The Arrival

A long time ago, there was a king who was generous and benevolent, loved by his people. But one day, dark forces invaded his mind, driving him mad. He became cruel and waged war. 

Multiple people died, many faced horrors worse than death, the kind turned cruel, and the cruel became even crueler. Yet, the war didn't stop. It continued, it continued till it reached the village of Sunny Hall.

In a forge lit by the gentle hiss of embers, a blacksmith stood beside his son. The air was thick with heat and iron, and the scent of oiled leather clung to every surface.

"You're making a sickle, not a blade. Curve it with the round hammer, "his father said, nodding toward the glowing strip of steel on the anvil.

Evan grunted, sweat dripping down his brow.

"Do you want Anthony to hack away at his crops? Make it curve. Here, take this. "He offered the round hammer—well-worn, its handle darkened from years of use.

With a sigh, Evan rolled his eyes and muttered,

"What difference does it make? In the hands of a good blacksmith, every hammer can make anything work."

His father chuckled, rough and warm.

"You're a decent blacksmith, son. But you'd have a better shot taking over for Viny the clown than making it in a real forge."

"Whatever, "Evan grumbled, snatching the hammer and lining up his next strike.

*Clang. Clang. Clang. *

Each blow rang clean in the rising heat.

"Quench it in oil. Water's riskier—might crack the blade or make it brittle."

"I know, Father, "Evan said, brushing his singed sleeve aside.

His father laughed again, softer this time.

"Good. That means you're listening—even when you pretend not to."

Outside, the wind shifted. Distant, muffled thunder rolled low across the hills.

But in the forge, the fire still burned, and the steel still sang.

The morning began like any other.

The forge crackled to life as Evan struck at a half-formed sickle, the metal still orange from heat. His father moved behind him, checking the coal bed, occasionally grunting approval. Outside, dogs barked. Children chased each other between rows of hanging clothes. The wind smelled of wheat and iron and nothing more.

Then the hammer paused.

Evan frowned, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Why did you stop?"

His father didn't answer. He was no longer watching the anvil—his eyes had drifted beyond the forge's open doorway, past the fields, toward the distant hills.

"Get inside," he said.

But it was already too late.

Across the hilltops, a trail of dust curled into the sky—slow, steady, deliberate. Glints of steel caught the morning light. As the shapes grew larger, the first sound reached them: not shouting, not drums—but the grinding rhythm of armored boots on stone and dirt.

"That's no caravan," Evan muttered.

People gathered along the road—cautious, quiet. A few still tried to believe this was nothing. A passing patrol. A friendly unit.

Then they saw the banners. Black, trimmed in faded crimson, bearing the mark of a crowned blade driven through a circle of thorns.

The soldiers marched in rows. Twenty at least, maybe more. Faces hidden beneath helmets polished to an unnatural sheen. Not one looked at the villagers—not at first. The squad split, two peeling off to flank the square while the rest came to a halt before the well.

A figure on horseback rode forward, dismounting with calm precision. He was young, pale, and wore no helmet—only a thin scar traced from the corner of his mouth to his chin, like a stitched smile. His armor bore the sigil of the Black Crown.

He unrolled a scroll, the parchment damp with something darker than ink.

"By order of His Majesty the Sovereign Flame," he announced, his voice unnervingly steady for the circumstances, "this settlement—Sunny Hall—is hereby commandeered for wartime needs. You are to supply: three able-bodied men, one blacksmith, one cart of provisions, and... a woman—just one, preferably young."

Murmurs broke out. An elder stepped forward, trembling.

"We're farmers… You have no right—this village belongs to no banner!"

The officer lowered the scroll.

"Then it belongs to the dirt."

He gestured. One of the soldiers raised a rifle and without pause—fired.

The elder collapsed.

No one screamed. Not at first. Not even the dogs barked.

"You'll deliver what was requested," the officer said, turning away. "Or you'll be buried beneath the roads we built."

Evan's hands trembled around the hammer.

The sickle still glowed faintly behind him.

He stared at the body, at the soldiers, at the expression in his father's eyes—not fear, but recognition. He had seen this before, somewhere distant. And now, it had returned home.