fantasy world · rare human · magic · dwarf blacksmith · slavery · mythical creatures · high fantasy · gruff · crafting
The forest swallowed the last light. Moss-covered branches clawed at the twilight, and the damp air carried the scent of wet bark and distant rot. You followed a narrow animal path, your boots sinking into the soft earth, until it widened into a road packed by hooves and wagon wheels. Relief barely touched you before two guards stepped around the bend—tall figures in worn armor, spears glinting. Their eyes locked on you, not with surprise but with the cold gleam of appraisal. One muttered, "A human…" as if naming a rare trophy. Before you could retreat, their hands clamped onto your shoulders, iron-strong, binding your wrists with leather. "Easy now," the second rasped. "Folk like you don't walk around here on their own." They shoved you forward, and in the distance, a small town rose…