N4

In the quiet hush of dawn, when the roosters crowed and mist clung to the thatch, young Elric rose from his straw bed with a singular quest: to tame the morning orb. He ventured to the hen’s roost, where the warm treasure lay nestled like a dragon’s pearl beneath feathers and fluff. With reverence, he cradled it in his palm, as if it held the wisdom of the ancients. At the hearth, he summoned flame with flint and patience, whispering a chant taught by his grandmother, who claimed it could coax flavor from the gods. The orb was placed upon a flat stone, warmed by fire’s breath, and Elric watched as its shell grew weary and gave way. A golden river spilled forth, dancing and firming like enchanted silk under the sun’s gaze. He turned it gently with a twig, careful not to anger the spirits of the flame. When the scent rose—a blend of earth and morning promise—he knew the ritual was complete. Elric took his prize to the wooden table, where he broke his fast with pride and a nod to the old ways. Thus, the day began, not with sword or spell, but with the humble triumph of a well-cooked orb.