The Bard's Dream
The village of Ashmoor sat nestled among rolling green hills like a forgotten jewel.
Golden wheat swayed in the summer wind beyond weathered stone fences. Thin streams wound through flowering meadows. Sheep grazed lazily beneath ancient oak trees whose roots stretched deep into the earth.
To travelers passing through the northern roads, Ashmoor was insignificant.
To Damien Valentina, it was the entire world.
The morning sun spilled across the village as Damien sat atop a wooden fence overlooking the fields.
His fingers danced across the strings of his lute.
The melody drifted through the air like birdsong.
Soft.
Hopeful.
Alive.
Several sheep lifted their heads as if listening.
Damien smiled.
"At least someone appreciates my music."
A loud snort answered him.
He looked down.
His younger sister, Rosalie, stood beside the fence with her arms crossed.
"You've been playing that same song for three days."
Damien placed a hand over his heart.
"Then it must be a masterpiece."
"It's annoying."
"Art is often misunderstood."
Rosalie rolled her eyes.
At fourteen years old, she possessed all the stubbornness of their father and none of Damien's patience.
Their mother often joked that Rosalie would someday grow up to command armies.
Damien believed it.
The girl could certainly terrify sheep.
"Father wants you home," she said.
"He does?"
"He said if you don't stop hiding in fields and start helping prepare for the festival, he'll personally throw your lute into the river."
Damien immediately jumped from the fence.
"My father would never."
"He said it."
"He wouldn't dare."
"He sounded serious."
Damien gasped dramatically.
"The man has become a tyrant."
Rosalie laughed.
The sound warmed Damien's heart.
He loved moments like this.
Simple moments.
The kind people never realized were precious until they were gone.
The siblings walked together toward the village.
Ashmoor buzzed with excitement.
Today marked the beginning of the Summer Harvest Festival.
Every year the villagers gathered to celebrate another successful harvest.
Food stalls lined the central square.
Children chased one another between decorated wagons.
Farmers carried barrels of ale.
Women hung colorful ribbons from wooden posts.
Laughter echoed from every direction.
Life.
Everywhere Damien looked, there was life.
Old Thomlin the blacksmith shouted at apprentices.
Mrs. Holloway sold fresh bread from wicker baskets.
The village baker argued loudly with the butcher over whose goods were superior.
The same argument happened every year.
Neither man ever won.
Damien greeted them all.
Everyone knew him.
Everyone liked him.
Not because he was particularly important.
Not because he was rich.
Simply because Damien had a habit of making people smile.
As they approached home, the scent of roasting meat drifted from the chimney.
Their house stood near the edge of the village.
Small.
Modest.
Comfortable.
The sight always filled Damien with peace.
His father emerged from the front door carrying wooden crates.
A broad-shouldered man with graying hair and rough hands, Marcus Valentina had spent most of his life tending sheep and working the land.
Years of labor had etched themselves into every line on his face.
"About time," Marcus said.
"I was practicing."
"You were hiding."
"I was perfecting my art."
"You were hiding."
Damien sighed.
"There is no respect for musicians in this family."
Marcus chuckled.
"Musicians still need to work."
His father handed him a crate.
"Festival supplies."
Damien groaned.
"They look heavy."
"They are."
"I have delicate bard hands."
Marcus smacked the back of his head.
Damien yelped.
Rosalie burst into laughter.
The front door opened again.
A woman stepped outside.
Elena Valentina.
Damien's mother.
The sight of her instantly softened the mood.
She carried herself with quiet grace.
Silver threads touched her dark hair, though she was far from old.
Years ago she had traveled with merchant caravans as a musician before settling in Ashmoor.
The lute Damien treasured had once belonged to her.
She smiled warmly.
"Leave the boy alone."
Marcus pointed at Damien.
"The boy is twenty-one."
"A mother doesn't stop worrying."
Damien grinned.
"See? Someone appreciates me."
His father sighed dramatically.
"The gods test me daily."
For a moment they simply stood together.
A family.
Complete.
Unbroken.
None of them noticed the black crow perched atop a distant fence post.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then it flew away.
---
The festival officially began at sunset.
By then the entire village had gathered in the square.
Lanterns illuminated the streets.
Music echoed from every corner.
Children ran between stalls carrying sweets.
The smell of roasted boar filled the air.
Laughter rang beneath the stars.
Damien stood behind a makeshift wooden stage.
His heart pounded.
Every year he performed.
Every year he became nervous.
"You look terrified."
Damien turned.
His best friend stood beside him.
Lucas Weaver.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Golden-haired.
The village carpenter's son.
They had been friends since childhood.
Lucas could build nearly anything.
Damien could barely repair a broken chair.
Their friendship somehow survived regardless.
"I am not terrified," Damien said.
"You look like you're about to faint."
"I am preparing mentally."
"You are terrified."
Damien sighed.
"Fine."
Lucas grinned.
"You'll be great."
"I know."
"Then why worry?"
"Because if I fail, I'll be mocked forever."
Lucas laughed.
"You already get mocked."
"True."
"Nothing will change."
"Thank you for your support."
The village elder climbed onto the stage.
The crowd quieted.
"People of Ashmoor!"
Cheers erupted.
The elder smiled.
"Another harvest. Another year."
More cheers.
"Tonight we celebrate life, family, and the blessings of the gods."
The crowd raised mugs.
Ale spilled.
Someone immediately fell off a bench.
The festival had officially begun.
The elder stepped aside.
"And now, Ashmoor's favorite musician."
Laughter spread through the crowd.
Damien groaned.
Lucas shoved him forward.
"Go."
Damien climbed onto the stage.
Hundreds of familiar faces looked back at him.
His family.
His friends.
His neighbors.
The people he had known his entire life.
Fear melted away.
He adjusted the lute.
Took a breath.
And began to play.
The first notes floated into the night.
Silence followed.
Then wonder.
The melody danced through the square.
Warm.
Gentle.
Filled with dreams.
His mother's lessons guided every movement.
His fingers moved effortlessly.
Music became language.
A story without words.
The story of Ashmoor.
The story of home.
Villagers smiled.
Children sat quietly.
Even the drunk farmers stopped arguing.
For several minutes the entire world seemed peaceful.
Beautiful.
Whole.
When the song ended, thunderous applause erupted.
Damien laughed.
His heart soared.
This.
This was what he wanted.
Not farming.
Not politics.
Not war.
Music.
One day he would leave Ashmoor.
Travel the kingdom.
Perform in great halls.
Become a famous bard.
But no matter where life carried him, Ashmoor would always remain home.
The crowd demanded another song.
Then another.
Then another.
Damien happily obliged.
Hours passed.
The celebration continued deep into the night.
Yet beyond the village.
Far beyond the lantern light.
Something moved within the darkness.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Watching.
---
The festival ended shortly before midnight.
Most villagers returned home.
Others remained near dying campfires sharing stories and ale.
Damien sat atop a hill overlooking Ashmoor.
His lute rested beside him.
The village lights flickered below.
Lucas approached carrying two mugs.
He offered one.
Damien accepted.
"For the future," Lucas said.
Damien raised his mug.
"For the future."
They drank.
"What happens when you leave?" Lucas asked.
Damien smiled.
"The capital."
"Ebonspire?"
"Of course."
Lucas whistled.
"Big dreams."
"The biggest."
"You really think you'll become famous?"
Damien looked toward the stars.
"I have to."
"Why?"
He considered the question.
Because something inside him always wanted more.
Not wealth.
Not power.
Adventure.
Stories.
Songs worth remembering.
He wanted his life to matter.
"I don't know," Damien admitted.
"I just feel like I'm meant for something bigger."
Lucas laughed.
"Don't forget us when you're rich."
"I won't."
The wind rustled the grass.
Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled.
For reasons Damien could not explain, a chill crawled down his spine.
He glanced toward the dark northern hills.
The feeling vanished.
"Something wrong?" Lucas asked.
Damien shook his head.
"No."
But his smile had faded.
Far away.
Beyond the hills.
Beyond the forests.
A column of black smoke rose briefly into the moonlit sky.
Too distant for anyone in Ashmoor to notice.
Too distant for anyone to understand what it meant.
The darkness was coming.
And it was coming for them.
Damien simply didn't know it yet.
Within days, the world he loved would burn.
Within months, he would begin walking the road of vengeance.
And centuries later, the entire kingdom would remember his name.
But on this night, he was still only a bard with a dream.
A young man sitting beneath the stars.
Unaware that his final song had already begun.
