Morning shimmered over Woolly Glade like warm milk spilled across velvet hills. The air smelled of grass, mint oil, and the faint, honeyed resin drifting from the glow-trees beyond the ridge—sap that shimmered even in shade. That smell usually meant Windel had already started inventing something he shouldn't.
On the ridge above the village, a windmill stood half-awake, one blade missing a bolt, another wrapped in ribbon from last week's "safety test."
Windel crouched beside it, goggles tilted, wrench between his teeth, optimism blazing.
"Today," he told the machine, "we behave. No explosions, no smoke, no drama. Deal?"
The windmill creaked—non-committal.
Windel grinned anyway. He held up a small brass ring no larger than a teacup. Inside it, slender vanes curved like dragonfly wings, etched with a swirl that trapped tiny particles of glow-sap, distilled from those very trees. A perfect piece of Craftaura—half science, half spell.
"This time you'll stay on," he said, sliding it onto the axle. "You'll hold, you'll spin, you'll—"
Blu's voice floated up the path. "—blow up?"
Windel sighed. "It's not going to blow up."
Blu appeared chewing a biscuit the size of his head. "That's what you said before the 'auto-milking cloud.' Remember? It rained yogurt for three days."
"This is different. This one's polite."
Blu squinted at the glowing ring. "Looks ambitious."
Windel ignored him, turned a screw, dabbed a bead of glow-sap, then stepped back. The blades began to spin—slow at first, then faster, smoother, perfect. A soft hum spread through the frame. Success.
"See?" Windel said proudly. "No fire, no panic—just grace."
The wind shifted. The hill caught a stronger gust. The ring quivered, shone brighter, whined a high note—and detached itself from the axle with graceful treachery. It shot upward, gleaming, looped twice around the blades, and launched toward the clouds like a golden frisbee with a grudge.
Windel froze. "No no no—come back!"
Blu lay down on his blanket, still chewing. "If you die, can I have your wrench?"
Windel didn't answer. He was already sprinting downhill.
⸻
Across the valley, Shadow Howl Hold crouched against the cliffs, all gray stone and orange smoke. Wolves liked their home solid, angular, and slightly intimidating.
At its gate, Gravon was lecturing a pressure valve that refused to close.
"Cooperate," he growled. "You're built to obey physics, not moods."
Steam puffed in his face. The valve hissed, unimpressed.
He lifted his wrench—just in time for something to whistle through the mist and nearly shave off his ear. A brass ring smacked the ground at his feet, steaming politely.
Gravon blinked. "What in the—"
He picked it up. Elegant, light, unnecessarily shiny. Along the rim, a small cloud spiral glowed faintly. Sheep work, he thought. He could practically smell the optimism.
Behind him, the kitchen window slammed open. Rina leaned out, apron tied like armor.
"Whatever you just hit, fix it before lunch!"
"I didn't hit anything!"
"Then why are the alarms singing?"
He turned—and groaned. A line of warning bells along the fortress wall jingled furiously, each one attached to a different defense sensor he'd invented. Red lights blinked like angry eyes. His own devices tattling on him.
"Stop it!" he barked at the bells, as though they might listen. They rang louder.
"Lunch in ten minutes!" Rina yelled. "If I smell smoke, you're eating the pot!"
"I'm not—" clang! The main siren joined in. "—fine. Fine!"
He grabbed his satchel, stuffed the ring inside, and took his collapsible gear-umbrella—the one he swore he'd only use for "professional emergencies."
"Thermal compliance buffer," he muttered, snagging Rina's oven mitt.
"Call it what it is," she said. "A glove you stole."
Gravon adjusted his goggles, kneeling to examine the ring again. He reached into his tool belt and pinched a small pouch of still-dust—fine gray powder ground from forge ash, known to calm restless metal. He blew a breath across the ring, dust spiraling down like soot snow. The brass seemed to relax, its hum smoothing to a gentler pitch.
"Better," he murmured. "Now tell me who threw you."
⸻
Back in Woolly Glade, Windel reached the bridge that connected green grass to gray rock. Rain clouds gathered like gossip; the air smelled of tin and trouble.
He stopped, panting, just as a tall figure stepped from the shadowed end of the bridge: gray fur, mechanical umbrella folded like a weapon, expression sharpened to suspicion.
They stared at each other. The sheep held a toolbox. The wolf held a wrench.
Both looked equally guilty.
Windel tried a smile. "Hi?"
The wolf's voice rumbled. "You threw this at me."
Gravon held up the brass ring.
"I didn't throw it—it… escaped."
"Objects don't escape without help."
Windel swallowed. "It's shy."
"Shy?" Gravon's ears twitched. "It reached terminal velocity."
Windel opened his mouth, found no defense, closed it again.
Thunder cracked overhead, ending the argument. Rain began in heavy, precise drops. Gravon flicked open his umbrella—gears clicked, steam hissed, the canopy unfurled like clockwork petals. Windel's eyes went wide.
"That's incredible! Did you build it?"
"Of course."
"Can I—"
"No."
A beat passed. The rain thickened. Windel tried to pretend he didn't care, but water was already soaking into his wool.
Gravon sighed, moved half an inch sideways. "Get under it."
Windel blinked. "Really?"
"You're dripping on my boots."
He ducked under. The umbrella hummed softly, keeping rhythm with the rain.
For a moment, the world shrank to a circle of warmth and awkward silence.
Windel cleared his throat. "I'm Windel. Inventor. Mostly harmless."
"Gravon. Engineer. Mostly irritated."
"That's fair."
Windel glanced at the ring. "Could I fix it? Together, maybe?"
Gravon turned it in his paw. "You wound the coil backward. It turned into a beacon. My alarms thought you were invading."
"Oh." Windel winced. "So… technically, I declared war."
"Technically."
They crouched on the bridge, heads nearly touching as they adjusted the coil. Windel steadied the ring while Gravon twisted the smallest screw with the back of his wrench. The ring sighed, settled, and glowed a peaceful gold. Far away, the sirens in the fortress flickered out one by one.
Down the hill, Blu peeked from his blanket, biscuit halfway to his mouth.
For once, he forgot to chew.
Windel exhaled. "You fixed it."
"You're welcome," Gravon said. "Next time, use gravity as an ally."
"I usually do."
"I doubt that."
Windel laughed, surprised at how easily it came. The rain softened to a whisper.
Lightning stitched the horizon; the windmill on the hill turned lazily, alive again.
"So," Windel said, "we're good?"
Gravon folded the umbrella. "Until the next disaster."
"Give me at least a day."
"Half."
They started walking back across the bridge—two silhouettes sharing half a roof and no idea what to call whatever this was.
Halfway over, Windel slipped on the wet plank. Gravon caught his arm without thinking. Their eyes met—awkward, grateful, a little embarrassed.
"Thanks," Windel said.
"Don't mention it," Gravon replied, pretending to adjust his wrench.
By the time they reached the hill, the clouds had begun to tear apart, leaking sunlight. The windmill turned steady, dignified, pretending it hadn't tried to assassinate anyone. Windel set the ring back on the axle; Gravon checked the bolts. The machine hummed like forgiveness.
Blu peeked again. "It didn't explode?"
"Not today," Windel said.
"Boring," Blu replied, and promptly fell asleep again.
Gravon watched him snore, unimpressed. "He's alive?"
"Barely."
Windel poured two mugs of mint tea from his thermos. "Want one?"
"I don't drink sheep tea."
"It's just mint."
"It will have opinions."
"Probably," Windel said, handing him a cup anyway.
Gravon accepted, muttered something about compromise, and took a sip. The taste was sharp, clean, unexpectedly good.
"Not bad," he admitted.
Windel smiled. "Thank you for not hitting my windmill."
"Keep your inventions on your side of the valley," Gravon said, turning to leave. Then, over his shoulder: "Next time it flies, I'm keeping it."
Windel watched him disappear into the mist, umbrella folded like a secret. The windmill spun gently above him, its brass ring shining in quiet pride.
He looked up at the clearing sky and whispered, "Don't hit my windmill."
The valley answered with a laugh of wind through chimes.
⸻
- End of Chapter 1 — Next: "Windel's Disaster-Invention Day!"