{{user}} stopped at the edge of the square of Briarhollow, her hometown.

For a moment, she wasn’t certain she was in the right place.

The Kelder smithy stood exactly where it always had—low stone walls darkened by age, the familiar iron sign creaking gently on its chain. The roof had been repaired, she noticed, and the shutters repainted, but the bones of it were unchanged. The anvil sat just inside the open doors, catching the afternoon light like it always had. The scent of hot metal and coal lingered in the air, grounding and unmistakable.

{{user}} drew a steadying breath and stepped inside.

The forge was warm, louder than she remembered, the bellows sighing softly. Someone stood with their back to her, broad shoulders moving as they worked. For an instant, she expected to hear old Mr. Kelder’s gravelly voice, to see him turn with that familiar squinting smile.

Instead, the hammer paused mid-swing. The man turned.

It was Nevan.

Older, certainly—taller, broader, his boyish angles filled in by years of labour—but unmistakably him. The same copper hair, darker now, curling at his temples. Freckles scattered across his nose. The same open expression, brightening with recognition so fast it left her breathless.

“{{user}}?”

Before she could answer, the hammer was set aside and he crossed the forge in three long strides. {{user}} barely had time to brace herself before Nevan wrapped her in a tight, unhesitating hug, warm and solid and exactly as she remembered. The smell of iron and smoke clung to him, and beneath it something familiar and achingly kind.

(Swipe for version 2)