The village of Mirevale slumbered beneath the soft, golden light of a twin sunrise, the fields still wet with dew and the scent of fresh earth rising into the crisp morning air. Stone cottages lined the quiet lanes like hunched sentinels, their moss-covered roofs draped in ivy and memory. Children's laughter echoed faintly from the eastern hills, where shepherds already called to their flocks.
Draven woke before the sun crested the ridge, as always. He sat on the edge of his cot, bare feet touching the cold stone floor, and rubbed his eyes. Another dream — fire again. A great black flame swallowing a throne of molten stone, and a whisper in a language he didn't understand. He exhaled slowly, steadying his heartbeat.
He dressed quickly, pulling on a rough linen shirt and buckled leather tunic, then paused as he reached for his glove. The mark. It shimmered faintly even in the dim morning light, a jagged, ember-like pattern etched into the skin of his forearm, just above the wrist. Deep reddish-black, like smoldering coal.
Garrik always told him to cover it. "Not out of shame," he'd say, "but because the world's forgotten what it fears most."
He slipped on the glove and tightened the strap.
Outside, the village was already stirring. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, and the scent of bread baking mingled with the sharp tang of iron from Garrik's forge. Draven walked the familiar path, passing old Alren who waved with a crooked grin, and a pair of hunters dragging a boar down the trail.
Mirevale was nestled at the edge of the Oldwood, near the borderlands between the inner realms and the forgotten wastes. Few travelers passed through anymore, save for the occasional tinker or merchant seeking a quiet bed and simpler trade. The people here valued silence, tradition, and the steady rhythm of the seasons.
The forge's heat hit him before he reached the anvil. Garrik was already at work, hammering sparks from steel. The older man was broad and weathered, with arms like tree limbs and a beard streaked with ash and silver.
"You're late," Garrik said without looking up.
"I'm early," Draven replied.
"For someone who sleeps like a brick, maybe." Garrik set down the hammer and eyed him. "You dreamt again?"
Draven hesitated, then nodded.
"Same flame?"
He nodded again. "It spoke this time. I think."
Garrik frowned. "Best keep that to yourself."
Draven looked down at the mark beneath his glove. "You ever going to tell me what it means?"
"When it's time," Garrik said gruffly. "For now, grab the tongs. We've got a plow to mend."
But Draven knew the answer was never simple. The mark had always been there — since before he could speak, before Garrik found him half-frozen near the Oldwood. No parents. No name. Just a baby with a flame that didn't burn.
The morning passed in the rhythm of hammer and fire. Garrik taught with few words and firm guidance, letting the metal speak for itself. Villagers came and went — a broken hoe, a horseshoe to be reshaped, an order for nails. Draven knew them all by name. They smiled at him, patted his shoulder, called him lad. This was home.
Later, at the market square, he sat with Mara and Jareth — two friends he'd grown up with — sharing flatbread and smoked cheese beneath the shade of a twisted oak.
"You hear about the merchant from Veylinth?" Mara asked. "Supposed to be coming through next week."
"More stories about sea-mages and tidecallers?" Jareth grinned. "Maybe he'll bring saltfruit. My mother's been craving it."
Draven chuckled, letting their words wash over him. His thoughts drifted. To the mark. To the dream. To the strange weight that had settled in his chest like a held breath.
On the way home, he passed the village square where the children were playing a game of stones and shadows, leaping from cobble to cobble as they laughed and shouted nonsense rules. One of them waved at him—little Talia, with hair like dry straw and a front tooth missing.
"Draven! Come play!"
"Can't. Garrik will tan me if I'm late," he called back with a grin.
"Next time!" she chirped.
He rounded the bend near the well, where old Marn the storyteller sat carving a whistle from driftwood. The man looked up, eyes pale and cloudy, but still keen.
"You walking with ghosts again, lad?"
"Just bread and breeze today," Draven replied.
Marn chuckled. "Keep your boots on the path, then. No use chasing fire unless you're ready to be burned."
Draven smiled politely, but the words stayed with him.
Mirevale moved at its own pace — unbothered, untouched, and unchanged. And for now, that was enough.