Chapter 1 The Forgotten Flame from Author Rea Alexandris

Are you ready to embark on a magical journey through enchanting worlds filled with romance, mystical creatures, and intricate world-building? Look no further than Author Rea Alexandris, a talented author who specializes in creating captivating fantasy books that will transport you to extraordinary realms beyond imagination.

Chapter 1

The Blacksmith's Daughter

The hammer struck the steel with the rhythm of her heartbeat—steady, relentless. Sparks danced around her, fleeting stars swallowed by the forge’s haze. Kaelara tightened her grip, sweat slipping down her brow as the searing air wrapped around her like an embrace she couldn’t escape.

"Just a little more," she muttered, the words lost in the forge’s roar. She drove the tool down harder, each strike pushing her frustration into the unyielding metal. A better life wasn’t forged in a day. But sometimes, she wondered if it could be forged at all.

The braid down her back was fraying, loose strands of dark blonde hair clinging to her damp cheek as she moved. Her green eyes, alight with the forge’s flames, flicked to the steel beneath her hammer—calculating, focused. There was no hesitation in her movements, only an instinctive certainty honed by years of practice.

The steel began to yield, and her lips curved into a small, knowing smirk—a quiet victory over an unyielding opponent. Yet, beneath her precision and strength, there was a current of restless energy, a hunger that drove her beyond the task at hand. The act of shaping the metal was more than work; it was creation, rebellion, and hope forged in equal measure.

She leaned into the next strike, her frame taut but balanced, every movement efficient. She wasn’t large like her father, who had taught her to wield the hammer, but she didn’t need to be. Her strength lay in her agility, her ability to turn stubborn steel into something sharper, harder, and more enduring—just as she had done with herself.

A single ember landed on her arm, sizzling briefly before fading. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her jaw tightened, and she drove the hammer down again, the sound reverberating like a challenge to the world beyond the forge.

Her story was there in the calluses on her hands, the faint scars along her forearms, and the way her gaze lingered on the flames, searching. Always searching.

The bellows creaked under Kaelara’s steady rhythm, the whoosh of air fueling the forge until flames leapt higher, twisting and crackling. She pumped harder, coaxing the fire to roar, each pull and push matching the cadence of her breath. The heat prickled her skin, but she didn’t falter, her movements precise and efficient.

With a practiced hand, she reached for the tongs, gripping the glowing piece of steel she had been shaping all afternoon. The rough blade caught the light, its jagged edges whispering of unfinished potential. She set it on the anvil, her hammer already rising to meet it, but the strike came down harder than she intended, a sharp clang ringing out across the forge.

“Careful, Kaelara,” Garran’s voice cut through the clang of the forge. “Unless you’re aiming for a dagger that folds on impact.”“I’ve got it,” Kaelara shot back, her tone clipped as she adjusted the blade.

Garran leaned back, wiping his hands on his apron. “Sure you do. Just don’t blame me when you’re starting over. Again.”“If you’re so worried,” Kaelara muttered, pausing mid-strike, “you could take over.”

“And miss the joy of watching you learn the hard way? Never.”

Kaelara muttered something under her breath—words lost in the roar of the flames—and went back to work. The dagger began to take shape with each deliberate strike, the rhythm of her hammer filling the space between them.

Garran’s gaze lingered as Kaelara turned back to her work, his expression softening for a moment. She had his fire, his precision—traits her mother had admired. But every time Kaelara picked up the hammer, Garran felt the same weight settle on his chest. “Don’t rush it, Kaelara,” he added quietly, masking his unease with gruffness. “Timing’s everything.”

The firelight shifted, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls. It wasn’t the usual dance of flame and heat; something about it felt off, the glow deeper, its motion slower, almost like… breathing.

The hammer slipped from her hand, the next strike faltering as the flames pulsed. She stared at them, her breath catching. For a moment, they seemed alive, a rhythm matching the thrum in her chest.

The firelight flickered strangely, the glow deepening into a rhythmic pulse. Kaelara’s hammer faltered mid-swing as a chill swept over her, cutting through the forge’s swelter. She leaned closer, her breath catching as the flames seemed to shift—not like fire, but something alive.

“Kaelara!” Garran barked, his voice sharp enough to snap her back.She blinked, gripping the hammer tighter. “Sorry.”

Her next strike sent sparks flying, but the unease lingered, curling around her ribs like smoke.

Garran’s sharp gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable. He shook his head and turned back to his work. “Magic’s trouble. Always has been. It burned too bright,” Garran muttered, his eyes fixed on the flames. “The Flamebearers thought they could wield it, but it wielded them instead. That’s why the world is better off without it.”

Kaelara didn’t respond. She focused on the steel, her hands steady once more, but her mind wasn’t on the blade. It was on the fire, the flicker of something strange within it—something dangerous, something familiar.

The hammer struck again, louder this time. She couldn’t help but wonder if the flames knew something she didn’t.

The tales passed down through Emberhollow were like brittle threads in an old tapestry, worn thin but still clinging to their vibrant origins. They painted a world where magic had once coursed freely through Aeryndor, as essential as the wind and as life-giving as rain. It had flowed in harmony with the land, nourishing its fields, fueling its innovations, and shaping the very fabric of existence. The villagers whispered of the Flamebearers, legendary smiths whose enchanted forges had given birth to weapons that blazed with unquenchable fire and tools imbued with unyielding strength.

These stories, however, felt like relics of a bygone era. They were spoken with the reverence of memory but the ache of loss, the kind of tales that grew in grandeur the further they drifted from truth. The old shared them in hushed tones, their eyes distant with nostalgia for a time they had barely lived through—if they had lived through it at all. Younger voices repeated them as bedtime tales or moments of fleeting rebellion, their words tinged with skepticism.

Magic was gone. That was the truth Kaelara had grown up with, carved into every shadowed glance her father gave her when she dared to ask about the Flamebearers or their craft. It was etched into the very soil of Aeryndor, now cracked and dry where it had once been lush. The Verdant Plains, once the kingdom’s breadbasket, barely yielded enough to keep its farmers alive. The Luminaris Forest, whose trees were said to sing at dawn and shimmer with golden light, had become a dark and twisted expanse. Its once-welcoming canopy now whispered of shadows and terror.

Kaelara had no reason to believe the stories were anything more than wistful echoes of a better time. But sometimes, she wished they were true. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her hammer, the calluses a reminder of her practicality, but there were nights when practicality wasn’t enough. The forge grounded her, but it also chained her, each strike against the anvil a tether to a life that felt too small.

Kaelara’s father, Garran, had always shut down such thoughts with his firm practicality. "The world doesn’t need magic," he would say, his tone as unyielding as the steel he worked. "It needs strength. Skill. Discipline. Magic is what destroyed us."

And maybe he was right. The absence of magic had left scars across Aeryndor that time alone could not heal.

Yet, a part of her—a small, treacherous part—yearned for the extraordinary.

She had first felt it years ago, as a child, standing at the anvil beside her father, weight of the hammer unfamiliar in her small hands. He had loomed over her, his broad frame blocking much of the light, leaving only the glow of the steel as it heated under the flame.

“Watch closely,” he said, his voice low and rough as he plunged the blade into the coals. The orange glow deepened, pulsing like a living thing. “Timing’s everything. Too long, and it’s brittle. Too short…” He grunted, letting the implication hang in the air.

She nodded, her wide green eyes fixed on the molten metal as he laid it across the anvil. Sparks exploded with every strike of his tool, scattering into the dim air like fireflies. She tried to follow their dance, but their motion was hypnotic, chaotic, and just out of reach.

The warmth of the workshop pulsed against her chest, steady and rhythmic, as though it had found its way inside her. Her small hand hovered near the anvil’s edge, and for an instant, it seemed to shimmer, the light reflecting off the steel somehow sharper, more intense.

She stared, her breath catching as the faint glow of her skin melded with the heat of the blade, the edges of her palm flickering like the embers swirling around them.

“Kaelara!” her father barked.

She jerked back, startled. The hammer slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground.

His sharp gaze snapped to her, his expression unreadable beneath the grime and sweat of his work. “Pay attention, or you’ll waste the steel.”

She nodded quickly, her hands curling into fists to hide their trembling. The strange glow had vanished, leaving only the afterimage burned into her mind.

She didn’t speak of it—not then, not ever. A trick of the light, she told herself. The flicker of flames playing games with her eyes. Yet the memory lingered, surfacing like a whisper in the quiet moments when her thoughts grew still.

The forge stood at the edge of Emberhollow, a small village nestled in the rolling hills of the Verdant Plains. The air in Emberhollow was thick with the scent of dry earth and smoke from fires kept low to save wood. Children played half-heartedly in the square, their laughter too faint, too brittle. Kaelara passed a woman stitching patches onto a shirt so worn it barely held its shape. "Morning, Kaelara," the woman murmured without looking up, her voice hollow.

Kaelara had grown up on stories of the kingdom’s golden age, when the Flamebearers walked the land, their enchanted forges fueling a time of prosperity and innovation. Eryndell, the capital, had been a place of light and wonder, its streets paved with enchanted stones that glimmered like starlight. But those tales belonged to another time—a time before the Fall of the Flamebearers, before the monarch’s Iron Guard crushed rebellion and magic alike.

Now, Aeryndor was a land of faded glory. The Flamebearers’ Tower in Eryndell was abandoned, its magic sealed, and in its place loomed the Iron Citadel, a grim reminder of the monarch’s iron-fisted rule. The once-vibrant streets of Eryndell were now filled with whispers of rebellion, and even the smallest villages like Emberhollow bore the weight of the kingdom’s decline.

The blade hissed as it met the water, steam curling upward in twisting, ghostly shapes that hung in the air before dissolving into the morning mist. Kaelara stood still, watching the ripples fade in the trough. Her fingers brushed the edge of her damp brow, smearing soot as she wiped it away, but her gaze drifted past the glowing coals and out through the crooked door of the forge.

Stepping outside, her boots crunched against the gravel path, dampened by the lingering dew. The air carried the faint scent of iron and smoke, but it was the silence that unsettled her—thick and unnatural, as though even the birds dared not break it. She glanced toward the tangled mess of the old forge on the hill, its crumbling stones swallowed by wild ivy. It loomed at the edge of Emberhollow, half-forgotten but unyielding, like a secret unwilling to stay buried.

Kaelara’s gaze lingered on the ruins, the stories of strange fires and flickering shadows stirring in her mind. The old forge had been silent for years, but every time she walked past it, she felt its presence like a weight against her ribs. “It’s just an old ruin,” Garran had said when she asked once, but his tone hadn’t matched his words.

She shifted her weight, the blade at her side now forgotten. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind, gruff and uncompromising. “Stay away from that place. It’s cursed,” Garran had told her once, his voice hard with an edge she didn’t often hear. “Your mother thought she could fix it. That forge took her, Kaelara, and it’ll take you too if you’re not careful.” He hadn’t spoken of it since, but the words burned as brightly in her memory as any flame.

And yet, the ruin’s outline seemed sharper in the mist, its presence pulling her gaze as surely as a smith’s magnet draws iron. She took a step forward without thinking, the cold morning air pricking her skin.

A memory surfaced, unbidden—her mother’s voice, soft and full of wonder. “The fire is in you, Kael. It’s always been there.”

Kaelara clenched her fists, her jaw tightening. “Then why did you leave?” she whispered.

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

“Morning, Kaelara!” a familiar voice called.

Old Maera, a stooped woman with kind eyes and a woven shawl, hobbled toward her, a basket of herbs in hand.

“Morning, Maera,” Kaelara replied, forcing a smile.

“Still at the forge, eh?” Maera glanced at the blade Kaelara held. “If only your work could mend more than steel.”

Kaelara nodded, her expression darkening. “I can’t fix droughts or empty bellies, Maera.”

“None of us can,” Maera said softly, her gaze drifting toward the forest. “But people talk, you know. They say magic might return. That someone—”

“Enough of that,” Garran interrupted, stepping out of the forge with a scowl. “Magic’s done us no favors. You’d do well to leave old tales where they belong.”

“Do you believe it?” she asked Maera, seeing her off.

“Believe what, child?” Maera said, her gnarled hands gripping the basket of herbs.

“That magic will return,” Kaelara said, keeping her voice low as her father worked in the background.

“Magic never truly left, Kaelara,” Maera said, her tone conspiratorial as she leaned closer. “The trouble is people stopped looking for it. You know what they say—can’t see the stars when you’ve got your head stuck in a plow.”

Kaelara scoffed, pretending to dismiss the old woman’s words. But they stayed with her, a quiet whisper beneath the hammer’s clang.

She didn’t feel magical. She was no Flamebearer, no wielder of ancient power. She was a blacksmith’s daughter, stubborn and practical, with no gifts beyond the calluses on her hands and the instincts she had honed through years of hard work.

But sometimes, when the forge’s flames flickered just right or the metal seemed to yield too easily to her touch, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more. Something hidden.

And that thought, no matter how much she tried to bury it, scared her more than anything else.

Maera dipped her head goodbye, but Kaelara saw the spark of rebellion in her eyes.

As the day wore on, the forge became a crossroads of the village’s woes, a grim theater of hardship where the burdens of Emberhollow were laid bare.

“Herrick,” Garran greeted, his tone gruff as the wiry farmer shuffled in with a rusted plow dragging behind him. “You’ve overworked it.”

“Soil’s harder than the plow these days,” Herrick muttered, running a hand through thinning hair. “Not much else to do but keep pushing.”

Kaelara stepped in, wiping soot from her cheek. “We’ll fix it,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “Might not soften the earth, but it’ll hold.”

Herrick nodded, but his eyes lingered on the blade, the weight of his unspoken doubts heavy in the air.

He sighed and leaned against the doorway, his gaze distant. “Used to be, the fields were so rich you could drop a seed and have a sprout in a day. My father used to tell me stories of how the Verdant Plains bloomed year-round, like the gods themselves blessed the earth. Now…” He gestured helplessly. “Now it’s just dust and rocks.”

Kaelara hesitated, her hands tightening on the plow’s handle. She had heard the stories too many times to count, yet each retelling carried a fresh layer of sorrow, as if the land’s decline had etched itself into the villagers’ very bones.

“We’ll get through it,” she said softly, though she wasn’t sure if she believed her own words.

Herrick gave her a weak smile, nodded, and shuffled out, leaving behind the heavy silence of unspoken doubts.

Not long after, a hunter strode into the forge, his boots caked with dirt and his cloak filled with dust. Rhys was his name, a rugged man with sharp eyes and a perpetual scowl. He carried a snapped bow in one hand and a quiver slung over his back.

“This thing’s useless,” he said, tossing the bow onto the workbench with a grunt. “Snapped clean through when I tried to draw it.”

Kaelara picked up the broken bow, turning the splintered wood in her hands. “The wood’s too brittle,” she said, frowning. “Have you been storing it properly?”

Rhys let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Storing it properly? In this drought? The air’s so parched it’d suck the life out of a living tree, let alone a bow.”

“Still, I’ll reinforce it,” Kaelara said, already gathering supplies. “Should hold better next time.”

As she worked, Rhys leaned against the wall, his eyes flicking toward the forge’s flames. “Saw something strange near the Luminaris Forest yesterday,” he said, his voice low.

Kaelara glanced up. “Strange how?”

“Shadows,” Rhys said simply. “Moving when they shouldn’t. Thought it was a deer at first, but…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Didn’t move like any animal I know. Felt like it was watching me.”

Kaelara frowned, exchanging a glance with her father. Garran’s expression darkened, though he said nothing.

“Probably just your imagination,” Kaelara offered, though the unease in her voice betrayed her doubt.

Rhys shrugged. “Maybe. But the forest hasn’t felt right in years. Like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something. I heard they’ve doubled the Iron Guard near the border,” Rhys added, his tone dropping. “Word is they’re sniffing out rebellion. Or something worse.” His eyes flicked to Kaelara, and for a moment, it felt like the forge’s heat had chilled.

The hunter’s words lingered long after he left, the repaired bow slung over his shoulder.

By midday, the forge was busy with villagers, their voices a subdued murmur as they waited for their tools to be mended. Kaelara moved between tasks, her hands deftly shaping iron and wood, while her ears caught snatches of conversation.

“...used to say the Flamebearers could call the rain…” one woman whispered to another.

“...and the crops would grow twice as tall…”

“But that was before the Fall.”

A pause followed, heavy and pregnant with meaning.

Kaelara kept her head down, pretending not to listen, though her chest tightened at the mention of the Flamebearers.

An older man leaned on his cane near the forge’s doorway, shaking his head. “Aeryndor was better off with magic, if you ask me. Everything’s gone to rot since the Iron Guard started hunting mages.”

“Hush, old man,” another villager hissed. “You’ll get yourself arrested, talking like that.”

“Arrested for what? Speaking the truth?” the old man shot back, his voice bitter. “We used to have lightstones to guide us at night, irrigation spells to water the fields, wards to keep the beasts away. Now all we’ve got are rusted tools and empty bellies.”

“Enough,” Garran barked, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. The villagers fell silent, their gazes dropping to the floor.

Kaelara felt the weight of their despair as keenly as the hammer in her hand. She wanted to say something, to offer some shred of hope, but the words wouldn’t come. What could she say, when she didn’t believe them herself?

By evening, the forge was quiet again, the last of the villagers having gone home. Kaelara sat on the steps outside, staring out at the fading light. The sun dipped low over the hills, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward the Luminaris Forest, dark and foreboding on the horizon.

Her father joined her, sitting heavily on the steps with a weary sigh.

“They’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, not unkindly.

“They always are,” Kaelara replied, her voice soft.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the day hanging between them. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, its mournful cry echoing across the plains.

Kaelara’s fingers brushed the edge of the hammer resting on her lap. She thought of the villagers’ whispered tales, of the shadows in the forest, of the old forge she wasn’t supposed to visit.

“Do you think magic really left?” she asked finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Garran didn’t answer right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It doesn’t matter,” he said at last. “What matters is what people believe.”

Kaelara’s gaze shifted to the old forge in the distance, its outline barely visible in the fading light. Somewhere deep in her chest, a spark flickered. She clenched her fists. Tomorrow, she would go there. Maybe the answers lay in the ruins her father had forbidden her to touch.

The sun dipped low over the hills, casting Emberhollow in the amber glow of evening. The forge’s fire had long since dimmed, its heat giving way to the cool embrace of twilight. Kaelara stretched her arms, her muscles aching from the day’s work, and began to sweep the forge floor, humming a half-remembered tune under her breath.

She glanced up as a shadow appeared in the doorway, slender and graceful. Lira stepped inside, her soft boots making no sound on the stone floor.

“Well, if it isn’t Emberhollow’s hardest-working blacksmith,” Lira teased, her voice light and melodic.

Kaelara smirked. “You’re just jealous because my job requires actual effort.”

“Effort? Is that what you call swinging a hammer all day?” Lira countered, twirling a strand of her auburn hair around one finger.

Kaelara wiped the back of her hand across her brow, smearing soot across her cheek. “If you’re going to stand there judging, at least make yourself useful,” she called over her shoulder, her tone sharp but laced with humor.

Lira leaned casually against the doorway of the forge, a basket of herbs balanced on her hip. Her auburn hair caught the sunlight streaming in, coppery waves glowing like embers, though she seemed blissfully unaware of the effect. “Useful?” she said with a mock gasp. “What could I possibly contribute to the grand art of hammering metal into pointy objects?”

Kaelara snorted, shaking her head as she adjusted the blade on the anvil. The muscles in her arms flexed as she raised her hammer, each movement efficient and deliberate. Sparks flew with every strike, casting flickering light on her soot-streaked face and the calloused hands that told the story of years spent shaping steel. “Not all of us get to play dress-up and charm people into forgetting their ailments,” she shot back, glancing at Lira’s flowing skirt, which swayed with even the smallest movement.

“Play dress-up?” Lira echoed, pretending to be wounded as she stepped fully into the forge. Her skirt brushed the floor, entirely impractical for the soot-laden space, but she moved with such natural grace it hardly mattered. “This is how you inspire trust, Kaelara. People don’t want to be healed by someone who looks like they’ve been rolling in coal dust.” She set the basket down, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

“They don’t want to be healed by someone who’s tripped over their own skirt either,” Kaelara countered, grinning as she plunged the blade into the trough with a loud hiss.

Lira smiled, bending to sort through the herbs with nimble fingers. “I don’t trip. I glide,” she said airily, her voice warm and melodic. Her hands, delicate but steady, began separating bundles of sage and yarrow with practiced ease. “And if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d realize that a little elegance never hurt anyone.”

Kaelara smirked, leaning on the anvil as steam rose around her. “Elegance doesn’t stop a sword, Lira.”

“And brute strength doesn’t heal a broken bone,” Lira shot back, her tone sharp but good-natured. She glanced up, her expression softening as her eyes met Kaelara’s. “You know, one day you’re going to see that we’re not so different.”

Kaelara scoffed, but her grin lingered. “When I start wearing one of those skirts? Don’t hold your breath.”

Lira laughed, the sound light and infectious. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. But if you ever do, I promise to find you the prettiest shoes to match.”

The two women stood there, the clang of the forge and the soft rustle of herbs blending in the warm air between them. Despite their teasing, there was an unspoken rhythm to their conversation, a balance in their contrasts.

Kaelara grabbed the hammer again, her hands tightening around its familiar weight. “Thanks for stopping by,” she said after a beat, quieter now. “Even if all you’re good for is cluttering up my forge with your flowers.”

Lira tilted her head, her expression warm. “And thank you for letting me. Even if all you’re good for is swinging that hammer.”

The fire crackled, and for a moment, the two of them simply existed in the glow—Kaelara’s intensity tempered by Lira’s ease, each a reflection of the other’s strength in their own way.

“I’ll have you know,” Lira said, leaning casually against the doorframe, “that bandaging stubborn old men who refuse to admit they’ve injured themselves is no small feat. And it doesn’t leave my hands looking like that.” She pointed to Kaelara’s soot-stained fingers, her nose wrinkling in mock disgust.

Kaelara rolled her eyes. “You try hammering metal into submission and see how clean your hands stay.”

Lira sauntered over and plucked a rag from the workbench. “At least try to wash up before you touch anything. Honestly, Kael, you’re hopeless.”

Kaelara snatched the rag out of her hands, grinning. “And you’re insufferable.”

A few minutes later, the two of them sat on a low stone wall outside the forge, watching the last rays of sunlight fade into the horizon. Kaelara leaned back on her hands, her face tilted toward the sky, while Lira sat primly, her hands folded in her lap.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” Kaelara asked suddenly, her gaze distant.

“Leaving Emberhollow?” Lira asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Going somewhere… bigger. Somewhere where life isn’t just fixing broken plows and sewing up scrapes.”

Lira considered this, her expression thoughtful. “I’d miss the peace here. The quiet.”

Kaelara snorted. “Peace? Quiet? You mean boredom.”

Lira laughed, a musical sound that seemed to chase away the day’s lingering gloom. “Some of us like boring. It’s predictable. Safe.”

“It’s not just boredom,” Kaelara said softly. Her fingers brushed the edge of her hammer. “It’s like… like this place is too small. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”

“That’s because you’re stubborn. Always have been,” Lira said, nudging her with a dainty elbow. “You think the world’s going to bow to your hammer and let you shape it into whatever you want.”

“It’s not about shaping the world,” Kaelara said, her voice quieter now. She leaned against the anvil, the hammer loose in her hand. “It’s about figuring out where I fit in it. If that means breaking a few things along the way…” She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Lira tilted her head, studying her. “You’ll figure it out,” she said softly, her teasing tone gone. “You’re too stubborn not to.”

Kaelara laughed, shaking her head. “And yet, here you are, still hanging around me.”

“Someone has to keep you out of trouble,” Lira said with a dramatic sigh. “Besides, you’d miss me too much if I left.”

Kaelara chuckled, unable to argue.

As the stars began to appear, the two friends made their way back to the village. Lira walked Kaelara to her house, their banter light but familiar, a comfortable rhythm they had shared since they were children.

“Don’t stay up too late brooding about plows and rebellion,” Lira said as they reached the door.

Kaelara smirked. “I’ll try to contain myself.”

Lira gave her a quick hug, her arms surprisingly strong despite her delicate appearance. “Good night, Kael.”

“Night, Lira,” Kaelara replied, watching her friend disappear into the darkened streets.

As Kaelara climbed the stairs to her small room above the forge, she felt a little lighter. The day’s worries hadn’t vanished, but they seemed easier to bear after Lira’s visit.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the window at the shadowy outline of the Luminaris Forest. Somewhere out there, the world was bigger than Emberhollow, bigger than she could imagine. And though Lira might be content to stay, Kaelara knew that wasn’t her path.

The fire within her stirred, faint but undeniable.