STRANGE MAGIC

Chapter.3

The first light of dawn crept gently across the rooftops of Mentliway. Mist still hung low over the fields, and the faint sound of roosters echoed through the quiet village. Inside the small stone house at the edge of the lane, Darren stirred awake. His sleep had been light and uneasy, his mind still heavy with thoughts of the golden sword and his father’s strange behavior the night before.

He rose quietly, washed his face in a basin of cold water, and stepped outside. The air was cool and smelled of wet earth and smoke from the morning fires. He greeted his grandfather, who sat outside the doorway polishing a small wooden pipe.

“Good morning, father,” Darren said.

“Morning, boy,” the old man replied with a smile. “You’re up early again. Can’t sleep without the sound of that hammer, can you?”

Darren smiled faintly. “Maybe not.”

He moved through the narrow passage to the kitchen, where his mother was already busy warming the dishes over the fire. The smell of spiced porridge filled the room.

“Good morning, Mother,” he greeted.

“Good morning, my son,” she said warmly without turning. “You look tired. Were you working late again?”

Darren hesitated before answering. “No, I just woke early. I want to go out for a while.”

“Have you told your father?” she asked, glancing at him.

He shook his head. “No. It’s personal. I’ll be back before noon.”

His mother frowned slightly but didn’t stop him. “Alright, but don’t get into any trouble. Breakfast will be ready when you return.”

Darren smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and stepped out into the fresh morning. He walked quickly through the quiet lanes toward his friend Joran’s home. Birds chirped overhead, and the early light spread slowly across the valley. Though his body moved with purpose, his thoughts were elsewhere — on the golden light, on the voice that had called his name, and on the uneasy look in his father’s eyes.

By the time he reached Joran’s house, the farm was already alive with noise. Chickens scratched at the dirt, and the cows lowed softly in their pen. Joran, however, was not among them. His door was closed, and Darren could hear soft snoring from inside.

He smiled faintly. “Still sleeping,” he muttered to himself.

He waited for a while, walking around the yard, feeding a few of the chickens out of habit. After nearly an hour, Joran finally stumbled out of the house, yawning and stretching. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were half-closed.

“By the gods, Darren,” Joran groaned. “You came so early today. The sun’s barely awake!”

“I couldn’t wait,” Darren said with a grin. “I wanted to discuss the business with you.”

Joran rubbed his face, still trying to wake up. “Business? Oh, right—the connection.” He blinked, then nodded. “Yes, I managed to make contact with the trader I told you about. He agreed to meet tomorrow afternoon. He travels between the borders and can help us send the swords outside the city.”

Darren’s eyes brightened. “So it worked?”

“Yes,” Joran said, leaning against the doorway. “But we’ll have to be careful. The guards have been questioning traders lately. I told him you were just a craftsman looking to sell your work, nothing more.”

“That’s true enough,” Darren said quietly. “I only want people to see what I can make.”

Joran gave him a long look. “You sound different lately, Darren. More serious. You used to talk about simple things—work, family, the forge. Now it’s all business and travel and strange dreams.”

Darren gave a small shrug. “Maybe I’m just growing up.”

“Or maybe,” Joran said half-jokingly, “you’re still thinking about that strange sword you were working on.”

Darren froze for a moment, then forced a smile. “You worry too much. It’s just a sword.”

“Hmm,” Joran murmured, unconvinced. He stretched again and yawned. “Anyway, meet me here tomorrow afternoon. We’ll go together to see the trader.”

“I will,” Darren said. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Joran replied. “Just make sure you bring one of your best blades. He pays well for quality.”

Darren nodded, said goodbye, and started walking back toward the village. The road was quiet, lined with trees just beginning to bloom. Sunlight glimmered on the morning dew, and for a while, it felt like any other day. Yet something in him stirred — a quiet unease, a whisper at the edge of thought.

The memory of the sword’s golden light returned to him, flickering like a heartbeat in his mind. He could almost hear it calling again, faint but steady. He clenched his fists, pushing the thought away.

When he reached home, his father was not there. The forge was silent, the tools neatly arranged. Darren stood at the doorway for a long moment, then entered and lit the fire himself.

The familiar heat filled the small workshop, wrapping him in its comfort. He picked up a fresh piece of metal, laid it on the anvil, and began to work. Hammer met steel in steady rhythm. Each strike echoed through the walls, strong and sure.

He wasn’t thinking about gold light or strange voices now — only the metal, the sparks, and the song of his craft. Still, something deeper stirred within him, something hidden he could not name. It was as if each blow of the hammer called out to that secret part of him, awakening it little by little.

The more he worked, the stronger the feeling became. The forge’s fire reflected in his eyes, bright and alive.

For a moment, he paused, staring into the flame. The light seemed to twist and shift, turning golden for the briefest instant — the same gold as the sword. Darren blinked, and it was gone.

He shook his head, exhaled slowly, and lifted the hammer again.

Whatever mystery waited inside him, he would face it in time. Fo

r now, there was only the work — the sound of metal and fire, and the heart of a blacksmith who did not yet know the power sleeping within his soul.