The glow of the setting sun bathed the village of Stonebridge in hues of amber and rose. Nestled between rolling hills and dense forests on one of the Shattered Isles, the village was a collection of cobblestone paths, timbered cottages, and the distant murmur of the river that gave the settlement its name. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys as families prepared their evening meals, the scent of hearth fires mingling with the crisp air of early autumn.

  Eamon hefted the hammer onto his shoulder, the weight familiar and comforting after a long day's work at the forge. Soot smudged his cheek, strands of dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, but he barely noticed. He glanced beyond the village, where the sun dipped low behind the hills. The light lingered there, beyond the borders, in places he had never been. A strange yearning gnawed at his chest—something he could never quite name.

  The forge was warm, steady, reliable—just like the life he led. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was... stuck. The restlessness had crept into his thoughts more often lately, a whisper that grew louder each day. Was this it? The same tasks, the same people, the same days blending into one another.

  "Not bad for someone who used to burn water," called a voice from behind.

  He turned to see Master Rowan, the village blacksmith and his mentor, wiping his hands on a leather apron. The older man's eyes crinkled with good-natured teasing.

  Eamon chuckled. "I only did that once. Maybe twice."

  "Well, keep this up, and you'll put me out of a job," Rowan said, clapping a heavy hand on Eamon's shoulder. "Now, pack it in for today. Can't have you missing supper again—your mother would tan both our hides."

  "Yes, sir." Eamon quickly tidied the forge, placing the tools back in their rightful places. The rhythm of the routine grounded him, each action familiar. But, as he finished up, a thought gnawed at him—everything was starting to feel too familiar.

  Stepping outside, Eamon breathed in the cool evening air. The sky above darkened into twilight, and the first stars began to appear. He loved this village—the people, the routines—but a nagging feeling of discontent had settled inside him. The same thoughts, creeping in more often: was this all there was?

  "Eamon!" a voice called out.

  He glanced over to see his younger sister, Lila, bounding toward him with all the energy of her ten years. Her auburn braids swung behind her like banners, and her freckles stood out against cheeks flushed from play.

  "Mother says if you're late again, she'll feed your supper to the pigs," she announced with a grin.

  He laughed. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" He ruffled her hair affectionately, and she swatted his hand away with a mock scowl.

  "Come on, everyone's heading to the square," Lila said, tugging at his sleeve.

  As they walked through the village, the sounds of home surrounded them—laughter from open windows, the strum of a lute, the bark of a distant dog. The warmth of belonging wrapped around him, but there it was again—that stirring inside his chest, something pulling him elsewhere.

  When they reached the square, the village was already gathered around the large communal fire, its flames flickering against the dusk. Children darted between adults, chasing each other in games of make-believe.

  "Eamon! Over here!" called Tomas, waving him over.

  Tomas, Maeve, and Donnel stood together, as they always did at these gatherings. Tomas greeted him with a grin. "Just in time. Old Merrick's about to start his story.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Eamon smiled, settling beside them. Merrick’s tales were a staple of village life, a blend of myth, history, and local lore. Tonight, however, something in the air felt different, more charged.

  The village elder stepped forward, his voice rich and steady as he began his tale. "Gather 'round, young and old. Tonight, I bring you a story from the shadows of our past."

  Eamon listened, intrigued despite himself. The same stories, always the same, but tonight felt different—like something was coming.

  "Not far from here," Merrick continued, gesturing vaguely eastward, "beyond the Whispering Woods, lie the ruins of an old settlement—what we now call the Lost Village of Dartridge."

  A hush fell over the crowd. Even the youngest children seemed captivated.

  "Generations ago, DartRidge was much like Stonebridge," Merrick said. "A place of hard work and simple pleasures. But one day, a young man ventured into the ancient ruins that dot the hills beyond their borders—remnants from times long forgotten."

  Eamon felt a chill prick the back of his neck. Ruins. Ancient, forgotten places. The very idea of them made something twist in his chest—both fear and excitement tangled together. This wasn’t just another story to him; it was a promise of something different, something unknown.

  "This young man returned with a strange stone," Merrick went on, his voice dropping lower. "It was no ordinary rock, but something otherworldly—a smooth, dark gem that seemed to drink in the light. The villagers were fascinated, gathering to marvel at its beauty."

  Merrick paused, his gaze sweeping over the listeners.

  "But soon, strange things began to happen. Children whispered of voices calling to them from the forest. Shadows moved where none should be. Then, one by one, people began to disappear. First, a child vanished from her bed. Then a farmer didn't return from his fields. Fear gripped the village, but no one connected the events to the stone."

  Eamon glanced at Lila, who was listening with wide eyes, her hand unconsciously gripping his sleeve.

  "By the time they realized the truth," Merrick continued, "it was too late. The entire village vanished overnight—houses left empty, meals untouched on tables, as if everyone had simply stepped out and never returned. To this day, the ruins stand as a silent warning."

  A heavy silence hung in the air.

  "So remember," Merrick concluded, "some things are best left undisturbed. Curiosity can be a fine thing, but it must be tempered with caution."

  As the village settled into quiet murmurs after Merrick's story, Eamon felt a strange pull—something in the elder’s tale of the lost village of Dartridge wouldn’t leave him. A nagging curiosity gnawed at him, stronger than usual.

  "You think it's true?" Maeve asked softly beside him.

  "Who knows," Eamon replied, keeping his tone light. But the unease in his chest was harder to shake off than usual.

  Before the conversation could continue, a familiar voice cut in. "Bet you wouldn’t be brave enough to find out, though," Callum sneered, stepping closer.

  Eamon turned, already sensing the challenge in Callum’s words. “I’m not scared of some old story, Callum.”

  “Of course you’re not,” Callum replied, his smirk sharp as ever. “You just prefer hammering away in the forge, living the same day over and over.” He glanced briefly at Maeve, then back at Eamon, his voice lowering. “Some of us are made for more than that.”

  Eamon felt his temper rise. “And what exactly are you made for, Callum? Running your mouth?”

  Callum’s smirk faltered, but his eyes glinted with challenge. “We’ll see soon enough. If you had any guts, you’d go see those ruins yourself. Unless you’re just another villager afraid to step out of line.”

  The words hit harder than they should have. Eamon had been feeling that restlessness for months now, the need to do something more than routine work, more than the small life he’d been living.

  “And what if I do?” Eamon shot back, his voice firm.

  Callum shrugged, the challenge in his eyes clear. “Then go. Prove you’re not all talk.”

  Without waiting for a response, Callum turned and walked away, leaving the words hanging in the air like a dare Eamon couldn’t ignore.

  Maeve touched his arm gently. “You don’t have to prove anything to him, Eamon.”

  “I’m not,” he said, more to convince himself than her. “I just need to know for myself.”

  At home, the cottage was quiet. His parents had already retired, the soft murmur of their voices seeping from behind their closed door. Eamon sat by the window in his small room, the moon casting a silver path across the wooden floor.

  He pulled out a small pouch from beneath his bed—a collection of trinkets he'd gathered over the years: a smooth river stone, a feather from a hawk, a rusty gear from an old mechanism. Each item a token of his quiet explorations around the village.

  “Tomorrow,” Eamon whispered to himself, his hand gripping the small pouch of trinkets. “Tomorrow, I’ll go.”

  For the first time in months, tomorrow held the promise of change.