The town square was a sea of orange and yellow banners. Massive bonfires roared in the stone pits, their heat pushing back the biting autumn chill of Oros. The smell of roasted meat and spiced ale filled the air.
In the center of the square stood a wooden stage decorated with fresh pine boughs. Brad stood there, holding a lute carved from white birch.
He wore a cloak of vibrant crimson, and his eyes sparkled with the practised energy of a master performer.
Hundreds of villagers gathered around the stage. They held mugs of cider and cheered, their faces flushed with the warmth of the fire. For tonight, the fear of the woods was forgotten. Tonight was the night of legends.
The bard struck a signal, soaring chords on his lute. The sound was loud and clear, cutting through the chatter of the crowd. He raised his hand, and a hush fell over the square.
"When the first shadow crept from the void to swallow our ancestors," the bard began, his voice projecting to the very back of the square. "The world didn't tremble, do you know why?"
"Because of the hero," a young boy shouted from the front row, wielding a wooden sword. The crowd laughed, a sound of genuine and shared joy.
"Correct!" The bard cried, pointing at the boy, "because the father saw our peril and reached down to the earth. He didn't send a legion, nor did he send a storm. He sent us a Man."
The bard began a rhythmic, upbeat melody. "He was the first Heart-Guard. He is seven feet tall, with shoulders as broad as an oak tree. In his hand, he carried a blade forged from the very first dawn; a sword that never chipped and never dulled.
"He didn't hide behind the stone walls," the bard said, pacing the stage, "he walked directly to the heart of the black forest. Wherever he stepped, the grass turned green. Wherever he looked, the darkness fled like a whipped cur."
A group of soldiers standing near the ale barrel nodded to each other. They stood a little straighter, their hands resting on the pommels of their own swords. This story was the pride of everyone.
"The legend tells of the battle of the three peals," the bard continued. "Ten thousand Ghouls had surrounded a village just like this one. The people were trapped, they were weeping: they had lost all their hope.
"Then, they heard it," the bard lowered his voice for a dramatic whisper. "The sound of a single pair of boots on the gravel. The hero had arrived, he didn't ask for help or the reward for the help."
"He raised his palm, and the fire mark flared with the light of a thousand suns! It wasn't a curse; it was a crown of light! With one swing of his golden blade, he cleaved the night in two!"
The crowd roared in approval. Men cheered, and women clapped. In this moment, the Fire Mark wasn't a death sentence–it was the ultimate symbol of power and protection.
The bard spun around, his cloak fluttering. "He didn't tire! He didn't bleed! He fought for seven days and seven nights until the last monster was turned to ash. Because that is what it means to be Hero of Oros, to erase the shadows."
The bard's fingers flew across the strings, the tempo of the music rising. "But the Ghouls were not enough to stop him. So, from the deepest pit of the void, a harbinger rose. A creature that is thirty feet tall, with a voice that could crack a man's skull."
The crowd gasped; even the men at the back stopped drinking. The bonfires seemed to flicker lower for a second, as if responding to the mention of the enemy.
"The harbinger struck the ground, and the earth split," the bard shouted over the music. "It breathed a mist that turned the blood to ice. But the Hero did not flinch; he laughed at the harbinger! He stepped into the most, and the Fire Mark burned it away like a morning dew on a summer rose!"
The bard jumped from the stage onto the hay bale, getting closer to the people. "He drove his blade through the harbinger's heart. The explosion was so bright that for one minute, the night became noon! The monster shattered into a million pieces, and the sky cleared to show the stars once more.
"And when the battle was won," the bard's voice softened into a heroic, noble tone. "The hero turned to the people. He didn't take their gold, nor did he take their land. He gave them a piece of his own fire to light their hearth."
"He told them, 'I will now go to the high peaks to watch over you. As long as you keep your hearts pure and your fires burning, I will be your shield. The mark I carry is the father's love, and that love will never go out!'"
The bard struck a final, thunderous chord that echoed off the surrounding stone buildings. He held the pose, his chest heaving, his face illuminated by the firelight.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, the square erupted in cheers. The people threw their caps into the air, and they stomped their feet until the ground vibrated. It was a roar of pure, unfiltered hope.
They began to chant. "Spark! Spark! Spark!" The sound rose, loud enough to drown out the wind, loud enough to make the people believe they were invincible.
In the shadows of an alleyway just off the square, an old man watched the celebrations. He had a bandage around his right hand. He didn't cheer; he just watched the villagers with a look of profound, silent pity.
The bard climbed back onto the stage and took a deep bow. "Drink! Drink! Drink! For the hero watches from the heights, and the darkness knows its master!"
The festival resumed with double the energy. The fiddle players started a fast jig. People began to dance in circles around the bonfires, their shadows spinning and merging against the walls.
High above the square, on the roof of the magistrate's house, a single crow sat watching the flames. It tilted its head, its black eyes reflecting the orange glow below.
Far beyond the village walls, past the reach of the firelight and the sound of the singing, the real night waited. The trees stood still; no golden blade came to cut the darkness. The world remained cold, indifferent to the songs of the men in the square.