Emberwright of Burrowforge

They say the Easter eggs of Burrowforge aren’t painted—they’re forged. Beneath the lanternlit canopy, the Emberwright strikes each shell with careful precision, coaxing out sparks of memory, laughter, and spring’s first warmth.

Every egg glows with its own intent. Some hum with mischief. Some shimmer with hope. And some, like the one being shaped now, carry the quiet weight of something long awaited.

He doesn’t look up. Not yet. Magic, after all, requires attention.