Dawn was rising over the hills of Drauhen, tinting the meadows with shades of gold and copper. The mountains, silent and distant, stood like slumbering guardians. The young forest surrounding Hearthglen exhaled the scent of damp resin, fresh grass, and a day still unaware of the tragedy to come.

  The smell of freshly baked bread slipped through the cracks of the cabin before the sun had fully risen. Alden felt it in his dreams and, for a moment, everything was peaceful.

  Until a pillow landed on his face.

  “Come on, sleepyhead,” murmured Kael, already dressed and wearing the smile of someone who had been awake for half an hour. “If you don’t get up, Uncle Kaelor will make us run all the way to the other side of the valley.”

  Alden groaned, rolled under the blanket, and cracked one eye open. Light entered in golden rays, stirring tiny dust motes in the air.

  “Five minutes…”

  “Five minutes less of life if we’re late again,” Kael replied, yanking the blanket off him.

  Alden sat up. The cold wood floor crept up through the soles of his feet. He rubbed his tousled light-brown hair and glanced at the broken shard of mirror hanging by the door. His skin was faintly sun-kissed from summer, and his deep amber eyes glowed brighter when he was annoyed. On the left side of his chest, a birthmark shaped like a flame seemed to flicker under the light.

  “Why do you always enjoy this?” he mumbled.

  “Because someone has to remind you the world doesn’t wait for the lazy,” Kael said while buttoning his shirt. “Besides, Elena’s bringing the bread today. If you’re late, I’m eating all of it.”

  Alden tried to look indifferent… but an involuntary smile betrayed him. Elena.

  Just thinking about her laugh cleared the last traces of sleep.

  They dressed quickly. Outside, the air smelled of dew, chopped wood, and fresh loaves straight from the oven.

  The two sprinted toward the northern hill. The damp grass soaked their ankles as they ran between laughter and playful shoves. Kael led the way—swift, light-footed, his short black hair bouncing with each stride. He was taller than Alden, sharp-featured and quick-eyed; he moved as if the world made space for him. Alden followed, stronger than agile, relying more on instinct than technique.

  Kaelor awaited them beside the large boulder, arms crossed, carrying the expression of someone who had been waiting for a while. A few strands of gray ran through his hair, and several scars peeked from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. His presence commanded respect, though his gaze held a calm that didn’t quite match his past.

  “Ten minutes late,” he said without raising his voice. “Wooden swords. Now.”

  They began at once. The sharp clack of wood echoed through the trees. Kael moved with precision and speed; every step seemed calculated. Alden responded with strength, seeking openings, learning through bruises and ragged breaths.

  “Your feet, Alden. Don’t push your hip forward,” Kaelor instructed without moving from his spot.

  “Kael, don’t drop your guard after the feint.”

  The two boys laughed, stumbled, got back up, and clashed swords again. The sun crept through the branches, painting the valley in gold.

  During a short break, Alden pushed his hair back from his forehead. His shirt clung to his skin, so he pulled it off to dry himself. The flame-shaped mark on the left side of his chest caught the light.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Kael pointed at it with his wooden sword, grinning.

  “One of these days, you’re going to tell me where that came from.”

  Alden shrugged.

  “I always said it’s the mark of lost princes,” he joked.

  Kael burst out laughing.

  But Kaelor didn’t.

  His gaze lingered on the mark a heartbeat too long… then shifted toward the horizon. As if that small detail mattered far more than he let on.

  ***

  Hearthglen was buzzing when the sun reached its peak. Market stalls overflowed with voices and scents, children darted between carts, and the steady rhythm of hammers filled the air. At the entrance of the forge, Elena waited with a basket in her hands.

  “It’s about time,” she said with a playful smile as Alden and Kael came down the path. “I thought Uncle Kaelor had left you both in pieces.”

  Elena was petite, her straight blonde hair tied in a simple braid, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven. Something in her expression always made the day feel lighter.

  “For the almost-heroes,” she added, offering them a loaf wrapped in cloth.

  Alden reached for it; as their fingers brushed, Elena giggled and dabbed flour on his nose. Kael clicked his tongue.

  “If this keeps up, I’m going to lose my appetite,” he muttered—though he was already tearing off a piece of bread.

  There were no more words. Just a brief moment of calm, like so many others in Hearthglen. Then each returned to their tasks: Kael to the mayor’s house, Elena to the bakery, and Alden to the forge.

  Inside, the air burned.

  Alden, sweaty and focused, hammered the metal under Bram’s watchful eye. The heat of the forge highlighted the tense muscles of his arms, strengthened by daily work.

  “Harder, boy. That anvil won’t bend itself,” the old smith grumbled without taking his eyes off the glowing metal. “Remember: every tool has a purpose. And it’s the smith’s job to teach it what that is.”

  The door opened. Elena stepped inside again, this time carrying a basket of stew.

  “I brought you food, Father.”

  “Perfect,” Bram said. “Give the boy some. He’ll pass out at this rate, staring at you like that.”

  Elena laughed softly. Alden tried—and failed—to hide his smile, and the hammer slipped from his hand, clattering loudly. Elena’s mother, passing by the entrance, let out a hearty laugh.

  “So that’s the future son-in-law of the smith,” she remarked.

  Alden picked up the hammer, blushing to the ears.

  Just then, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from afar. Horses were rare in Hearthglen, especially at that hour.

  Three strangers appeared at the village entrance, leading their dust-covered mounts. One of the animals limped, its loose horseshoe clinking against the stones. They wore dark cloaks, worn armor, and carried an air that chilled the scene.

  The tallest of them, a scar running down his cheek, stopped before the forge. His eyes swept the place with cold precision before he stepped inside.

  “I need someone to fix a horseshoe,” he said, voice rough.

  Bram eyed him with suspicion.

  “The boy will handle it.”

  Alden nodded and walked toward the horse. As he worked, sweat ran down his neck, and the open collar of his shirt revealed the flame-shaped mark.

  The scarred man noticed it. His eyes narrowed—a flicker of suspicion—but the moment passed as quickly as it appeared.

  When the job was done, they paid, gathered in the plaza, muttered among themselves, and finally left along the forest path. One of them looked back at the forge before disappearing between the trees.

  Bram frowned.

  “Boy, you’d better head home. And tell Kaelor about those three. They carried a raven emblem on their mount.”

  Alden, not fully understanding, nodded.

  ***

  The sun was setting when Alden reached the cabin. The smell of hot soup filled the air, mixed with fresh-cut wood. Kael sat by the hearth sharpening a training sword, while Kaelor studied an old map spread on the table.

  “Uncle, three men came to the village today,” Alden said as he washed his hands in a basin. “Bram asked me to tell you. He said they seemed suspicious.”

  Kael looked up with casual indifference.

  “Suspicious? Everyone looks suspicious here if they’re not from Hearthglen.”

  Kaelor didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed fixed on the map, but something in his posture tightened.

  “Did they carry any symbol?” he finally asked, voice calm.

  “A raven. On their horse’s tack.”

  Kaelor slowly closed his hand over the edge of the map. A small gesture—but one the boys didn’t miss.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  Kael frowned.

  “What’s going on, Uncle?”

  Kaelor raised his gaze toward them. For a moment, his eyes softened. Not out of fear—but out of the weight of a truth he had carried alone for years.

  He saw them there: two boys growing too quickly, two lives he had taken under his roof without owing anything to blood, yet who weighed on his heart as if they were his own.

  He had sworn to protect them. And he knew that if the ravens had come this far south, the oath would soon demand its price.

  He looked toward the window. The sun was slipping behind the mountains, and in the cold wind of the evening came a distant, solitary caw.

  “Perhaps,” he whispered, “the fire is about to awaken.”