Lullaby from the Fire (Songs of Crimisa #1)

Forged in Fire

CRACK!

A branch snapped beneath Collin’s foot, and he clung tighter to the rough bark. The old oak tree groaned under his weight, threatening to break, but he didn’t stop. He had to see it for himself.

Higher and higher he climbed, ignoring the sting of bark-scraped palms. His mother’s warning echoed in his mind, “Don’t climb too high.” But curiosity burned hotter than fear.

At last, he reached a break in the canopy. He shoved his hair from his eyes and peered northward. Smoke veiled the normally clear sky, thick grey plumes billowing to blot out the stars.

The scent of ash burned his nostrils—acrid and choking in his lungs. His breath caught in his throat as he wiped the tears from his azure eyes.

North Town was on fire. Would the beautiful lake burn away? Where would Father teach him to go sailing? Would Mother still be able to buy her shoes from her favorite cobbler shop? Where would the animals go if the forest burned?

Then—a creak below. A soft thud.

“Collin, sweetheart?” His mother’s voice floated through the branches. “It’s time for bed.”

Still frozen with worry atop his perch, he whispered, “North Town is on fire.”

“Yes, my love. Come down now. Or I shall send your brother up after you.”

Collin hesitated, then glanced back once more at the blazing horizon. He wasn’t ready to come down. Not yet. But Mother’s voice was warm and sure and safe. He climbed down, yearning for the feel of her comforting touch.

The ground welcomed him with lush grass and rich soil. Around him, the meadow gladly offered its gifts. The crickets sang a symphony of love songs in the tall grasses, and the soft breeze whispered through the treetops, accompanying the jovial melody in perfect harmony.

It was a land that lived and breathed, a place where the sky and earth were entwined in an endless dalliance, where starlight serenaded the night. But tonight, the heavens were veiled in smoke, the meadow’s song muted in uncertainty.

“There’s a fire,” he said again, his voice trembling.

Squeezing his hand, she led him to their cabin. "It’s nothing for you to worry about, my darling.”

Their cozy house sat in a narrow meadow, cradled by forest and watched over by a towering oak. Its branches shaded the roof in summer and held warmth close in winter. A crooked fence carved out a wide and wandering yard.

Now in spring, the yard brimmed with wildflowers—bright, untamed things—and soft grasses that shimmered in the breeze. Each season brought its turn: sun-thick summer blooms, autumn’s quiet gathering of strength, winter’s hush beneath snow. And then, always, the first golden breath of spring.

Inside the little cabin, Collin’s mother tucked him into bed beside his brother. She drew the curtains, closing out the hazy night sky. Her touch was soft and sure as she combed her fingers through her son’s hair, a quiet rhythm that eased him toward sleep.

“Don’t forget to say your prayers,” she whispered.

Collin frowned. “Why must we pray?”

"Because it helps to say your worries out loud.”

“Mam”—Collin grasped his mother’s hand—“can you tell me the story of our mountain?”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, making it groan beneath her weight.

“You’ve heard that story a hundred times, my love,” she said with a sigh—half exasperation, half affection—but she couldn’t hide the smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

“Close your eyes, darling...”

“My father told me the story of how our mountain came to be. Long before I was born, before his father and his father’s father, when the world was still young, a jagged piece of land broke through the surface of the sea.

Formed in the clash of fire and water, born of terrible violence, the great mountain rose slowly from the deep, vast ocean.

“At first, only birds found their way to this lonely place, but they came bearing seeds from distant lands. Before long, towering trees rooted themselves in the rich volcanic soil, and the mountain was cloaked in growing things.

“Then a great sheet of ice covered the earth. Land-loving creatures crossed that frozen sea and found their way to the mountain’s edge. When the ice began to melt, it left deep scars—carving lakes, valleys, and jagged cliffs into the stone.

“The people who had journeyed over that ice gave this place a name, Crimisa. Life here was hard. The shifting seasons were wild and cruel, and many lives were lost at first. But they were strong, those first settlers. Hardy and stubborn. The ones who survived scattered through the mountain range and built their homes in its folds, founding the many villages that still stand today.”

Collin’s body was heavy with the setting of the sun, but his mind was still wide awake—filled with worries. "Would the fire reach Chroma? What happens to the rest of the world if...”

“Oh, darling! You need not worry yourself with such things!”

Collin squirmed out of his mother’s embrace. “How big is our world?”

“Our home is surrounded by valleys and coastline, but Crimisa itself is vaster than I could ever describe. There are still corners of our forests untouched by human footsteps, and mysteries sleeping in the depths of shadowed pools, waiting to be discovered. But far beyond our home, we are only a tiny gem in a vast crown. There are regions of the sky no eye has yet seen, and places so deep in the sea that creatures as large as islands drift silently in the dark.”

“Are there people living beyond Crimisa?” he asked.

“Oh yes, my love,” she whispered. “There are many cozy cabins nestled in woods, each with its own little garden. There are warm dinners cooking on hearths and quilts being stitched with steady hands. Starry-eyed lovers are falling into each other’s arms beneath lantern light, wedding arches are being strung with flowers.

And just like in our family, there are mothers tucking their little ones into bed, and fathers showing their eager children how to read and write, guiding their fingers gently across the page. ”

"Mam," said Collin’s older brother, his face a light in the glow of the candle.

She reached over Collin and tucked the blankets tighter around Connor. She stroked his hair. “What is it, my darling?”

“When is Da coming home?”

Collin brightened. “Can we wait for Da to come home?”

"Da won’t be home for a while.” Her voice was somber, but in the dim candlelight, Collin couldn’t make out Mother’s expression.

Brother’s voice was worried as he said, “But Da missed dinner.”

"Don’t worry yourself about it, Connor, sweetheart. Your father will come home when he does. Go to sleep now, both of you, and let good dreams find you." Mother blew out the candle on their bedside table. She closed the bedroom door, throwing the boys into impenetrable darkness.

Sometime in the night, Collin woke to the sound of voices drifting from the front room. His brother Connor was still snoring softly beside him, undisturbed. Except for a thin beam of moonlight slipping through the small window, the room was wrapped in darkness.

Father’s voice was shaking.

It was muffled by the closed door, but Collin could hear it clearly enough—he was crying.

“I killed a man,” his father wept. “He had two children... How will I look myself in the mirror now?”

“You had to, Jiah!” Mother’s voice rose, raw and trembling. “They would have killed you otherwise!”

“Oh, Ismene... this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”

Collin yanked the blanket up over his head, heart pounding, but it couldn’t keep the voices out—mother crying, father shouting, then both of them quieting into grief.

Their words were broken, heavy, strange.

He didn’t understand all of it, but he understood enough to know something terrible had happened.

A lump swelled in his throat, tight and aching. His chest felt heavy, like his heart was falling. He pulled his pillow over his head, pressing it down hard until the voices faded into muffled echoes. Eventually, sleep returned—but it did not come gently.

That night, Collin dreamed of the world breaking apart, of deep chasms splitting open beneath his feet, glowing with liquid fire; of mountains rising all around, hemming him in between rivers of flame.

Sheets of ice chased him across the land, slow and silent, and then came a blaze so fierce it devoured everything—until the whole world turned to ash.

Gray clouds had rolled in at dawn, bringing with them a cold, needling rain. The sharp scent of churned-up soil and wet wool lingered in the air like a breath that wouldn’t ease.

Collin and Connor stood patiently in line. They’d been waiting all morning for their family’s weekly meal allowance. Collin tugged at the collar of his cloak, which clung damply to his neck, making his skin itch. To make matters worse, Mother had told him not to let go of Connor’s hand.

He shook the wet hair from his eyes and tried not to shiver, but the chill sank deep, and his limbs wouldn’t stay still.

Around him, the village square blurred with mist. Smoke drifted up from North Town, still smoldering in the valley below, and the sharp, bitter smell of burned timber clung to the rain.

A tickle rose in his throat, and he coughed.

Farther up the line, Collin caught sight of his best friend. His heart lifted. He waved, and Aries waved back just as eagerly.

But the day refused to brighten. Instead, the sky pressed lower, the rain falling harder.

Villagers scurried through the square with hunched shoulders and hurried steps.

No vendors called out. No one lingered. The market stalls stood shuttered and empty, and even the bravest souls seemed to have vanished into the gray.

A boy with a mop of rain-soaked chestnut hair crept into the line. No one seemed to notice his stealthy arrival. He grinned roguishly as he came to stand just behind Collin and Connor.

Collin grinned back at once, but Connor eyed the boy with quiet suspicion.