John and Tony walked in silence behind Hazal. The narrow trail ahead was overgrown, the hanging vines brushing their shoulders while thick trees cast long shadows over the path. It was quiet here—no birds, no wind—just the soft crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional creak of branches above.
The deeper they went, the more the place felt… different. Not magical, but untouched, peaceful. Like a piece of the world that had stayed the same for a very long time.
Then Hazal came to a stop.
Before them stood a massive old tree, its trunk wide enough to hide a small cottage. The bark was knotted and aged, with moss growing in patches near the roots. A hollow at the base formed a natural arch, large enough for them to walk through without ducking.
"This way," Hazal said, and without another word, she stepped inside.
John raised an eyebrow. "She just walked into a tree."
Tony blinked. "I… yeah. I saw that too."
They followed her.
Inside, a sloped tunnel made of packed earth and twisting roots led downward. It was dim but walkable, lit here and there by simple glass lanterns with oil flames. The air smelled of earth and damp wood, cool and still.
The tunnel opened into a wide cavern—nothing magical, just a huge space carved by time and nature. Daylight filtered in from narrow cracks above, falling in soft beams that lit the area in a gentle glow.
Wooden platforms were built into the stone walls and thick tree roots, connected by walkways made of rope and timber. Modest wooden homes, shaped around the natural curves of the space, stood among patches of small gardens. Clothes hung to dry on lines. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys carved into the cavern ceiling.
There were people—elves—going about their lives. Carrying baskets. Tending to small plots of vegetables. Repairing tools. A group of children played by a stream that trickled through the cavern floor.
Tony stopped walking.
"…John?"
"I see it."
They took it in together, quietly.
"This place isn't what I expected," Tony said finally.
John nodded.
Hazal turned to them. "Welcome to seren village."
They followed her along a narrow path made of wooden boards. No spells held the place together—just craftsmanship, care, and time.
Soon, Hazal led them to a wide tree trunk at the base of the cavern wall. Its base was blackened from soot, and the air smelled faintly of charcoal and metal. As they got closer, they heard the steady sound of hammering.
"This is the forge," she said simply.
Tony perked up. "You mean like… where they actually make stuff?"
Hazal nodded and pushed open the door.
The heat rolled out instantly. Inside, the room glowed with a steady orange light from a low-burning forge nestled against the back wall. Sparks flickered in the air. The forge itself was built into stone, shaped over decades to hold and channel heat efficiently. An anvil stood at the center of the room, surrounded by racks of well-worn tools—hammers, tongs, chisels, and strange instruments that looked somewhere between blacksmithing tools and calligraphy pens.
Weapons and armor lined the walls—swords with faint patterns etched into the blades, axes engraved with curves that seemed to shift slightly in the corner of one's eye. The air smelled of metal, soot, and something else—old magic, faint and dry like parchment dust.
At the heart of it all, a tall elf woman stood at the anvil. She wore a leather apron, and her bronze-toned arms were marked with faint lines of silvery ink that trailed down from her shoulders to her fingers. Her braid swung behind her as she hammered a glowing steel blade. Each strike was precise, and with every impact, a soft blue light pulsed from the metal—runes slowly surfacing, as though awakened by the heat and the hammer.
John and Tony stood in the doorway, silent.
The elf dipped the blade into a trough. Steam hissed as the metal cooled. She lifted it again and placed it on a stone slab marked with circular runes. Then, without speaking, she took a long needle-like stylus carved from bone and dipped it into a shallow bowl of silvery liquid.
She began to carve.
Lines, curves, and symbols flowed into the blade—elegant, glowing faintly as they sank into the metal. Some pulsed briefly before dimming, as if embedding themselves into the steel. Each movement of her hand was calculated, every mark placed with the care of a painter adding the final strokes to a masterpiece.
Tony leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "Are those… runes?"
John nodded slowly. "I think so."
He focused with his magical eye—the Eye of Truth. Instantly, the runes sprang to life in his vision, like threads of energy weaving a net inside the blade. He could see the pathways—how the runes channeled heat, pressure, and even the essence of the wielder.
"She's not just forging steel," John murmured. "She's binding magic into it."
Tony's eyes widened.
The elf didn't stop or acknowledge them. Her focus was absolute.
She completed the final rune with a single, clean stroke. The blade glowed softly along its edge, then faded to a quiet shimmer—runes now resting within, alive but still.
When they stepped outside, the contrast in temperature was a relief, but both men felt the lingering weight of what they'd seen.
"That was… something else," Tony said, rubbing his arms.
John exhaled. "All those stories we read—they made it sound easy. Like you just say a word and the blade glows."
"But that…" Tony shook his head, stunned. "That was like calligraphy."
Hazal gave them a quiet smile. "The runes aren't spells. They're understanding. If you don't know what they mean, they won't listen to you."
John glanced back at the forge. "And she knew exactly what she was doing."
Hazal nodded. "She's one of our last master rune-smiths. Each blade she finishes becomes part of our history."