The Moon Rider of Lysmere

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When the moon turns round and silver over Lysmere, shadows wander through the forest, making no sound. But that night, a sound was heard, faint, like the clanking of small gears—the sound of Nirrek, the goblin child who could never sit still. Nirrek was no ordinary forest dweller. He wore a leather breastplate from which hung tiny tools, and on his shoulder gleamed a medallion that glowed briefly with each breath. This light was the heart of his invention—Tarruk, a mechanical lizard mount constructed of copper plates, brass scales, and a soul of ancient thunder. Together they roamed the paths between bracken and mist, where fireflies danced like fragments of stars. Tarruk moved silently, only the faint ticking within him betraying that he was not made of flesh. "A little farther, my friend," murmured Nirrek. "If we reach the moon's tip in time, I can catch the light before it fades." Moonlight in Lysmere wasn't just a semblance. It was a substance that could be seen, felt, and—with enough courage—even shaped. Nirrek had read about it in a book he once stole from the Tower of Forgotten Clockmakers. "Moonlight, caught at the right moment, can heal time," it said. And Nirrek wanted to do just that: repair his father's clock, which hadn't ticked since his disappearance. The path led them to an old bridge, overgrown with roots. Tarruk stopped. From the darkness came a rustling sound too large for wind. Nirrek reached for the hilt of his small hooked dagger, but Tarruk only tilted his head slightly. His eyes, made of amber, illuminated the path. Between the roots, something shimmered—a mirror of mist so thin that one could see through it. On the other side: the moon itself, vast and much closer than it had any right to be. "This is it," whispered Nirrek. "The threshold of the night hours." He pulled out a glass tube, fine as a flute's note. "I need only a drop." But no sooner had he dipped the tube into the veil of light than the ground trembled. The moon's shadow contracted as if it were breathing. A voice, gentle and ancient, echoed through the forest. "You steal, little blacksmith. Do you know who the light belongs to?" Nirrek raised his head defiantly. "To the one who knows how to guard it!" "And you think you know that?" He looked down at Tarruk. "I gave him life. I can also guard the light." A moment of silence. Then a gust of wind tore through the leaves, and the fog mirror shattered—but from the shards flowed not glass, but light itself, dripping like liquid silver. Tarruk reared up, and Nirrek clung to his neck. Together they raced through the forest, pursued by the trembling light of the awakening moon, whose rays they tried to catch like silver threads. "Hold on!" Nirrek shouted, and Tarruk gasped, his clockwork glowing.