The Crown That Smirked — By the smoky door of the woodland forge, Fintan filed the last loop of a crown he had hammered from scrap brass, humming whenever the tool rasped cleanly. Read the full story →
By the smoky door of the woodland forge, Fintan filed the last loop of a crown he had hammered from scrap brass, humming whenever the tool rasped cleanly. He wanted each knot to show his own hand, crooked charm and all. An acorn rolled off an oak branch, popped open, and a tiny sprite stepped out wearing soot like war paint. “Your dragons are too serious,” she said, and pressed two thumbprints into their snouts. Fintan laughed, chased the marks with his graver, and the dragons seemed to smirk. At dusk, brass, oak, and mischief shone together by the smoky door.
