The Bronze Heart in Frostforge Workshop: Act 1, Scene 1

Awareness came slowly. First as sensation—weight and pressure against what I somehow knew to be my back. Then as sound—the quiet breathing of someone nearby, the distant murmur of voices from the street below, the steady rhythm of a clock measuring seconds with mechanical precision.

Only then did light filter in, revealing the world piece by piece. Wooden rafters stretched overhead, their grain patterns like rivers seen from great heights. Shelves lined the walls, laden with tools whose purposes I knew without knowing how I knew. A workbench occupied the center of the room, its surface scarred by years of use—burns from soldering irons, stains from chemical compounds, notches from slipped tools.

And there was the man, slumped in a chair beside me. Silver threaded his dark hair at the temples, though his face suggested he wasn't yet old by human standards. Deep shadows pooled beneath his eyes, and his breathing came shallow and uneven.

I observed him without moving, without alerting him to my consciousness. This seemed important somehow—to watch, to learn, to understand before revealing myself. Minutes passed as I cataloged details: the worn leather of his apron, the calluses on his hands, the slight tremor in his fingers even in rest.

Nils: Can you hear me?

The words weren't a question. He knew, somehow, that my awareness had developed. I considered how to respond, feeling the mechanisms of speech within me—bellows and pipes, something like a throat but crafted of metal and crystal.

Me: Yes.

My voice surprised me—resonant with a depth that seemed incongruous with my brass construction. The man—Nils, I knew without being told—straightened in his chair, wincing slightly at the movement.

Nils: How do you feel?

An odd question to ask a puppet. Yet it didn't feel wrong. I lifted my hand, watching brass fingers catch the lantern light. Each digit moved smoothly except the smallest, which stuttered halfway through its motion.

Nils: Still not right.

He leaned forward, pressing the crystal-tipped tool to the problematic joint. When it touched my brass skin, I felt more than physical adjustment—a subtle transfer of something essential between us. His complexion paled slightly, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening as he worked.

Through the frost-rimmed window beyond him, I observed the town of Klovenberg preparing for something significant. Workers assembled a wooden platform in the town square while merchants hung colorful banners between buildings.

A brass puppet moved methodically along the street, hanging lanterns with rigid precision. Another swept snow from the cobblestones with rhythmic, programmed movements. Children darted around them, occasionally poking at their metal limbs before being shooed away by watchful parents.

My attention divided between the scene outside and Nils's work on my hand. With each adjustment, I felt myself becoming more—not just mechanically improved, but somehow more present, more aware. Fractured impressions flickered through my consciousness—memories that weren't mine, knowledge I shouldn't possess.

A boy laughing, running toward a bonfire.

The taste of sweet bread dusted with cinnamon.

The memory of labored breathing growing weaker by the hour.

These fragments vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving me unsettled. I focused again on the workshop, grounding myself in the tangible present.

The walls were lined with puppets in various stages of completion—some merely brass skeletons revealing their inner workings, others fully encased. A thick layer of dust covered most of them, suggesting they had been abandoned mid-creation some time ago.

Nils: There. Try now.

I flexed my smallest finger. It moved perfectly, matching the grace of its companions.

Me: Thank you.

Nils gave a half-smile.

Nils: Don't thank me. I'm the one who left it faulty to begin with.

The workshop had grown darker as evening approached. Nils lit an additional lamp, its warm glow revealing intricate designs etched into the brass panels of my chest—symbols I couldn't decipher despite an inexplicable certainty that they were significant. They were unlike the simple marks I could see on the unfinished puppets.

Outside, a lamp-lighter puppet was making its rounds, extending its mechanical arm to each street lamp in turn. Its movements were precise but rigid, following a predetermined pattern without deviation. I watched it with curious detachment, noting how different its motions were from my own fluid gestures.

Three sharp knocks at the door startled us both. Nils straightened.

Sigrid: Nils Malmgren! I know you're in there!

Nils's eyes met mine, a silent command passing between us. I understood without being told: I should refrain from speaking. He quickly covered me with a heavy cloth, plunging my world into darkness.

Nils: Just a moment!

Through the fabric, I heard him cross the workshop. The door hinges protested as he opened them, allowing cooler air to sweep inside. With it came new scents—baking bread, woodsmoke, approaching snow.

Sigrid: Two town meetings you've missed now. The festival committee is beginning to think you've left Klovenberg altogether.

Her voice carried warmth despite its chastising tone. Fabric rustled, followed by the thud of something heavy being set on the workbench.

Nils: I've been busy.

Sigrid: Too busy to eat? There's barely anything left of you, Nils.

Footsteps approached my position—lighter than Nils's, with a slight hesitation every fourth step, as if favoring one leg. The cloth covering me shifted, then lifted away entirely. I found myself looking into eyes green as summer leaves, set in a face framed by copper-red hair. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks.

The girl—Sigrid, another name I somehow knew instinctively—examined me curiously. Her gaze lingered on my face longer than seemed necessary for casual observation.

Sigrid: So this is what's kept you locked away all these weeks.

Nils moved to stand beside her, his presence creating a strange tension in the room's atmosphere.

Nils: His name is Brynjar.

Sigrid's expression shifted subtly.

Sigrid: Brynjar?

Her gaze moved between Nils and me, recognition dawning in her features.

Sigrid: For your apprentice showcase?

Nils: Master Einarsson was specific about the requirements. They need it done before the festival.

Sigrid: Which is still a month away. You have plenty of time…

She moved to an unfinished puppet against the wall, running her fingers along its basic brass frame.

Sigrid: This is more what I expected for an apprentice project. Simple, functional. But that—

She gestured toward me, her expression thoughtful.

Sigrid: That's Master-level craftsmanship, Nils. The articulation alone... it moves like—

Nils: Like it's supposed to. Master Einarsson provided detailed specifications.

Sigrid didn't look convinced, but she moved to the window. Twilight had descended over Klovenberg, but the activity in the town square continued under newly lit lanterns. Brass puppets worked alongside humans, carrying materials, holding tools, performing the simple repetitive tasks they were designed for.

Sigrid: I'll be going on a supply run tomorrow. You should come. Get some fresh air.

Nils: But the shop—

Sigrid: Frostforge will be fine. My father can watch over it while we're gone.

Nils: …I’ll think about it.

Nils sighs, his attention now fixed on unpacking the basket she had brought—bread still warm from the oven, soup in a sealed container, preserved fruit in a small jar.

Seemingly satisfied by his response, Sigrid moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch.

Sigrid: Promise me you'll eat something tonight.

Nils nodded without speaking. After she departed, silence reclaimed the workshop save for the steady ticking of the mechanical clock on the wall.

Me: She was kind.

My observation seemed to startle Nils. Perhaps he had forgotten momentarily that I could speak, could form independent thoughts—that I was unlike the standard puppets that populated Klovenberg's streets.

Nils: Sigrid has always been kind. Even when I don't deserve it.

He returned to my side, reaching again for the blue-tipped tool. Though my finger now moved correctly, he examined the joint with careful attention.

Nils: I should reinforce this connection. It might slip again.

As he worked, I observed him more closely—the slight paleness of his skin, the way he sometimes paused as if gathering strength.

Me: You seem tired.

Nils: I'm just working long hours. No need to worry about me.

He continued working in silence as night deepened outside the workshop windows. The distant sounds of festival preparation gradually faded as villagers returned to their homes. Outside, the street puppets continued their work, indifferent to the hour, their brass forms gleaming in the moonlight.

Eventually, Nils set down his tools and moved to the basket Sigrid had brought. He ate mechanically, without apparent enjoyment, like someone performing a necessary task rather than satisfying hunger.

Me: What is the festival?

The question emerged from growing curiosity about the world beyond the workshop's windows.

Nils paused, bread halfway to his mouth.

Nils: Harvest celebration. Tradition in Klovenberg since before the Great Thaw.

Me: You don't want to attend.

It wasn't a question. His reluctance had been evident in his exchange with Sigrid.

Nils set down his food, appetite apparently gone.

Nils: The festival was... it was Leif's favorite time of year.

The name sent a ripple through my awareness—recognition without context, significance without explanation. Another fragment surfaced from the depths of consciousness:

A small hand reaching up toward falling snow.

A voice calling out a name.

The scent of burning wood and roasting chestnuts.

Nils watched me closely, as if sensing my internal disturbance.

Nils: Do you... remember anything when I say that name?

The question confused me. How could I remember someone I had never met? Yet something stirred within me at the name—not memory precisely, but an emotion.

Me: Who is Leif?

Pain flashed across Nils's features, but he quickly attempted to mask it with a forced smile.

Nils: Nevermind. It's late. I should rest for tomorrow.

He moved toward the window, gazing at the street below where the lamp-lighter puppet had completed its circuit. Its task complete, it powered down for the night, its brass form motionless until the next evening's rounds.

Nils: Goodnight, Brynjar.

After he ascended the narrow stairs to his bedroom, I remained aware, processing all I had observed and learned over the brief moment of my existence.

Frostforge. Nils. Sigrid. Leif. The names drifted through me like half-remembered verses from a song. Brynjar, however, felt foreign and dissonant—a lyric altered by years of retelling.

And in that dissonance, a question began to take shape, quiet and persistent: What was I?