STRANGE MAGIC

The cold wind of Mentliway swept through the valley, carrying with it the scent of iron and burning coals. Sparks leapt and danced around Darren’s anvil, each one flaring briefly before fading into the night. His hammer struck again and again, the rhythm echoing through the empty streets like a heartbeat.

He wasn’t just forging a sword — he was shaping a dream.

His arms ached, his palms blistered, but he didn’t care. The blade shimmered with faint light, veins of silver running through the steel like rivers under moonlight. No ordinary metal glowed like that. He didn’t know why — or how — but something within him guided every swing, every breath, as though unseen hands were helping him forge something that wasn’t meant to exist.

By the time the sun sank behind the hills, the workshop was drenched in shadow. Darren raised his hammer for another strike when a voice came from behind him.

“Darren,” his father said, standing by the doorway, “why are you still working? The forge’s been alive since dawn.”

Darren glanced up, his dark hair damp with sweat. “It’s almost finished, Father. Just a few more—”

“No,” his father interrupted softly. “That’s enough for today. You’ll ruin both the sword and yourself.”

Reluctantly, Darren lowered the hammer. The glow from the blade dimmed as if obeying his father’s command. He turned to the old man, whose eyes, though tired, held warmth.

“Come inside, son. Your mother’s waiting. You can continue tomorrow morning.”

Darren hesitated, then sighed. “Alright, I’m coming.” He set the half-forged sword aside, covering it with cloth, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that it pulsed faintly beneath the fabric.

Inside their small stone house, the scent of stew filled the air. His mother smiled when he entered. “You’ve been at that forge again, haven’t you?”

He grinned sheepishly. “You can tell?”

“I can smell the smoke on your skin,” she teased, handing him a bowl. “Eat before it gets cold.”

They sat together — a family of three in a world that had long forgotten peace. Mentliway was a quiet village on the border of the known lands, surrounded by deep forests and older secrets. Long ago, the kings of the Royal Bloodline had sealed away all magic, claiming it too dangerous for common hands. Only their descendants were allowed to wield it — and even then, sparingly.

At least, that’s what the old stories said.

Darren had never questioned it, never until tonight.

After dinner, he stepped outside for a breath of cool air. The moon hung impossibly large, bright enough to paint silver on the rooftops. The wind whispered across the grass, carrying voices — faint, distant, almost human.

Then, the air changed.

The temperature dropped sharply, and the hairs on his arms rose. The moonlight flickered — not dimmed, but shifted, turning from silver to deep blue. His heart quickened.

“What in the world…”

He looked toward his workshop. The cloth covering the sword was glowing, threads of light crawling out from beneath it like living veins. The ground trembled faintly beneath his feet.

“Darren!” His father’s voice called from inside. “Get in here!”

But he couldn’t move. He was rooted in place, eyes wide, staring as the sword lifted itself from the anvil — slow, graceful, alive. The blue light surrounding it spiraled upward, forming symbols in the air, ancient markings he had only seen carved into the Royal Temple’s gates.

Then he heard it.

A whisper, soft and steady, speaking his name.

Darren…

He stumbled backward, his breath catching. “Who’s there?”

The light grew stronger, blinding him for a moment — then vanished, leaving only silence and the faint glow of the forge. The sword clattered to the floor, lifeless again.

His father rushed out, his mother close behind. “Are you alright?”

“I—I don’t know,” Darren stammered. “The sword… it moved on its own.”

His father froze. For a heartbeat, the man’s face drained of color. “What did you say?”

“I swear it lifted into the air! There was light, and—”

“That’s impossible,” his mother said, voice trembling. “No one outside the Royal Line can summon that kind of power.”

His father looked from the sword to Darren, eyes narrowing. “Go inside. Now.”

“But—”

“Now, Darren!”

Startled, Darren obeyed. Inside, the fire burned low, and shadows danced across the walls. He could hear his parents whispering outside, their voices low but urgent.

“…we can’t let anyone know…”

“…he’s not supposed to have it…”

“…if the royal guard finds out—”

Darren’s heart pounded. What aren’t they telling me?

When his father finally came back in, his face was pale, the kind of pale that comes from old fear. “Go to bed, son,” he said softly. “Tomorrow we’ll talk.”

But Darren couldn’t sleep. The glow of the sword haunted his thoughts. He remembered the voice calling his name, the strange warmth in his chest as it rose into the air.

Before dawn, he got up and went to the workshop. The air was cold and still. He uncovered the sword — and froze.

The blade was no longer steel.

It was crystal — translucent, pulsing with faint light from within. Etched into it was a single emblem: the crest of the Royal Bloodline.

Darren’s pulse thundered in his ears. He had seen that symbol only once before, years ago, on the banners carried through Mentliway when the king’s soldiers passed by.

But there was one thing wrong with it. The crest was broken — split in half, as if rejecting the crown it once served.

Suddenly, footsteps approached behind him.

He turned — and saw his father standing in the doorway, his expression grim, a small dagger in his trembling hand.

“Father?”

The old man’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I prayed this day would never come, Darren.”

“What are you talking about?”

His father’s hand shook. “That sword wasn’t forged tonight. It was waiting — for you. And if the king learns what you’ve done…”

Darren stepped back, confusion and fear warring inside him. “What are you saying?”

His father looked at him, eyes full of sorrow. “I’m saying you were never meant to exist.”

The dagger slipped from his father’s hand and clattered to the floor.

Outside, the sky darkened as thunder rolled across the valley — and from deep within the forest, something ancient answered the sound of the forge.