STRANGE MAGIC

LOOKING FOR CONNECTIONS

Morning came softly over Mentliway, spilling sunlight across the rooftops and glittering on the damp cobblestones. The forge was quiet for once, the hammer cold on the anvil. Darren had promised his father he would rest, though sleep had been impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it — the sword, glowing gold, humming like a living thing.

The voice that had whispered his name still echoed in his head. Darren…

He needed air. He needed distraction.

So when the sun rose high, he left home under the excuse of meeting friends. His mother smiled and handed him bread for the road, but his father only nodded — the kind of nod that carried unspoken worry.

Mentliway was waking up. Market stalls opened one by one; the smell of roasted grain drifted through the air. Darren passed the well where women drew water, passed laughing children, passed the Royal banners fluttering above the town square. Each one bore the same mark — a golden crest shaped like a sunburst.

The same mark that now shimmered faintly on the sword he had forged.

He walked faster.

At the edge of the village, fields of barley stretched toward the hills. That was where Joran lived — his oldest friend, the son of a farmer, and one of the few people Darren trusted. Joran was already in the field when he arrived, sleeves rolled up, feeding the animals and humming to himself.

“Joran!” Darren called out.

The other boy looked up, grinning. “Darren! You actually left your forge before sunset for once.”

Darren smiled weakly. “I needed a break.”

Joran leaned on his pitchfork. “From hammering steel, or from your father’s lectures?”

“Both,” Darren said. “Can we talk?”

“Of course. Come on.”

They walked toward the barn, stepping through rows of crops that shimmered under the morning sun. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of hay and grain. Joran poured water into a trough, then sat on an overturned crate. “Alright,” he said, “what’s eating you?”

Darren hesitated, glancing at the slanted rays of sunlight. “Something strange happened last night.”

“Strange how?”

“The sword I was making… it moved.”

Joran blinked. “Moved?”

“Lifted off the anvil,” Darren said quietly. “And it glowed. Golden light, bright as fire. Then I heard a voice. It said my name.”

The barn went still. Even the animals seemed to stop breathing.

Joran laughed uneasily. “You’ve been breathing too much forge smoke, my friend.”

“I’m serious.”

“Darren, magic’s forbidden to all but the royals. If what you’re saying is true, then—”

“I know,” Darren interrupted. “That’s why I can’t stay here. If anyone finds out, they’ll hang me before asking questions.”

Joran frowned. “So what are you planning to do?”

“I want to leave Mentliway,” Darren said. “Go beyond the borders. There are other kingdoms out there—places that buy swords, that don’t care about royal bloodlines. Maybe someone out there knows why this happened.”

Joran rubbed his chin, thinking. “You’re serious about this?”

“I am.”

“Then you’ll need help,” Joran said. “I don’t have those kinds of connections, but I know a trader — Rurik. He deals with merchants across the riverlands. I’ll talk to him, see if he can help you leave quietly.”

Relief washed through Darren. “Thank you, Joran. Truly.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Joran said with a crooked grin. “If anyone catches us, we’ll both be on the gallows.”

They shared a laugh, light but uneasy.

Outside, the afternoon wind picked up. A shimmer passed over the fields, bending the tall grass in waves. The golden sunlight deepened into something richer, almost liquid in color.

Joran frowned. “Storm coming?”

Darren stepped out of the barn, his pulse quickening. “No. It’s not a storm.”

The air changed — thick and heavy, carrying a faint hum. Above the fields, dust and light began to swirl, forming shapes too fluid to be real.

Then, a whisper drifted through the wind.

“He is watching…”

The words brushed Darren’s ear like a breath. He spun around, searching. At the edge of the field stood a figure — tall, hooded, robes rippling in the golden wind. For a moment, Darren thought the stranger’s eyes met his. They glowed faintly yellow, like molten metal.

“Joran,” Darren whispered, “do you see him?”

Joran turned, squinting. “See who?”

When Darren looked back, the figure was gone.

The golden shimmer faded. The wind stilled.

Joran grabbed his shoulder. “You’re pale as milk. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should rest. Go home. Whatever’s happening—it’s not normal.”

Darren nodded slowly. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

He left soon after, though his thoughts were far from calm. The whisper still echoed in his mind, chilling him to the bone. He is watching. Who was watching? The king? Something older?

By the time Darren reached home, dusk had settled over the village. The forge was lit, its golden light spilling into the street. He frowned — he hadn’t started the fire.

He stepped inside.

His father stood by the anvil, holding the sword. Its golden surface gleamed even without flame, as if drawing light from the air itself.

“Father?” Darren said cautiously.

The man didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the blade. “So this is it,” he murmured. “The sword of the sealed flame…”

“What did you say?”

His father turned slowly. Darren froze. The old man’s eyes glowed gold — the same color as the sword.

“Father?”

But when his father spoke again, his voice was layered — his own voice and something ancient beneath it.

“You were not meant to touch this blade,” the voice said. “Yet it chose you.”

Darren took a step back. “What’s happening to you?”

His father smiled faintly, though it wasn’t his smile. “You’ve awakened what has slept for centuries. The royal bloodline is not what it seems, and neither are you, Darren of Mentliway.”

The forge fire roared higher, golden sparks swirling around them like stars. The sword pulsed, answering to some unseen rhythm.

“What do you mean, not what I seem?” Darren demanded.

The voice inside his father’s body softened. “When the kings sealed the power of the world, one flame escaped the crown’s control. It hid among mortals, waiting… for you.”

Darren’s breath caught. “No. You’re lying.”

The fire flared so bright it blinded him.

And then — silence.

When the light faded, his father was on the floor, unconscious. The sword hovered in the air between them, its golden glow brighter than ever, humming with purpose.

And then, a final whisper filled the forge — calm, clear, and terrifying.

“The seal is broken.”