The forge blazed in the heart of Mirevale, the clang of iron ringing like music across the valley. Smoke curled into the blue morning sky, rising above tiled roofs and stone chimneys. Draven stood beside Garrik, sleeves rolled and hands calloused, his brow damp with sweat. The hiss of quenched steel echoed as he dipped a horseshoe into the barrel.
"Not bad," Garrik grunted, squinting at the piece. "Edges are cleaner. You're starting to feel the shape, not just force it."
"I watched how you angle the hammer," Draven said. "You don't just hit it — you talk to it."
Garrik gave a rare smirk. "Iron's a better listener than most people."
They worked in tandem, surrounded by the scent of smoke and molten metal. Villagers passed by — some stopping to chat, others dropping off tools or wagons for repair. Mirevale wasn't large, but it thrived on cooperation. Everyone played their part.
As the sun rose higher, the forge grew hotter, and the village louder. Bells rang from the square as preparations for the Harvest Ember festival began in earnest. Lanterns in the shape of suns, moons, and animals were being painted by children crouched beside the well. Elders hung streamers of red and gold cloth between homes, chatting about old festivals and new gossip.
"Draven!"
He turned to see Mara, leaning on a fence near the well. Her red braid swung over one shoulder. "You promised you'd help us hang the lanterns today, remember?"
Draven scratched his head. "Did I?"
Jareth popped up behind her with a grin. "You did. And if you don't show, Mara says she'll tell old Widow Retha that you've been hiding berries in her herb garden."
Draven laughed. "Alright, alright. Let me finish the gate with Garrik, and I'm all yours."
Mara raised a brow. "You swear?"
"I swear. Before the lanterns are lit."
"Good," she said, satisfied. "We'll be by the east end. Try not to hammer your fingers off."
As they walked off, Draven lingered for a moment. Mara and Jareth weren't just friends — they were family in all but name. He'd grown up with them under this same sky, chasing fireflies, sneaking bread, and whispering stories by the Oldwood.
On his way back to the forge, he passed the baker's stall, where Brima handed him a warm honey roll. "For the village's favorite apprentice."
"I think you mean favorite only," he said, taking a bite.
Brima winked. "Details."
Further down the lane, he caught sight of Talia and the village children chasing each other around the square. She ran up to him, arms outstretched.
"Draven! We're playing hunter and beast! I'm the beast! You have to catch me!"
He crouched slightly, as if preparing to pounce. "And what does the winner get?"
She thought hard. "Um… a berry tart!"
"Tempting," he said, rising again. "But I've got to help Garrik first. I promised. You understand, right?"
She crossed her arms with a frown. "You're always promising."
He smiled. "Then how about this: when I'm done, I'll come find you. And I'll bring two tarts."
Talia's face lit up. "Pinky swear?"
Draven held out his hand. "Pinky swear."
Satisfied, she bounded away, roaring like a lion.
Back at the forge, Garrik was fitting the final piece of the wooden gate.
"You're popular today," the old man muttered, not looking up.
"Festival spirit," Draven replied, stepping in to help tighten the hinges.
They worked in silence for a while, the kind of quiet only years of working together could forge. Garrik's presence was steady, like the stones of Mirevale itself. There was no need to fill the silence — their bond lived in shared labor, in the creak of wood and ring of iron.
As the sun slipped toward the horizon, the gate stood finished, sturdy and clean. Garrik stepped back, brushing sawdust from his apron.
"That'll do," he said. "Go on, before they send someone after you."
Draven nodded and made his way to the square, where the lanterns had already begun to glow in the golden dusk. Children ran laughing beneath the strings of light, and the air buzzed with the scent of roasted apples, fresh bread, and sweet herbs. Fiddles played. Hands clapped.
He found Mara and Jareth hoisting the last lantern into place. Mara caught sight of him and tossed a length of ribbon.
"About time," she said. "We almost replaced you with old Marn."
Draven tied the ribbon to a hook and stepped back to admire the work.
The festival had begun.
And for that night, the world was only light and laughter, wrapped in music and the warmth of a village untouched by anything beyond its borders.