The Phoenix Mage
The Phoenix Mage
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Hans rested in the low cradle of the western hills, where long stretches of farmland rolled beneath open skies and pale rivers wound through the earth like silver veins. No walls surrounded the town, no towering gates or grand statues announcing its importance to the world. Travelers often passed through Hans without remembering they had seen it at all. It was small, quiet, and stubbornly ordinary.
The road leading into town was little more than packed dirt hardened by wagon wheels and years of footsteps. In the warmer seasons it carried the scent of dry grass and livestock, while in the colder months it dissolved into thick mud that clung to boots and wagon axles alike. Thin fences of crooked wood lined the outer fields where farmers worked from dawn until the fading of the evening light. Wheat bent gently beneath the wind in golden waves, interrupted only by grazing cattle, worn scarecrows, and the occasional lonely tree standing against the horizon.
The town itself was built close together, as though the homes sought comfort in one another’s presence. Most of the buildings were made from aged timber darkened by rain and smoke, their roofs layered with faded shingles and patches of moss that crept slowly over the years. Stone chimneys leaned slightly with age, exhaling pale ribbons of smoke into the cool air each morning. During rainfall, water dripped steadily from the roof edges into narrow trenches carved beside the roads.
Hans never bustled the way larger cities did. It breathed slowly.
The mornings began with familiar sounds rather than noise: the groaning of wagon wheels, the distant crow of roosters, axes striking wood, and the soft clang of the blacksmith’s hammer echoing from beneath his open forge awning. Lanterns hanging outside homes and shops dimmed one by one as the sun rose over the hills, washing the town in muted gold.
At the center of Hans stood a modest market square paved with uneven stone. It was not impressive enough to be called beautiful, yet it carried the warmth of routine and community. Farmers sold bundles of vegetables still carrying traces of soil. Bakers displayed fresh loaves upon wooden tables covered with flour dust. Hunters arrived with rabbits, deer pelts, and stories exaggerated more with each telling. Children darted recklessly between crowded stalls while exhausted mothers shouted warnings no one listened to.
Nothing in Hans was polished. Nothing was luxurious.
The people wore patched coats and work-worn boots stained by dirt and rain. Their hands were rough from labor, their backs bent from years spent harvesting fields, carrying lumber, or repairing homes after storms rolled through the valley. Yet despite the hardships, there remained an unmistakable sense of closeness among them. Everyone knew everyone. Names were remembered. Losses were shared. When a roof collapsed during winter, neighbors rebuilt it together before the next snowfall arrived. When illness spread, meals appeared quietly at doorsteps without needing to be asked for.
At night, Hans transformed.
The streets dimmed beneath amber lanternlight while the distant sounds of insects and river water filled the silence between conversations. Tavern windows glowed warmly against the darkness, spilling laughter, music, and the scent of roasted meat into the cold evening air. Older men gathered around scarred wooden tables speaking of harvests, soldiers, and legends they barely believed anymore. Outside, the wind drifted softly through the narrow roads, carrying the smell of chimney smoke and rain-soaked earth beneath the stars.
Beyond the town stretched forests thick with pine and ancient oak, their dark silhouettes rising along the hills like silent guardians. Few people traveled deep within them willingly. Stories lingered there—old stories involving wandering spirits, vanished travelers, and distant remnants of forgotten Worlwinders buried beneath the roots of the world. Most dismissed such tales as nonsense meant to frighten children indoors before dark.
Hans itself cared little for legends.
It was a town concerned with surviving winter, repairing fences, harvesting crops, and waking up again the next morning. The people did not dream of crowns, prophecies, or the politics of Shan-Aed and Hara-Niad. Those belonged to distant lands and powerful people, far removed from simple lives lived beside quiet rivers and muddy roads.
And perhaps that was what made Hans special.
In a world shaped by Worlwinds, war, and destiny, Hans remained painfully human. A small flicker of ordinary life untouched by grandeur.
The kind of place no one expected the Phoenix Mage to come from.