The first light of dawn crept through the window, slipping past the thin curtains and scattering gold across Eliar's face.
He groaned, turning away as if he could hide from the morning itself. His head throbbed faintly, his stomach twisting from the remnants of last night's bread and cider. For a moment, he lingered in that half-dream state — where sleep clings like fog, and the world outside feels unreal.
"Oh,I could sleep like that forever."
Eliar mummerd.
Then the church bells rang.
Three deep tolls from the cathedral at the heart of Greyhaven — each one a reminder that the day had begun, and that he was, once again, late.
Eliar's eyes snapped open.
"Ah—damn it!"
He flung the blanket aside, stumbled out of bed, and dressed in a frenzy — half-tucked shirt, scuffed boots, and a jacket that still smelled faintly of ash and metal. As he rushed out of the small wooden house, the morning air greeted him cold and crisp, laced with the distant scent of burning coal.
Greyhaven was already stirring to life.
Merchants lifted their shutters, cart wheels creaked over cobblestone, and smoke began to rise from the forges and bakeries that lined the narrow streets. Beyond the rooftops, the spires of the cathedral glimmered faintly under the waking sun, its stained-glass windows catching the light like fragments of otherworldly fire.
Eliar sprinted through the alleyways, dodging a group of children chasing a rolling hoop and nearly colliding with a man balancing crates of apples.
"Watch where you're going!" the man shouted.
"Sorry!" Eliar called back without slowing.
When he reached the blacksmith's workshop, the iron scent of forge smoke hit him like a wall. Sparks crackled from within, and the rhythmic clang of metal filled the air — sharp, steady, and unrelenting.
Eliar took a breath, smoothed his hair, and tried to slip through the door unnoticed.
It didn't work.
A heavy hand came down on his head before his foot even crossed the threshold.
"Late again," a voice rumbled — deep, roughened by years of shouting over the roar of fire.
Eliar winced and looked up to see Master Aldrin, a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, his beard streaked with gray and his apron blackened by soot. His dark eyes carried that same blend of irritation and faint amusement that Eliar had grown far too familiar with.
"It's just this one time, Master," Eliar said quickly, rubbing the spot where he'd been hit.
Aldrin raised a brow. "Just this one? You said the same thing last week. And the week before that."
"That was different," Eliar muttered.
"Different how?"
"I was—uh—helping my mother."
Aldrin crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Helping her sleep better by staying in bed yourself?"
Eliar grinned weakly. "Rest is important."
The old blacksmith let out a short, rough laugh. "Then rest while you can, boy, because if you keep this up, the only rest you'll get is when I bury you under coal dust."
He tossed Eliar a hammer. The weight of it grounded him, the familiar feel of cold metal pressing into his palm.
"Now get to work," Aldrin said. "The festival's coming soon, and orders won't fill themselves."
Eliar's hammer struck the iron with an uneven rhythm — clang… clang… clang — each blow slightly offbeat, betraying the remnants of his drowsiness. Sparks leapt and died on the anvil like fleeting stars.
"Oh right," he muttered suddenly, eyes widening. "The festival is the day after tomorrow, isn't it? I almost forgot."
From across the forge, Aldrin — sweat glinting on his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows — gave a short snort.
"You'd remember it if you spent more time awake and less time dreaming," he said, his voice half a growl, half amusement.
"I said I apologize for that, Master," Eliar replied, lowering his hammer in mock defeat.
Aldrin wiped his hands on a rag and gave him a sideways look. "Hmph. Maybe it's good you remembered. The festival's the one time of year merchants crawl out of their holes and try to make a living — and that includes you, boy."
Eliar smirked faintly. "I thought you made a living for both of us."
Aldrin let out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. "Keep talking like that and I'll have you sell horseshoes by the dozen. Get your head straight, Eliar. It's a crucial time — for the town, for me, and for your family too. You're not a child anymore."
The words carried more weight than his usual grumbling. For a moment, only the hiss of cooling iron filled the room.
Eliar nodded, eyes fixed on the flickering forge flame. "I know, Master."
"Good," Aldrin said simply. Then he turned back to his anvil, his broad figure outlined by the dim orange glow.
The two worked in silence after that — the steady rhythm of hammers echoing through the workshop, mixing with the distant chatter of the waking town. Outside, the bells of Greyhaven tolled again, their solemn tone washing over the streets like a reminder that time, unlike excuses, could never be reclaimed.
When the cathedral bells rang, Eliar pushed back his chair and stepped outside, stretching his stiff limbs. He called over his shoulder to Aldrin, "I'll take a short break, Master," but the blacksmith only grunted in reply, already absorbed in hammering red-hot iron.
The streets of Greyhaven were alive with movement. Children darted between carts and cobblestones, laughing as they chased rolling hoops. Merchants were busy setting up stalls, arranging autumn fruits, and hanging lanterns that caught the early sunlight in glimmers of gold and amber. The crisp air carried the mingling scents of baking bread, spiced cider, and the faint tang of smoke from the forges.
Eliar's gaze drifted toward the heart of the town, where the towering spires of the old cathedral loomed, casting long, solemn shadows over the square. Its weathered stones whispered centuries of devotion and quiet secrets. His eyes, however, were drawn to something etched into the stone archway—a strange mark carved into the centuries-old façade.
It was a delicate spiral, intertwined with angular lines, almost like a sigil, worn by time but still faintly luminescent in the soft morning light. Eliar frowned, squinting. Why did townsfolk pause to cross their hands when they passed beneath it? Why did they whisper prayers to something whose origin had faded into the haze of history? Why did everyone accept the ritual, the belief, without truly knowing its meaning? The questions lingered, a small, persistent echo at the edge of his mind.
He shook his head, brushing the thought aside. The festival preparations had a certain charm—people smiling as they greeted one another, children tugging at their parents' sleeves, merchants calling out with practiced cheer—but the mark lingered, a quiet pulse at the back of his consciousness, as if waiting for him to notice.
A sudden voice broke his reverie. "Still staring, are you, boy?"
Eliar turned sharply. Master Bram, old and stooped yet sharp-eyed, leaned on his carved wooden staff. The lines on Bram's face seemed deeper in the morning light, the eyes beneath his hood gleaming with a knowing, almost unsettling clarity.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" Bram asked, nodding toward the mark. There was no judgment in his tone, only a quiet certainty.
Eliar hesitated. "I… I noticed it. But why—why do people follow a tradition they don't understand? Why cross their hands and whisper?"
Bram's lips curved into a thin smile. "Ah, curiosity. Rare among mortals. They feel the weight of the past, the echo of something greater, and they obey instinctively. Belief, even blind, is often stronger than understanding. Some truths are not meant for every eye, Eliar."
Eliar's gaze flickered back to the spiral. The faint luminescence seemed to hum with a rhythm he couldn't quite place, a subtle thrum that resonated with something deep inside him.
Bram's voice softened, almost a whisper now. "And yet… some of us are chosen, whether we want it or not. Some are drawn to the unknown, as if the universe itself insists on our attention."
The young man swallowed, feeling a strange stirring—a sense that the festival, the children, the market, even the cathedral itself, were threads in a web far larger than the streets of Greyhaven. And at the center of it, somehow, was the mark, quietly waiting.
Old Master Bram had hurried inside the cathedral, leaving Eliar to wander the square. He found a quiet spot beneath the sprawling branches of an old oak, its leaves just beginning to turn amber with the coming of autumn. The grass was soft and damp with morning dew, and for a moment, Eliar let himself sink into the shade, letting the sounds of the waking town wash over him.
A familiar voice jolted him upright. "Well, well, if it isn't the perpetually late Eliar Veyne."
Coren grinned, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn cloak, eyes glinting with mischief. "Why the long face? Did Aldrin hammer you into the cobblestones this morning?"
Eliar let out a groan. "Almost. He said if I'm late again, he'll bury me under coal dust. Not joking either."
Coren laughed, the sound echoing like a bright note in the quiet square. "That harsh, huh? Sounds like you're in for a fun day."
Eliar smirked, shaking his head. "Fun is not exactly the word I'd use."
After a pause, Coren's expression shifted, his tone more curious than teasing. "So… the autumn festival is coming. What are you planning to do there?"
Eliar shrugged. "Nothing, really."
Coren leaned closer, a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. "Nothing? Come on, we should get a stall together. Don't just stand there like a sulking cat."
Eliar raised an eyebrow. "It's just a festival, what's the big deal?"
Coren waved a hand as if to dismiss the casual dismissal, then sat cross-legged on the grass beside him. "Just a festival? Eliar, it's the most remarkable event in the continent! Happens only once a year, right after the cold grip of winter finally loosens. People from across the Ardent Empire gather in the city of Solvayne, at the base of the towering Altherian Peaks. Merchants from the Kingdom of Valenheim, soldiers from the Marwyn Empire, travelers from distant trading ports—they all come to buy, sell, and celebrate. Streets brim with music, aromas of spiced fruits, roasted meats, and exotic treats from lands beyond Greyhaven. Lanterns float above the plaza at night like captured stars, and the colors… oh, Eliar, you simply cannot imagine."
Eliar blinked, picturing the spectacle. "Sounds… impressive, I suppose. And you want us to sell something?"
"Of course," Coren said with a sly grin. "We'll have a stall for the new fruits from the southern isles of Kethryl—golden-skinned, bursting with honeyed juice, and flavors you've never tasted in Greyhaven. Imagine, the people of Solvayne lining up just to try them."
Eliar hesitated, then chuckled. "Well… Aldrin did tell me I need to start looking after myself. I suppose I can take you up on that."
Coren clapped him on the shoulder, eyes bright. "Splendid! We leave at dawn. You'll be awake, won't you?"
"Don't mock me, Coren," Eliar said, feigning irritation, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "Of course, I'll be awake."
The two friends laughed together, the quiet morning around them alive with possibility. Somewhere beyond the oak branches, the city continued its slow, deliberate awakening, and for a moment, Eliar let himself feel that perhaps the festival might be more than just another chore—it could be the start of something entirely unexpected.
Eliar and Coren strolled along the cobblestone footpath, the autumn breeze ruffling their hair and carrying the mingled scents of baking bread, spiced cider, and the faint tang of smoke from the forges. Their laughter bounced off the walls of Greyhaven's narrow streets, a brief rebellion against the chores and routines that bound them.
Then a sharp voice cut through the air. "And just what do you two think you're doing?"
Both Eliar and Coren froze. Aldrin stood at the corner of the street, arms crossed, his shadow long in the afternoon light. His dark eyes were stern, his face set in a scowl that promised immediate consequences.
"This… this is a small break, Master," Eliar stammered, feeling his knees weaken.
Aldrin shook his head, his voice rising. "A small break? From what I see, you're both wandering about like useless boys with nothing better to do!"
Coren chuckled nervously. "I—uh—I was just walking by, Master…"
"And you, Coren, are as useless as he is!" Aldrin barked, grabbing Eliar firmly by the shoulder.
Coren raised a hand in mock salute. "Bye, friend," he said with a grin, leaving Eliar to face Aldrin's wrath.
By dusk, Eliar finally returned home. The familiar creak of the wooden door welcomed him as the last light of the day bathed Greyhaven in warm amber. His mother, Mira, and his little sister, Lira, were waiting, their faces bright with anticipation for the upcoming festival.
"Eliar!" Mira exclaimed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're just in time. I was hoping to set up a stall this year. Are you helping?"
Eliar shook his head with a small smile. "I already have plans."
Mira's eyes sparkled with pride. "Brilliant! Then we'll make it our best festival yet!"
Lira giggled and tugged at his sleeve, "Will you get sweets for me, Eliar?"
He ruffled her hair and laughed softly. "Of course, little one."
After a moment of warmth and laughter, Eliar excused himself and climbed the narrow staircase to his room. He lay on his bed, gazing out the window at the fading light over Greyhaven. The streets were quieter now, lanterns glowing softly, and the cathedral spires etched against the darkening sky.
Thoughts of the day swirled in his mind—Aldrin's scolding, Coren's teasing, the festival, and the strange little mark at the cathedral. He pondered the customs, the people's faith, and the small mysteries that seemed ordinary to everyone but curious to him.
A low murmur escaped his lips, half to himself: "So many things… and yet, so little known…"
Sleep pulled him under gently, carrying him away from the streets of Greyhaven, the laughter of children, and the distant toll of the cathedral bells.