Magic & Mortal Dreams

        Swirls of folded steel withdrew from blackened oil, spirit-like vapours curling, amber runes gripping Grimfall's mirror blade. Breath and song faded; drifting motes motionless in the silence. Steel whispered through leather, splitting stillness and cleaving acrid stench. Finnias grasped the hilt, and with instinctive grace cast it skyward.

        "You done?" The crusty blacksmith eyed him. Finnias lowered the sword, his face reddening.

        "Yes. Sorry." Finnias faltered, returning the sword, rank oil dripping from his hand.

        "Above your station," the blacksmith growled, voice rough as forge ash. 

        Finnias bowed beneath the blacksmith’s cold, unwavering stare, drifting toward the racks where ambition rusted.

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_{Photo by Jonny Gios on Unsplash}