FORGOTTEN SPELLS

The sun was beginning its slow descent, hovering just above the rooftops, casting a gentle golden light that softened the edges of the market scene. It was still morning, but the sun's position indicated that the day was moving toward its peak.

Lena's chest tightened as she glanced at the position of the sun, realizing how quickly the morning was slipping away. With a final, searing glare at the merchant, she spun on her heel and took off at a sprint, her heart pounding not just from exertion but from the whirlwind of emotions churning inside her.

Her feet slapped against the uneven cobblestones, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps as she wove through the bustling market. The faces around her blurred into a haze of motion, the cheerful chatter of townsfolk and merchants a distant murmur compared to the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears. 

She made her way to her father's stall, her pace quickening as she neared. When she arrived, she found a boy around 18 years old standing there, his tall, lean frame instantly recognizable. His name was Tomas, and he had been helping her father with the forging work for the past year. His dark brown hair, often tousled from the forge's heat, fell slightly over his forehead, and his green eyes were focused on the metalwork in front of him. Despite his youth, his hands were already calloused from the hard labor, and he had a serious demeanor that made him seem older than he was.

Lena often thought of Tomas as a cheerful child trapped in a young man's body. His boundless energy and enthusiasm made him a lively presence in the forge, always quick with a grin or a joke that could lift the spirits of those around him. Unlike others who might focus in silence, Tomas was always chatting, his bright voice filling the space as he worked.

Tomas was showcasing a finely crafted iron lantern to a customer. He was explaining its intricate design and the craftsmanship involved, his enthusiasm evident as he highlighted the lantern's features. His cheerful demeanor and animated gestures were a testament to his love for his work, drawing the customer's interest with his lively presentation. 

"Tomas!" Lena called, her voice urgent.

Tomas looked where the voice came from. Upon seeing Lena, his easy smile deepened if that was even possible . The expression suggested he was either unaware of the recent commotion at the market or had not yet grasped the full extent of the situation involving her and Jarin.

"Hey, Lena!" Tomas greeted, his tone as lively as ever. "What's up?

"Where's my father?" Lena asked, her concern evident.

"Mr. Harold went home to fetch a few things for the stall," Tomas replied.

Noticing the worry etched on Lena's face, Tomas's expression shifted to one of concern. "What happened?"

Lena shook her head, glancing quickly over her shoulder as if expecting the merchant or, worse, the town guard to appear behind her. "Not now, Tomas," she muttered, her voice low. She didn't have time to explain—not yet. She gave him a brief nod and took off again, her pace quickening.

Her home was on the outskirts of town, a short but brisk walk from the town square. tucked away where the noise of the market faded into the quiet hum of the countryside. As Lena hurried along the familiar path, her thoughts raced alongside her. She had to get to her father—he would know what to do. He always did.

Lena's house was a modest, two-story stone house, its sturdy walls and sloping roof reflecting the practical needs of a blacksmith's family. The house was well-kept, with small flower beds lining the front and ivy creeping up the sides, adding a touch of natural beauty to its solid structure.

At the back of the house, there was a separate, single-story workshop where her father, Harold, used to work. The workshop was a utilitarian space, with a large stone hearth at its center, surrounded by various tools and an anvil. The structure was functional and no-frills, designed for the heavy demands of blacksmithing. A faint, smoky scent of charcoal and metal still lingered in the air, even though the forge had long been cooled down.

Lena had always admired the things her father made, but her interest in blacksmithing was limited to appreciation rather than practice. Lena's passions lay elsewhere, She found herself drawn more to the world of fashion and literature. When she wasn't working with Madam Elira, a local seamstress renowned for her intricate designs and exquisite fabrics, she could often be found immersed in the quiet corners of the town library, lost in the pages of a book or with Jarin, her best friend.

By the time she reached the house, her breathing was ragged. She pushed open the door and stepped into the foyer, the familiar scents of wood and aged books instantly enveloping her. For a moment, the comforting smell eased her anxiety, but only for a moment.

The foyer led directly into the main living area, which was a cozy, open space with a large fireplace on one side. A few comfortable chairs were arranged around the fire, and a well-worn rug lay in front of the hearth. One of the chairs, a beautifully crafted rocking chair with delicate floral patterns, had belonged to her mother, who had passed away when Lena was just a few months old. Though Lena's memories of her mother were faint, the chair was a constant, silent reminder of her presence and the absence she left behind. 

From the living area, Lena moved through a narrow passageway that led to the back of the house. The passage was lined with practical, utilitarian items—hooks for coats, shelves for boots, and a few tools that her father had used. As she hurried through this area, the light grew dimmer, and the air carried a faint, smoky scent that hinted at the workshop beyond.

At the end of the passage, she reached the back door leading into the workshop. The door creaked slightly as she pushed it open, revealing the single-story structure where her father, Harold, was busy at work. The workshop was functional and no-frills, A large stone hearth stood against one side of the room, its surface still showing signs of countless fires. 

Against the opposite wall, a sturdy stone table bore the marks of heavy use, its surface cluttered with metal scraps and tools. Nearby, a wooden table with a pair of worn chairs provided a space for rest and planning. The room was cluttered but methodically organized, with the remnants of blacksmithing evident in every corner—hammers, tongs, and other implements scattered about. —the faint, smoky scent of charcoal and metal still lingering despite the forge having long been cooled down.

She shoved open the door to the workshop, its familiar creak punctuating the quiet space. Her father was there, bent over a wooden box, carefully placing tools inside. His broad shoulders, streaked with the grime of years spent over a forge, seemed even heavier than usual. His dark hair, flecked with gray, was tousled, and his face, lined with age, looked up as he heard her enter.

The sight of his daughter made him pause, his expression shifting from focus to fatherly concern. "Lena," he said, his voice warm but weary. "What's wrong?"

She rushed toward him, her words tumbling out. "It's Jarin. The officers took him. He punched Roderick after he stole our stall space."

Harold's brow furrowed, his expression shifting to concern. He guided her to a nearby chair. "Sit down," he said gently. "Take a breath."

Lena sank into the chair, her hands trembling as she tried to calm herself. Harold left the room briefly, returning with a glass of water, which she gulped down in a few swift sips. The cool liquid was a welcome relief, and she realized just how parched she had been. As she set the empty glass down, she looked at her father, her anxiety slightly eased but her worry still evident.

"Tell me everything," he said, sitting beside her in another chair.

She nodded, her voice steadier now. "Roderick took our stall. Jarin tried to confront him, and... things got out of hand. The officers arrested him. I don't know what to do."

Harold's brow furrowed in concern as he listened. "Poor boy," he murmured. "He should have kept his anger in check, but I can't really blame him, considering his sick mother. It's been a tough time for him."

Lena nodded, her eyes downcast. "I know. I just hope he's okay. I don't know what to do"

Harold sighed standing up and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We'll figure it out. I'll talk to Constable Bramwell."

"I'm coming with you," Lena insisted, her eyes pleading.

Harold nodded. "Alright. Let's go."

Lena nodded, her anxiety easing slightly. "Thank you, Father."

Constable Bramwell was a longtime friend of Lena's father, having grown up together in Eldhaven. Though he held a bronze badge, Bramwell held the highest authority among the constables. His service in Eldoria before returning to Eldhaven lent him a weight and respect that his rank alone might not have commanded. Unlike Roderick, Constable Kellan, and Constable Aiden, Bramwell's position was earned through years of dedicated and exemplary service. The mayor, in fact, had little influence over the constables, as his responsibilities were more focused on town maintenance and administrative matters. Bramwell's experience and integrity made him the most authoritative figure in matters of law enforcement.

After making their decision, They climbed into the carriage, the wooden frame creaking slightly as they settled into the seats. The carriage was a gift from a nobleman who had visited the town years ago, a token of gratitude for a sword Harold had forged. The faded, plush upholstery had been luxurious once, and though it was worn now, the ride was still smoother than most.

The cobblestones rattled beneath the wheels as they made their way through the streets of Eldhaven. Lena stared out the latticed windows, her mind a storm of worry and dread. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels did little to soothe her nerves. Her father remained silent beside her, his brow furrowed in thought.

As the carriage rolled along the cobblestone streets, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels and the gentle swaying provided a moment of respite from the tension of the situation. Lena and Harold sat in silence, each lost in their thoughts as they approached the guardhouse, their minds focused on the pressing matters ahead.

As the carriage approached the guardhouse, Lena's heart raced again.The thick gray walls loomed ahead. The guardhouse was a formidable, rectangular building constructed from robust stone, designed to endure the passage of time and any potential threats. Its thick, gray walls conveyed a sense of permanence and authority, while the steeply pitched roof, covered in dark slate tiles, created a striking contrast against the stone.

Narrow, arched windows on the upper floors allowed guards to maintain a vigilant watch over the town. Below, a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron served as the main entrance, flanked by torches set in iron sconces that flickered even in daylight. A small iron gate beside the door opened into a courtyard where a few horses were tethered, and guards occasionally patrolled, adding to the sense of security.

Prominently displayed on a wooden board next to the gate was a neatly painted sign: "Eldhaven Guardhouse". The sign was adorned with a simple emblem of a sword and shield, symbolizing the guard house's role in safeguarding the town.

Lena and her father made their way to the main entrance, passing a small iron gate that led to a courtyard where a few horses were tethered. The guards on duty acknowledged them with respectful nods, recognizing the familiar faces of the town's blacksmith and his daughter.

Inside, the atmosphere was one of controlled efficiency. The interior of the guardhouse was divided into several rooms, with the largest space serving as a reception area. The walls were lined with maps of Eldhaven and its surrounding areas, and the air was filled with the low murmur of guards engaged in quiet conversation.

As Lena and Harold entered the reception area, they approached a wooden desk behind which sat a man in his early thirties, his face partially obscured by the papers he was organizing. His short, dark hair was neatly combed, and his expression was one of quiet focus.

The man looked up as Lena and Harold approached, his sharp eyes quickly assessing them. He had a strong, angular face with a slightly crooked nose, giving him a rugged appearance that suggested experience in more than just paperwork. He set aside the quill he had been using and straightened in his chair, giving them his full attention.

"Good day," the man said in a deep, measured voice. "How can I assist you?"

Harold stepped forward. "We need to speak with Constable Bramwell. It's urgent."

The man's gaze flickered with recognition as he glanced between Harold and Lena. "I'm sorry, sir," he replied with a slight frown. "Constable Bramwell is not in town at the moment. He had an important meeting regarding some matters and left early this morning. "He'll return by the time night falls for sure, though."

Lena's stomach dropped. Her hope, which had flared briefly on the ride here, was now slipping away again. She sank into a nearby chair, the weight of the situation pressing down on her.

A storm of thoughts swirled in her mind. Words like "arrest," "punishment," and "lost" lingered ominously. She couldn't stop thinking about Jarin—how he might get out of this mess, but with his goods unsold, how could he possibly afford to take his mother to the city before the snow set in? The weight of it all pressed down on her, the urgency and uncertainty tightening around her like a vise.

Thinking this, Lena sank into the chair nearby, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her worries. The anxiety gnawed at her, making her feel smaller and helpless, as the reality of the situation settled in.

Her father placed a hand on her shoulder again. "We'll wait for Bramwell," he said softly. "We'll figure this out."

Lena nodded, her hands still trembling. She didn't have a choice. All she could do now was wait—and hope.