Fire
In the small village of" Hammerfield", tucked away between rolling green hills that resembled frozen ocean waves, the air always carried the scent of molten iron mixed with the aroma of burning wood and dewy grass. The village, consisting of no more than forty modest cottages built from oak and clay, lived to a calm, slow rhythm, like the steady heartbeat of a sleeper. The morning sun’s rays slipped through the tall trees, painting golden streaks across the cobblestone ground, while the day began with the crowing of roosters perched atop roofs and ended with the faint silver glow of moonlight bathing the village.
On the edge of Hammerfield, near a small stream that trickled lazily over smooth stones, stood "Lancer’s Forge." The wooden workshop was sturdy, its walls coated with a layer of dried mud to shield against the strong winds that occasionally swept down from the hills. A tall brick chimney protruded from the roof, releasing plumes of white smoke that twisted into the air like dancing spirits. Inside, the chaos was oddly organized: tools scattered across rough wooden tables, piles of raw iron stacked in a corner, and shelves lined with half-polished swords, axes, and daggers. At the center of the workshop, a stone furnace glowed with red and orange flames, radiating heat that made the walls sweat and the air heavy.
Laura Lancer, twenty-five years old, stood before the furnace like a living statue of strength. She was tall, her sun-kissed skin a testament to long hours working under the open sky, her short brown hair fluttering around her face like a rebellious halo that refused to settle. Her green eyes gleamed with unshakable confidence, and she moved with decisive gestures, as if she always knew her next step. She wore a weathered leather jacket, stained with oil and ash, and a short skirt over sturdy canvas trousers. Her hands, covered in small cuts and scars from years of wielding hammer and fire, were as strong as the steel she forged. In the village, people spoke of her "manly ways," as some called it with hesitant smiles, but Laura never cared for their opinions. She hefted heavy hammers with ease, barked orders in a voice that echoed through the workshop, and faced anyone who dared challenge her with a look that made them back down.
John Lancer, her younger brother at sixteen, was her complete opposite. Short and wiry like a young sapling, he had messy black hair that fell over his forehead as if trying to shield his face from the world. His large brown eyes trembled easily at the slightest surprise, giving him the perpetual look of a frightened boy. He wore an old, torn shirt with ragged sleeves and loose trousers smudged with ash. A bit cowardly, he preferred to stay in the background and let Laura handle the tough stuff. In the workshop, he worked diligently, polishing handles and cleaning tools, but he often froze at strange noises—whether it was the iron sizzling too fiercely or a strong wind rattling the windows—fearing something might go wrong.
John was born with a weak physique since birth, and because of that, his sister did most of the work in the workshop, which made her personality somewhat less feminine.
That sunny morning, the workshop buzzed with its usual activity. Laura stood at the furnace, striking a glowing piece of iron with her heavy hammer in a steady rhythm, like the pulse of the village itself. Each blow sent sparks flying through the air like tiny stars, and the fire in the furnace danced with her every move. John, on the other side, sat on an old wooden stool, polishing a sword’s handle with a tattered rag. He focused on his task, but his eyes darted nervously toward the window every so often, as if expecting something unseen.
"John, lift your head and stop staring at the ground like you’re waiting for the sky to fall!" Laura snapped in her sharp voice, not lifting her gaze from the molten iron before her. She swung the hammer down hard, sweat spraying from her brow with each strike.
"I’m just… focusing, Laura. No need to yell," John replied quietly, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his torn shirt. His voice was soft, hesitant, as if afraid to upset her further.
"Focusing?" Laura laughed, raising the hammer again. Her laugh was loud, filling the workshop like thunder. "You look like a scared pup searching for a place to hide. If you want to be a real blacksmith, you’ve got to stop shaking every time you hear a weird noise."
"I’m not scared!" John protested, raising his voice slightly before lowering it again under Laura’s mocking stare. "Okay, maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean I’m not working hard. Look at this handle—it’s shiny as a mirror!"
Laura cast a quick glance at the sword in his hand, then shrugged. "Good enough. But don’t expect me to clap for you just because you didn’t drop it this time."
"You always make things sound worse than they are," John muttered, returning to his work. He tried to sound unbothered, but his hands trembled slightly as he gripped the rag.
The silence between them was comfortable in its own way, broken only by the rhythmic clanging of Laura’s hammer and the hiss of the fire in the furnace. The sun climbed higher now, its warm rays streaming through the open window, and a light breeze carried the scent of freshly cut grass from the nearby fields. It was an ordinary day in Hammerfield—or so it seemed.
Suddenly, the workshop door swung open with a bang, making John jump and drop the rag from his hand. Laura stopped hammering, her head snapping up, her grip tightening on the hammer as if it were a weapon. A mysterious man stepped inside, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he knew exactly where to place each foot. He was middle-aged, wearing a long black coat, tattered and frayed at the edges as though chewed by wind and time. His gray hair hung loosely on either side of his wrinkled face, framing sharp features carved like stone. His black eyes were deep, bottomless, carrying a strange glint that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He leaned on a wooden staff carved with interlocking circular patterns, like symbols from an ancient, forgotten language.
The man stopped in front of the furnace where Laura stood, scanning the workshop slowly as if inspecting every corner. Then he smiled faintly, revealing his teeth, and said in a raspy voice that seemed to emerge from a deep cave, "Good morning. Nice little forge you’ve got here."
Laura lowered the hammer slowly but didn’t release it. She raised an eyebrow, fixing the man with a challenging stare. "Who are you? What do you want? If you’re here to fix something, show it to me and stop gawking like a fool."
The man didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his gaze wander around the workshop again, then settled it on John. He studied him with those enigmatic eyes, as if trying to read something within him—something John himself couldn’t see. John felt his heart pound faster and took a step back, bumping into the wooden stool behind him. He felt pinned, as if those eyes were piercing through him, seeing something he didn’t even know existed.
"The fire burns strong today," the man said suddenly, pointing at the furnace with the tip of his staff. His voice was calm, but there was an unsettling edge to it that made the words feel like a veiled threat. "But it’s not the only thing that’ll burn soon." Then he chuckled softly, a private joke only he understood, the sound echoing in the workshop like a cold breeze.
"What are you talking about?" Laura demanded, setting the hammer aside on the table and stepping toward the man with steady strides. She stood before him now, hands on her hips, her body taut as if ready to fight. "If you’re here to waste our time, get out now before I make you regret it."
"Time… yes, time is precious," the man replied, glancing at John again with a lingering look that made the boy feel as if his feet were sinking into the floor. "But don’t worry, I’ll go. I have other things to check on." Then he turned slowly, his coat fluttering behind him like the wing of a black bird, and left the workshop, leaving the door ajar. A cold breeze slipped inside, carrying a faint whiff of sulfur that neither of them noticed at the moment.
"What was that?" John mumbled, clutching the sword handle with a trembling hand. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on the open door. "He was looking at me like he knew me! Did you see that stare?"
"Just some crazy old man," Laura said, returning to the furnace and picking up her hammer again. She tried to sound dismissive, but there was a slight edge of tension in her voice. "Don’t give him more than he’s worth. Probably looking for attention or trying to sell something stupid."
"But he said something about burning!" John protested, stepping toward her with clumsy strides. "What if he meant something dangerous? Maybe he’s a thief or something worse!"
"John, stop worrying," Laura cut him off, striking the iron harder this time, as if trying to pound the unease out of her system. "If he were a thief, he’d have tried stealing something by now. If he were dangerous, I’d have seen it in his eyes. He was just a weirdo, that’s all."
But John wasn’t convinced. The man’s gaze haunted him, as if it had carved something into his mind he couldn’t shake off. He tried to shake his head and return to his work, but a bad feeling crept into his heart, like a shadow lengthening as the sun set. He sat back on the stool, picked up the rag, but couldn’t focus. It felt as if something was coming—something he couldn’t explain.
Hours later, as the sun began to sink behind the hills, the sky turned into a canvas of oranges and reds, as if it were slowly catching fire. The air grew heavier, carrying the scent of burning wood from the chimney and damp earth from the nearby stream. Laura had finished shaping the iron piece and plunged it into a bucket of water beside the furnace, releasing a cloud of steam with a sharp hiss. John was still working on the sword, but his movements were slow, distracted, his eyes flicking toward the door every few minutes.
Then they heard the sound.
It was low at first, like the hum of wind rustling through the trees, but it quickly morphed into something far more terrifying. Scattered screams rose from the distance, mingled with the sounds of crashing and thudding, as if something were collapsing. Laura dropped the hammer from her hand and bolted to the door, followed by John, who was breathing fast as if trying to keep up with his racing heart.
When they stepped outside the workshop, they froze in place. The village, peaceful just moments ago, was now ablaze. Flames devoured the wooden cottages with ferocious speed, their red and orange tongues leaping high in a savage dance. Black smoke billowed into the sky like a cloud of death, blotting out the last light of the sunset and filling the air with the stench of ash and blood. But the fire wasn’t the worst of it—there were strange creatures roaming the streets.
They were red-skinned, as if molded from burning clay, with twisted horns sprouting from their heads like the branches of a dead tree. Their eyes glowed like embers, shining in the growing darkness like malevolent stars. They wielded long spears with pointed tips and axes coated in dark stains, striking at the villagers who tried to flee. Screams of pain and terror filled the air, mixed with the sounds of blows shattering bones and bodies hitting the scorched ground. John saw Mrs. Martha, the old baker who gave them fresh bread every week, fall to her knees and scream before a spear pierced her chest. He saw Thomas, the boy who always played near the workshop, run in panic before being crushed under one of those creatures’ axes.
"Oh my God… what is this?" John whispered, stepping back, his face pale as ash. His voice trembled, and his hands gripped the doorframe as if trying to keep himself from collapsing.
Laura didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the scene, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. She was watching the village she’d grown up in, the homes her people had built with their hands, the people who were her second family, all turning to hell before her eyes. Then she spun around, dashed back into the workshop, and began rummaging through the tools like a madwoman. She pulled swords and axes from the shelves, tossing aside anything she didn’t need with loud clatters.
"What are you doing?" John yelled, following her inside, his steps stumbling as if unsure whether to approach or flee. "We can’t stay here! Those things… they’ll reach us!"
"I’m not staying," Laura said, yanking a long sword from the rack. It was heavy, its blade gleaming like silver under the furnace’s light, sharp enough to cut through iron if needed. Then she grabbed a small axe with a short wooden handle and hooked it onto her belt with swift precision. "I’m going out there."
"What?!" John shouted, planting himself in front of her to block her path. He threw his arms out as if trying to build a wall between her and the door. "Have you lost your mind? Those monsters… they’ll tear you apart! You can’t go!"
"Shut up, John!" Laura barked, shoving him aside with a force that sent him staggering back onto the stool. Her eyes blazed with fury, her voice like a thunderclap. "This is my village. Mom and Dad are buried in that ground out there. My friends are dying right in front of me. I can’t sit here and watch this happen like it’s nothing!"
"But you don’t even know what those things are!" John pleaded, struggling to stand again, his voice quaking on the edge of tears. "Maybe if we stay here, we can hide until they’re gone! Or… or run to the forest!"
Laura paused for a moment, looking at him with eyes full of anger and resolve, but also a flicker of pain. "John, I’m not like you. I can’t hide while I hear people screaming. I can’t run and leave everything behind. If you want to stay here like a coward, stay. But I’m going."
Then she turned and marched out of the workshop, gripping the sword with both hands, her steps heavy and determined, as if walking into a war she knew she might not return from. John stood at the door, watching her back as she moved toward the flames and chaos. Her leather jacket flapped behind her like a tattered flag, her short hair swaying with each stride. She vanished into the black smoke, leaving a heavy silence in the workshop behind her.
John’s heart pounded, fear coiling around his chest like a snake. He clutched the handle of the sword he’d been polishing, his fingers trembling as he stared at the gleaming blade. "What do I do now?" he whispered to himself, but the only sound he heard was the screams of the village, growing closer and closer.
