Snow had settled thick across the mountain, softening every ridge and stone outcrop as if the world itself held its breath. The great walls of Andarag Stronghold glowed beneath frosted lanterns, their carved runes shimmering faintly in the cold. Winter had claimed the peaks — but inside the Stronghold, fire and festivity were already stirring.
It was Hearthforge: the longest night of winter, the holiday where the Stronghold set aside its quarrels, lit a single sacred flame, and celebrated the craft that bound its people together.
Preparations, as usual, began with cheerful determination… and mild chaos.
Bralynn stood in the Great Hall tuning her lute, filling the air with warm notes that hovered somewhere between a reverent hymn and a tavern shanty. Uilliam balanced on a bench nearby, wrestling with a string of lanterns that insisted on glowing a different color every time he blinked at them.
“Why purple now?” he groaned.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Bralynn said without looking up.
Across the room, Nimblin darted past with a tray of pastries. “I perfected the Hearthforge cookies!” he announced, eyes shining with triumph.
Estara stopped mid-stride and regarded him with academic suspicion. “Define perfected.”
Nimblin beamed. “They only explode sometimes.”
Estara wrote something on her clipboard — likely under a heading titled ongoing risks — while behind her, Maddex tried to coax a paint cabinet into staying shut. It hissed once and settled. He sighed. “This holiday’s going to be interesting.”
Down in the forge hall, Kadyan stood in front of the Hearthforge fire pit with the posture of a general inspecting troops. “This year,” he declared, “the flame will burn clean. No sputtering, no smoke, no strange colors.”
“Last year wasn’t so bad,” Asilinn reminded him gently.
“It turned blue,” he said.
“We don’t know why,” Korrund added, turning away just a little too quickly.
A small boom came from behind a workbench.
“That wasn’t me!” Nimblin shouted from upstairs.
“That doesn’t help,” Kadyan replied.
In the archives, Vaerthurin polished the ceremonial lantern with surgical precision, while Hrogar sorted stacks of scrolls into tidy towers. Both paused whenever Nimblin passed by. Both resumed only after he was safely gone.
Snow began to fall outside as evening drew near, layering the fortress in white while the glow from the Great Hall grew brighter and warmer. When the festival bell finally rang, the Stronghold assembled in full — artisans, warriors, scholars, and those who defied classification entirely.
Bralynn strummed a soft opening chord, and the Hearthfire was lit with a single spark. It flared upward, bright and steady, golden as new-forged metal. Kadyan let out a relieved grunt that was, in his language, highly emotional.
The feast followed, long tables lined with dishes from every corner of the mountain — savory stews, spiced breads, roasted roots, and Nimblin’s suspiciously quiet cookies. The hall buzzed with laughter, clinking mugs, and the familiar, comforting din of family.
Then came the gifting of the crafts.
Asilinn stepped forward first, offering a beautifully bound ledger filled with sketches and memories from the year’s travels. Kadyan presented a forge-tempered steel mug engraved with Respect the Flame, Respect the Craft. Korrund gifted Maddex a rune-inlaid ink box that, miraculously, stayed still. Thalgrína produced a set of perfectly balanced training daggers that no one dared touch without permission.
Hrogar unveiled a meticulously researched treatise on the history of Hearthforge, complete with diagrams. Vaerthurin offered enchanted calibration tools that glowed faintly when perfectly aligned. Nimblin nervously presented his cookies. Bralynn tried one.
“…They’re good,” she whispered.
Nimblin instantly teared up.
Bralynn then introduced a new festival melody honoring each person by name. Uilliam followed with decorative lanterns that, for once, behaved exactly as intended. Maddex revealed an enchanted mural of the Stronghold through seasons, colors shifting like breath.
And Estara distributed personalized organization kits with the solemn declaration: “Efficiency is the highest form of respect.”
Midnight arrived, and with it, the Passing of the Flame. Vaerthurin lifted the ceremonial lantern, and silence fell. The Stronghold walked together through each workshop — Asilinn steady, Kadyan proud, Korrund nearly vibrating, Maddex thoughtful, Estara precise, Bralynn singing softly, Uilliam harmonizing, Hrogar quiet and observant, Vaerthurin reverent, Thalgrína vigilant, and Nimblin darting around like a small festive comet.
The lantern’s glow brushed every tool and anvil, every desk and loom, blessing the year ahead. When they returned to the Great Hall, the flame inside flared brighter, warm as sunrise.
The feast resumed, though more slowly now — softer, calmer. The fire crackled. Snow whispered at the windows. Stories were shared. Jokes were exchanged. Someone (Nimblin) accidentally glued themselves to a chair, which became a new story in itself.
But in that glow, surrounded by friends and found family, the Stronghold felt whole. Hearthforge was many things — tradition, celebration, and a quiet promise whispered by the fire:
No matter how wild the year becomes, no matter what magic misfires or unexpected chaos arises,
the Stronghold will face the winter together.
And in the deepest cold of the mountain, the warmth of that truth burned bright.