Glass rattled as Finian pushed the door open to the converted workshop. Piles of golem components lay strewn about with little thought to organization. Several lifeless shells hung from straps as mock centurions. Each lacked the crystals and magic necessary to power them. A young woman stood hunched over a table at the center of the room. The clash of chisel on metal rang out from in front of her. He approached her in silence, set the tray down, and waited for her to stop.

    “Today's brew,” Emi questioned through a leather mask. It proved useful for deflecting errant metal shards during her work.

    “St. John's Wart and orange zest, I thought it'd be appropriate.” His voice was the rustle of reeds—a voice made from the forest. His body creaked with each subtle motion, and flickering gaslight revealed the patterns of his birch-like skin.

    “Miss, a messenger from the Senate came this morning. He queried about the golem.”

    She tired of the Senate and their expectations, but they'd given her a king's ransom for research. It was more gold than she'd ever seen. That wealth made buying the shop and materials easier, but those bloated oligarchs sent a boy daily to check on her progress. Emi doubted they cared how much time passed. Yet, to her, the value of each day lost was painful. Every eve rang with the sounds of funeral bells.

    To add to that, Finian provided no relief in his use of titles instead of names. A spriggan such as he wouldn't understand the value names held for humans. He tended to use 'Miss' when he held back his opinion.

    Emi's mask slid off, revealing the rosy, gaunt face of a woman only in her twenties. It touched the table's surface as she turned, and a faint spark of lightning flared in her teal eyes.

    “I told you not to call me that. It's Emi, you witless spriggan.” His short stature made hers gargantuan by comparison.

    “Nothing good can come of this debt. Give back the gold.” An unwanted opinion from and unloved servant.

    “They want to see this finished as much as I, why can't you,” Emi rebuked.

    “I know debts, Miss, and this is one that cannot be paid in words alone,” Finian said.

    Emi's back-hand shook his entire body. “And I suppose my words mean nothing, even a promise to return your treasure?” Her thoughts shifted to the locket under her smock, and how Finian trailed behind it with single-minded desire.

    Again without words, he made his way to the door. But as the hinges creaked, his whisper circled her head. “Be wary, Miss, for smiling wolves are apt to bite.”

    Going back to the table, she donned her mask, and started shaving ounces off the metal before her. The crude, iron limbs hadn't moved the first time she compiled them—or the fifth. With each iteration, she cut extra weight, redesigned, and cut again. The golem just stood motionless after each endeavor. Her attempts shared the same magic as wooden golems around the city. Yet, they functioned and hers would not. It had to be the difference in weight—she knew it.

    By the time the first taste of tea touched her lips, it was bitter cold. Before her, all four limbs lay in a ring of glittering strips. It was time for another test. Each fit their sockets with ease. The crystal, fresh from the mine, glowed with pale moonlight in her hands. Magic, as all things, requires sacrifice and desire. Though her master was a doddering drunk, he made that point clear when training her. Emi held the crystal aloft, chanted the spell to animate an object, and focused on what she wanted. Move. She pressed the crystal into a notched socket in the golem's chest, stepped back, and waited.

    “Nothing, gods dammit, not even a twitch.” Finian could hear the shouting from the kitchen. It wasn't until he heard the shattering of glass that he left his den for the workshop. A narrow hallway led between the two rooms, which Emi was tearing through at a hare's pace.

    “I'm leaving for the evening.”

    “Yes, Mi-,” but she was gone. Finian entered the workshop to recover what remnants of the tea set he could.

    Airn lacked the qualities to be beautiful, but Emi didn't care. Its proximity to her past imbued her with rare vigor, and the mines supplied her with ample resources. The people, however, were poltergeists of their former selves. Few jobs paid enough to survive on, and those that did claimed lives with the regularity of clock-work. Hatred bubbled up from the lower castes toward the wealthy, and by extension those that helped them. No friends waited for her on the streets, and that suited her fine. She returned to the city to make their lives better, not win their kindness.

    The cemetery slumbered on a hill overlooking the city proper. It wasn't uncommon for people to visit their loved ones, so the grave-keeper ignored Emi as she made the ascent to her parents. Turning off the worn path, their gravestones waited next to an old oak. Hewn from mined stone, the markers were simple, square pillars. It was a common method among the lower castes, as opposed to the tombs of nobles further down.

    I shouldn’t be here, this is breaking my promise. Not much had changed from what she could see. If nothing else, the grave-keeper was indiscriminate in his art. Some wild-flowers grew at the base of each marker—Emi’s final gift. Both stones held the same name, Thaler. A simple message—that they were one, even in death. Finishing the golem felt like a lost dream here.

    Her childhood was a lifetime ago. On that sorrowful day, she couldn’t play in the meadow because of the rain. So when the man came, she opened the door without hesitation for any chance at excitement. A bushy, fiery beard framed his face, and as he stuttered through the words, her thoughts drifted toward yanking on it. Stupid, I was so stupid then. I didn’t even know what death meant, how heavy those words must have been to tell a child. I thought they just had to stay at the mine another night, not-

    Water drops danced on the wildflower petals beneath her. Growing shadows showered the hillside, a reminder that for every stone, someone had waited and mourned. She couldn’t let this happen to any more children—she wouldn’t.

    Emi entered the workshop to find Finian inspecting her latest attempt. It hadn't moved an inch, but he was going over it with meticulous interest.

    “It's your best attempt so far.” He looked up at her with two crimson dots in black voids.

    “It doesn't work. This junk will never move.”

    “You care about this puppet more than anything I've seen from you before. At first, I thought you just wanted the money. But now-”

    Her tears that fell at the cemetery were vapor on the wind, but their mark remained. A moment of recognition hung between them, and Emi felt ashamed for every second of it.

    “But now, I feel I am obliged to aid you in this endeavor.” There was a firmness and certainty in his voice that Emi hadn't noticed before—or perhaps had ignored.

    “What can you do,” Emi asked.

    “Your issue doesn’t only lie in the body, but in the magic as well. Iron is unlike wood which is normally used in making golems. Wood, being once alive, carries with it the life and memories of the tree it was cut from.”

    “And iron lacks that quality.” It made sense, but Emi hadn’t known. “But how does that affect the magic?”

    “Your spell, it works from desire, does it not?”

    She nodded.

    “Nothing is more fleeting than desire. When combined with a wooden golem, that is enough, as the life and memories in the wood carry the desire. But with iron-”

    “There’s nothing there.” Emi touched the golem—its surface rough and cold.

    “To move metal, you must give it memories. In casting your spell, focus not on what you desire, but on something with weight, a memory that could move mountains.”

    “But I’ll lose the memory forever.”

    “That is the choice you must make.” And with that, Emi was alone. Give up a memory, he makes it sound so easy. If he’s right, I have to at least try. The gas lamps had guttered out long before she came to a decision. Bathed in the glow of the crystal, Emi pressed her hand against it, chanted the spell, and focused her thoughts.

    I’m standing in the hall. I heard father and mother from my open window, and wanted to meet them as they came in. They're so tall, and they smiles as I welcome them home. I wrap my hands around one of my father's. It’s so much larger and his skin is tough as leather. But it’s warm—so warm. It’s the final day I had with them. If only I'd known then.

    Emptiness consumed where her memory had been. A brilliant sun overtook the pale moonlight of the crystal. Emi shielded her eyes, and when she could see again, the golem was several feet away, sorting a pile of components. Finian was right.

    The messenger boy from the Senate expected nothing new. The stumpy spriggan would tell him once more that work wasn’t finished and not to disturb them. But he was getting paid quite well to recount this simple message every day—which was countless steps better than the mines. He heard the tell-tale footsteps coming down the hall, and the aged click of the bolt. Emi swinging the door open caught him off-guard.

    “Tell those balding fools that it’s done,” rang out followed by a curt nod and the door slamming shut in his face.

    Emi met the senators at the outskirts of one of the pit mines south of town. She thought it useful to demonstrate the skills of the golem. Each arrived by carriage with several staff on hand. The ragged servants would help each dismount, marking the extreme differences between the servile and the served. Until the last had dismounted and waddled over, a constant rabble ebbed through their ranks. Once they gathered, she began.

    “Senators, you paid me to revolutionize golem magics, and here it is.” A flourish of her hand directed their attention like trained dogs. They all stared at the sleek, metal Goliath before them. “I have marked a safe area for you to stand, so please, throughout the demonstration stay within the lines.”

    Emi turned, called the golem, and commenced. Everything a capable miner could do, she commanded it to copy. And it did, without qualm, breaks, or fatigue. Soon enough, it started doing the tasks on its own. Pride overwhelmed her as she watched the golem work. Some of the senators chuckled, while others stood awed by its displays of strength. When finished, their robes muffled the applause, but it was there. Soon, no human will have to set foot into these mines.

    Surveying the group, Emi’s pride turned to confusion. They busied themselves with congratulations, all smiles and kind words. It made no sense. She continued to stare at them, puzzled by the act. Then, all at once, she realized why it felt odd. There was no warmth to their smiles. Gleaming teeth spread wide, revealing a pack of blood-thirsty wolves in clothes. Finian was right twice.

    “Brilliant work young Miss, it’s a shame we didn’t get to see more,” the senator beamed.

    “More of what, it’s the perfect miner,” Emi said.

    “Miner? This thing will be the perfect soldier. We do not need you for that, however. Kill her.” Three servants pulled knives from their cloaks and stepped forward.

    Their smiles vanished, replaced with pale, sickly grimaces. Emi knew she only had one chance. “Golem, run,” bounced off the far wall of the pit mine as she bolted through the group of men. Boiling ache sliced across the side of her neck, and she felt something slip down her shirt. Her neck was by far the worst, but not the only blow that struck home. On the other side of them now, she rushed headlong toward the city. Crimson red oozed through dyed fabric—she couldn’t stop, and a steady cloud of dust kicked up behind her. In front, a column of billowing, black smoke rose from somewhere in Airn.

    Finian was waiting for her outside. The smoke she had noticed earlier was the workshop, now an inferno of red and orange. A sadness hung over him, but the look disappeared when he saw her.

    “I’m sorry. Soldiers came while you were gone. Caught me off-guard, took your notes, and set the shop ablaze,” he said. As wounded as she, the gash on his side proved how hard he tried, and that was what mattered.

    “It’s over then. The golem is gone, my research stolen. I can’t help anyone, not even myself,” Emi said.

    “I wouldn’t say that so soon, Miss.” His knotted finger pointed to a nearby alley. Stepping into the light, the iron golem plodded toward them. One of its arms dangled loose on the socket. The other was holding something, and as it moved, the golem's empty gaze met Emi’s. Stopping, its extended arm dropped the locket onto her palm.

    “The golem doesn’t seem worse for wear. We could fix it with ease,” Finian's tone was optimistic.

    “No, I don’t know what the Senate will do with my research, but they won’t be getting anything else from me.” The blaze itself would be hot enough to do the work. “I have one last command for you, golem. Walk into the fire.” It turned, compliant, and stepped into the blaze’s maw. Amid the dancing flame, Emi thought she saw a young girl reach out and take its hand in hers. Then it was gone.

    She rolled the locket about in her hand. Finian had been right a third time. Her words meant nothing when she promised to return his treasure, but no longer. “Here, this belongs to you. With it, your service to me has ended.”

    “No, keep it. The weights we choose to carry define us. I feel I’m not done helping you yet, Emi.”

    Her hand squeezed the locket so tight it hurt. Ash from the fire spiraled toward them in the roaring glow, blotting against fresh tears on her cheeks.

 A short glass of wine, two pieces of ham, and a half loaf of bread sat in front of the boy at the shorn oak table. Everything here was a far-cry better than anything he'd eaten starting out his journey. Outgrowing the change of clothes, a loaf of bread, and the tattered journal in his pack he left with, the truth shined through with a year's retrospection. Each day was hard, working iron and bellows in his apprenticeship, but it was the secondary training which mattered most to him. James had learned his letters-- how to read and write. Orders that came in from all over the valley were much "easier to keep in order on paper." That's what his master said. And for the most part it was true.

The old man was a lush, but he received more requests for iron work than James could've imagined. And it paid off for him in full. Yet, the knowledge and the meal did little to satiate him. Grunts provided the only conversation between the blacksmith and his apprentice during the unkempt solace of their dinner.

"Just another day for him," glazed over the boy's mind as he chewed the last bite of ham. Lifting his plate from the table, James dusted what crumbs he could into Scratches' food bowl. The old hound acknowledged the gift with a low huff and a watchful eye. He set the plate and fork back on the table and exited out the back door.

The evening air, rich with the smell of wildflowers and sounds from the river beckoned for him to remain. "Enjoy the tranquility and freedom," a siren's call which had suited James' disposition for many days before, but a shrill voice floating up to his ears as he walked now. Memories waited for him in the chest next to his bed. It was time to make good on the promise he swore to in his mother's stunted cottage under the gaze of the Talon Peaks. He could finally crack open that dusty journal and pluck its fruits.

Shutting the battered door to his room, James ran his fingers over the notches made to mark the days. Once, he counted them, treating each like a triumph of will, but that time was gone. Pressing himself against the gnarled surface, he contemplated how many notches matched a scar on his back. A moment's hesitation—that's all that stood between him and answers. He crossed the room and pushed aside the creaky bed to reveal his hiding spot. A thick cedar chest glowed in the shards of light striking through the cracks in the wall—a studded tomb baring the way to great riches. Smuggling it from his mother's trunk, the book was a treasure trove, but had a lock unbreakable by any thief's picks. Reading, an art lost on most valley folk, was all he'd needed. It felt as though a year was a bargain for such knowledge. The hinges ached with every inch as he lifted the lid, revealing the journal.

Most would have thought it worthless, chaff compared to the small pile of coins he kept in the chest. In James' hands, the journal held strong by the merit of a few sinew threads. Tears ate jagged paths across its leather exterior, marking a history of danger and violence unseen by the boy's eyes. He stared at the ratty book with reverence, a dependence brewed by desire and grief. However, his interest lies far from the journal's tale of nasty devouring insects and firelight burns, to a secret history held on parchment. A stock of experiences were shared with the journal, breathed into life by the father James could not boast knowing. To him, the dust-caked pages are a tomb indeed, but all tombs should be pillaged now and again. Staring at it now, voices begin to prick at the back of James' mind. A burning hatred flows out of some unknown crag towing malign memories, fatherless as they are harsh. A cruddy book could tell him who 'is father was? What could it know? The man was a no show, cared more of his bookkeeping and wares than a wife and son. No need to read it on the page as well. And he decided that getting killed for that junk was a better solution than coming back alive. James bites back the anxiety and choking hate, slowly moving his hand down the cover of the journal. On it, the golden tree of merchants rests, emblazoned like a golden sun against the dark leather. He had heard it once, the meaning of the tree. Some old, gluttonous men spoke it in passing as they ordered three horses be shoed by his master. "Honor and respect cultivate bountiful profits." James never understood how honor and respect could be so rotten inside. Again, James pushes beyond reproach and opens the cover of the journal. The first half-dozen pages are faded, barely legible from time and trauma. The first page free from corruption took James a short while to decipher the hand, but looked to be many years old. With a deep breath, James began to take it all in.

Third Moon of Wolf's Spring

Today is nearing the halfway mark of our journey. We passed through the small village of Meadow's Down today. Children poked there little eyes through cracks and tall grass to stare as we passed through. The adults on the other hand had seen this all before. A caravan of wares going to the Golden City is no stranger a picture than pigs rolling in slop. To children though, a group of ten carts and just as many shiny-armored sell-swords is a parade befitting the king. We all smiled and rode by, only stopping at the edge of town to barter for some extra bread at the mill. Things were uneventful all through the afternoon. But in the valleys, peace and tranquility is always the norm. Communities have sparse gold to spare for robbers, aside from the ample grain produced up and down the hillsides. No one would be stupid enough to rob someone for wheat and nothing else, for the wheat would spoil and the nothing couldn't be traded away. We set up camp at nightfall just south of Treader's Glen, but the help seemed smart enough not to build their fire too big. A lot of "bright" men have lost their lives to the things living in the woods of the north, but these men learn lessons fast, and heed warnings even faster. The merchants sat around their campfire in quiet solitude, probably worshipping the god of money, hoping for protection and settling for minimal losses. I chose to sit with the sell-swords instead. They were by far more interesting, and equally as useful in case at attack occurred during the night. A man named Greymoon, elected the leader of the sell-swords during this "campaign" (their word, not mine,) decided the dull silence was a bit too much to bear and started a small pool of silvers to gamble. Although he could have been morbid and placed the bet on a pool of how many would die or who would slay the most beasts, Greymoon seemed rather civilized in making the bet about who could tell the best story. After proclaiming this joust of words, the group turned upon me to begin our tournament, as though I was king of the rabble. They pressed me, as the highest born of the group (many of them were carpenter's sons and orphans) to start our round of tales. As I sat in the limelight of the flames, each flicker peeled back layers of tales and histories I've learned over the years to one tale. I doubted at the time that this would earn me the trove of silvers collected (I thought it about 20,) but it rang true through my life and deserved a good telling. My father, in his towering greatness as a merchant and orator, one night sat me down after all his work was done. We sat about the flame of the family fire, and he began a story that I'm certain will last me till I die.

Light begins to filter through the cracks of James' room, telling the boy that dusk was taking its toll. Each beam of light, precious to the prospect of James' reading, shifts about through the holes in the wall. He understood each aspects of the light as separate entities, some more forgiving in their angle, while others quickly cast their long shadow-less forms skyward with little mercy. James moved the candle on his stand closer and struck some sparkstone to birth a flame. Its bubbly, little body fights valiantly against the grasping blades of dwindling dusk that pierce the room. James understood that soon the flame would be all he needed, all he had to continue the prospect of understanding his father; and he was glad to have it. Continuing to read the journal entry, the story his father told to the mercenaries began.

"Long, long ago, before any man or child knew the touch of the land, the mother earth gave birth to her many children. Of all the lakes. plains, mountain, and vallleys, the earth gave birth to the hills last. And while she mitigated many tasks to her children, none was as important as the task she gave to the hills. This task, pronounced first in her hallowed tongue, was to coral and guard the earth's children from one another, and to guide the waters of life from their birth on the mountains to their home in the great sea of Mort'illan. For ages, the hills prided their duty to mother earth, guiding the way by flower and fauna. Their efforts were maintained by speech, not in man's word, but through the melody of wind cascading through tall grass and from squeaking creature. Each tune was a masterpiece of its birth, caught by beast and spray, each clever enough to mark the song as the proper course. Although the sky, mountains, and valleys each had their tune, water was able to seek out the word of the hills and follow the path laid out for it to the sea. And so it went for hundreds of years. But one year, in the blistering of spring, a man in a dusty, bent cap came to the hills and the rivers. His beard was as grey as time itself, and his robes were parched with the ages, but his mind and tongue were quick as lightning in a storm. This man, who passed through village and dale quickly came to the hills as old as time and spoke to them in their own tongue. He sat and conversed of many things, such as "where the weather comes from" and "how earth gave out her tasks", but he was never quite satisfied with the answers the hills gave him. So one day, while conversing with the hills, the man removed his cap to reveal a long, flowing mane of grey hair. He talked awhile with the hills, but eventually stopped, waving his hand in front of his face.

The hills, curious of this act, asked the man, "why do you wave your hand in front of your face?"

In reply, the man told them, "because it is quite hot out, are you not hot hills? My hair and my cap keep me cool from the sun during this time of the day, but I have noticed that your head is bald. Is it not hot for you?"

The hills, not wise to the ways of man proclaimed, "Indeed it is hot for me, but I know no other way to be than hot, so I have come to accept it."

Slyly, the man responded, "You could easily make yourself a cap just like mine my friend hill, for you have command over the grass, fllower, and tree. Why not place a few wide trees upon your head to keep cool like my cap does for me?"

The hills thought upon this for stretch of time, all the while having the sun beat down upon them in its noon-time splendor. "I think you are right friend, I'm sure we all would enjoy to have a cap just like yours to keep off the heat." With that, each of the hills sprouted willows, oaks, birches, all the trees of one's imagination upon their peaks, growing them until their branches spread wide and covered the hills in a nice shade. Once this was finished, the hills nestled back into their calm and unaware mood. Then, from underneath the hair, beard, robes of the man came a chuckle, shallow at first until it built into a hearty laugh. It rolled about the hills, raising them from their naive slumber. "Why do you laugh so, friend?"

"I laugh so because you can hear me laugh so. Can you not hear it yourself? How could one, just one man be heard so by all the hills? I shall give you a moment to ponder, friend."

A rising tide of questions climbed the hills, until at last it peaked and poured over into a realization. It was quiet on the hillsides. The animals, so content until now in their reeds and wildflowers by the water were now all hiding within the forests at the hilltop. No wind could be felt tumbling about in melody any more, for the trees were too dense to let it pass. Silence, a growing silence had replaced the cacophony among the hills. With the realization, the hills became furious, quaking at their friend who had done such a thing.

Calmly, the man rose from his resting spot and casting off his cloak and beard revealed the truth to the hills. He was no man, but a fox. The clever little trickster had shown his true colors, and with a final chuckle bounded off into the wilds. Before long, the fox was beyond the reach of the quakes and curses, and all that was left for the hills was silence. Eventually, the quakes tempered into rumbles, then into grumbles. The curses lost their flavor, made hollow by their lack of a target. Lament replaced rage in the hills' hearts, for they knew that the cruel joke played on them could not be fixed. In growing their caps, the hills made the trees strong and bountiful, entangling roots deep into their bodies and shooting branches throughout the sky. Time passed, and the hills grew accustomed to silence while their tree hats continued to dig deeper and spread wider. Years passed in quiet, until one day many years later as the sun reached its zenith. While the hills dozed in the mid-day sun and dreamed of their lost melodies, a wind began to rise and spread through the hills. With it, a gentle rustle began to trickle down from the trees until it reach the ears of the hills below, which stirred and pondered the source of this noise. As each woke, the noise grew in volume, until the wind strengthened and blasted a new melody through the treetops. The rustle sang out, shaking out sweet notes of hollow branches and shifting leaves. Each of the hills looked up upon their shady canopies, rejoicing at the return of noise to their home. And for the first time, the trees spoke to the hills, telling them, "we may have started as a jest of the fox, but now you hills can rest again in joy, cradled by the lullaby of our boughs."

Finishing the tale, I looked up at the sell-swords to not see faces gratified by the story I told, but a gaggle of mocking grins. They held back their laughter at my expense no longer, and I knew that I was quite done with them for the night.

"Boy!" A sharp cry echoed through James' room, a sign that the master had finished his wine, and now required a steady navigator to his bed. But James couldn't pull himself away from the journal. Steady streams tumbled over his cheeks, bedding themselves in the straw mat. They wouldn't stop, and James didn't feel like stopping them.

"James!" Another cry rang out, exalting a patience that had run its course. Rising, the boy shoves the journal back in its nest and runs from the room.