then Alden set his hammer down on the anvil with a heavy thud. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and turned to face Cyrus, his gaze sharp despite the weariness in his eyes.
"You think you're meant for something bigger, don't you?" Alden asked, his voice steady, though there was a hint of something deeper beneath the surface—a warning, maybe.
Cyrus hesitated. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to tell his father that he had dreams beyond Ashmere, dreams that felt too big for this village. But instead, he just nodded.
Alden sighed, turning back to the anvil. "I was like you once, too, you know. Before I had a family, before I knew the value of hard work and dedication. I thought I'd find something more in the world. I thought there was something out there waiting for me. But there isn't, boy. This village is everything we need. You don't need to go looking for something that's never going to be found."
Cyrus felt the weight of his father's words, but the pull to something beyond Ashmere still lingered. As much as he respected his father, he couldn't shake the feeling that Alden was wrong.
The clink of the hammer on the anvil resumed as they worked in silence once again, but Cyrus' thoughts kept drifting. The desire to explore, to leave Ashmere behind, had only grown since that day by the stream. Something was calling to him from the mountains, and he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore it much longer.