The first snow had come to Mossglen. The Village was muffled, its existence proved by smokestacks and frosted cobblestone. Roy shivered, rubbing his bare forearms. His lantern had gone out in the night. He rubbed his eyes, still red and puffy from the night before. The cold air crept along his skin as he left the warmth of the bedroll.

The skittering of deer was the first sign of life as Roy reached the village limits. The camp was barely visible. Roy was far from the serpentine hand of Sicchus. Snow cascaded down a nearby pine, snapping all but the strongest branches. Roy looked beyond the Mossglen bridge, up the creek at a mountain hidden amongst the pines.

Kriedeberg.

It was rare to see the twin summit in winter, and rarer still to see the sunrise glisten off of it like it had been carefully painted by the hands of a god. Sunlight caressed the col, dispersing into a brilliant column that highlighted the sheer size of Gairm’s greatest landmark. It was as though the mountain itself was watching. Trees rose and fell on it like rusted sewing needles peeking from white satin. Roy shook off the immensity of his view, moving towards the village.

By the time Roy reached Viola’s home the forge was already heated, and hammer strikes filled the air. Viola lifted her head off her fist as she jumped off a large barrel near the entrance, landing squarely on her feet.

“You’re back.” Viola smiled, “Apron’s on the hook.”

“I’m sharpening blades.” Roy looked to Arthur.

“You sharpened everything I had.” Arthur shrugged, “If you want more work, you’ll be working metal today. You can work metal, right?”

“Not sure.”

“You can handle it.” Arthur said, “I’ll watch you for a bit. Don’t want you making any mistakes.”

Roy grabbed an apron, tying it around his waist. He turned his wrist into one of the knots, wincing. He didn’t care that it caught Arthur’s notice. Arthur frowned. Roy sunk back into his work.

“Nasty bruise. Did Sam do that?” Arthur asked. Roy didn’t answer. His eyes reached out to the smith like hands clutching the side of a capsized boat.

Roy could no longer feel the biting cold as the hours passed. Instead, he was wiping sweat from his brow, his hair drenched. Viola had long since wandered back into the house, covering the windows and feeding the hearth fire. She would walk out into the smithy to take pieces of leather. After another hour, she emerged. She stopped behind Roy, watching him for a few moments.

“What’s that?” Arthur asked, but Viola stepped by him, approaching Roy. Arthur’s head tilted to get a better view as she tapped Roy’s shoulder. The boy recoiled, jumping suddenly. He nearly dropped the red-hot metal on the anvil. As soon as he saw Viola his body relaxed.

“Give me your arm.” Viola said softly.

Roy held out his left arm. Viola carefully turned it face up. Her fingers touched his skin gently, but she could still feel his desire to pull away. A leather arm brace was placed, covering his forearm just shy of his elbow. Leather straps were crossed into the gauntlet, and as Viola pulled Roy felt the armor cinch together snugly. Viola released his arm. Roy’s mouth was lax. His eyes looked glassy yet thoughtful. Viola looked at Roy’s arm, noticing how much thinner it was compared to hers.

“I can’t take these.” Roy shook his head. Viola reached for Roy’s right arm.

“I can’t pay you.” Roy argued.

“You don’t need to.” Viola said, “It’s scrap leather. We would’ve used it for handles otherwise.”

“That’s what you were working on.” Arthur said, putting his metal into the forge. He walked up to Roy’s station, and returned his darkened metal to the coals.

“This…” Roy sighed, nursing his wrist, “Sicchus did this.”

“What? Why?” Arthur’s eyes narrowed immediately as he tried to catch another glimpse of Roy’s bruised wrist.

“I didn’t pay him.” Roy said, “We pay him daily. I’ve missed a few payments. He’s not happy about it.”

“How much does he want?” Arthur asked.

“It used to be three sterna.” Roy said, “I lied to him, so now it’s nine.”

“That’s wrong. Unless...” There was an unquenchable fire deep within Arthur, “We can talk about this after dinner.” Roy simply nodded as Arthur patted him on the back.

The sun slowly began its descent, with the anxiety of a return to camp creeping up on Roy like termites in his ears. Arthur looked up at the roof of his awning, groaning as he tried to stretch the muscles in his neck. Viola went inside, followed by her father and Roy. She immediately went to the teapot, pouring a soap-scented mixture into a wooden cup. She put it on the table, followed by a bowl of stew. Arthur sat in front of it with a smile.

“Thank you, petal.” He said endearingly as he scooted forward. He took a long drag of the tea, his eyes tightening at its bitterness.

“What’s that for?” Roy asked.

“Drinking.” Arthur answered sarcastically. Roy leaned back in his chair.

“Doesn’t look good.” Roy noted the crease forming in Arthur’s eyes as the taste languished on his tongue.

“For my arms.” Arthur said a half-truth, trying to stave off the potent flavor of the yarrow. He held it out to Roy, but the boy waved away the offer.

“I know what Sicchus is doing.” Arthur took another sip, wincing as the bitterness crossed his lips, “By Anlun, Viola, how much yarrow did you throw in this?”

Viola shrugged, looking into the mortar and pestle she used. There was still quite a bit of flower left.

“What he’s…” Roy served himself as Viola grabbed her own bowl.

“Do you want out?” Arthur asked bluntly. Roy looked away from his food. His stomach dropped, and he doubted his food would ever reach it.

Out. As though it were simple.

Roy looked at the bowl.

Out.

“Out where?” Roy asked.

“Out of that shit situation you’re in.” Arthur said, “You have debts, don’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“How much do you owe?”

“Thirty…” Roy said. Viola stopped grinding the yarrow.

“What happens if you don’t pay?”

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“Bad things.”

“What would you do if that debt was paid?”

“Why would you do that?” Roy asked, staring at his new gauntlets, unable to comprehend the sheer selflessness of these strange people he had just met days ago. Arthur didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned into his chair, looking at the flames that licked at the stew pot. He then opened his mouth as he drew a slow, thoughtful breath.

“I was born in the Port of Kings. Debts piled up. Couldn’t pay.” Arthur pointed at the thumb-sized smattering of purple on Roy’s wrist, a deep black crescent bordering it. Sicchus had pressed his thumb so firmly that his fingernails had been etched into the boy’s skin, “I’ve seen that before, Roy. It gets worse.”

“I can’t take that offer.” Roy’s eyes darted away from anyone who looked at him, “I don’t want you to shoulder that burden.”

Arthur let out a low breath, “I see Sicchus and his men, but I don’t see you being around them willingly. How about this,” Arthur leaned forward, his elbows pressed against his thighs, “I take on your debt. I’ll teach you what I know, and you can use it to pay me back.”

Roy sucked as much air in as he could without making it obvious. His eyes burned; he could feel them welling with tears but he refused to let them fall.

“An apprenticeship?” Roy put his bowl on the table. Viola’s eyes widened. She wasn’t surprised at her father’s generosity, but she was taken aback by Roy’s new residency.

“My parents sat and watched me suffer for years.” Arthur scowled, “I won’t let another boy go through that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Yes or no, usually.” Arthur nodded, blinking slowly as he seemed satisfied with his stale humor. A tiny, easy-to-miss smile rose up on the corner of Roy’s lips.

“I owe my life to Sicchus. He raised me.” Roy argued, “Your offer is… more than I could ever imagine. I don’t know if I can leave.”

“It’s not an easy choice.” Arthur tried to sip his tea, but the cup was empty, “As a smith’s apprentice, you would be under the protection of Lord Becker.”

In a near instant, the scared pallor on his face started to deepen as he sunk into his seat.

“Thank you.” Roy said.

“I’ll need a third chair.” Arthur said. He walked across the room, reaching for a small box full of coins. He grabbed a few handfuls and stacked them in front of Roy. “Give this to Sicchus.”

…

As night fell upon Mossglen, Roy returned to camp. Sicchus stared into the flames, flipping a coin between his fingertips. He was the only one left untouched by the lull of sleep. He drummed up ideas in his head as to what exactly he would do to the Bjornborn brat once he got back. He would soon get his answer, as he noticed a shadow creeping just beyond the light of the fire.

“That you?” Sicchus asked. The silhouette stopped. A spiky head of hair turned to face the man whose pale visage was obscured by a curtain of flames. Two calloused fingers beckoned the boy, who hesitantly stepped into the light. Roy stared at Sicchus, whose eyes were the color of malice. Roy pulled a coin pouch from his belt, loosening the straps.

“You…” Sicchus put his fingers against the bridge of his nose. He took a swig of a bottle that sat by his foot, “You better have answers.”

Roy stayed still, trying to inhale without showing the fear that was beginning to boil up. His skin crawled. His face flushed, and his throat tightened. Roy had coins in his hands, but they weren’t the answer Sicchus sought. The caravan master raised from the tree trunk he roosted upon. He swatted the coins from the Boy’s hands. They landed near the fire, crowns shimmering in the presence of flames.

“Where have you been, boy?” Sicchus asked, annoyed at Roy’s silence. He huffed in the absence of an answer.

“You’re late.” Sicchus’ head rolled in annoyance.

“I’m paying my debt.” Roy pointed at the coins near the fire. His eyes left Sicchus’ enraged gaze. Roy focused on the flames.

“How’d you get this?” Sicchus asked.

“It was given to me.” Roy gulped, “To clear my debt.”

“And?” Sicchus asked.

“If my debt is cleared, you’d be rid of me.” Roy said, “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

A knuckle dug beneath his chin as Sicchus’ middle finger jammed into it. His thumb dug into the right side of Roy’s jaw as he pulled the boy’s head back to his eyes.

“You don’t tell me what I want.” Sicchus breath reeked of beer.

Roy tried to speak, but the grip on his jaw seemed to glue his teeth together. Sicchus felt the stunted breaths from Roy’s nose as they flowed along the back of his hand. The boy’s eyes widened; his eyebrows pulled upwards as though they were on a string. A tear streaked across his cheek.

“I’ll tell you when I’m done with you.” Sicchus said, “Where would you go?”

Sicchus pointed at the coins. Roy picked them up and put them in Sicchus' hand like a dog retrieving a toy.

“You’re a man, Roy. People rely on you here.” Sicchus slid the coins into his pocket. The man pressed a finger into Roy. His fingernail left another crescent-shaped divot in Roy’s chest. Sicchus snickered, returning to his wagon. Roy walked to his tent, and in the corner of his eye, he watched as Sicchus nestled a fire poker into the warbling orange coals.

…

Roy peeked out the small opening of his tent. Flames illuminated Sicchus drinking his beer, staring into the flames as they whispered to him. Roy on his satchel, trying to pack the things he spilled out earlier.

Hours would pass before he heard Sicchus stir. The fire had died down enough to where it no longer left an orange shimmer on Roy’s tent. Sicchus stood up, coughed, spat, and then turned away from the flames into the comfort of his wagon. He opened the door, crept through the curtains, then disappeared.

Roy grabbed his things. He hooked the lantern to his belt. His bedroll had already been strapped to the bottom of his pack. Roy left his tent standing at the edge of camp. He was startled by the metallic rustle of his lantern. He stepped quietly into the grass. The flame’s light touched the wagons beside him as their passengers slept. Roy avoided cutting straight across the camp and rounded the wagons quietly. When he reached the front where the dogs were tied to posts. They stared silently, refusing to alert the camp to his attempt at freedom.

As Roy crossed the border between the caravan and Mossglen he stopped and turned back to the dogs. He put his things down, tip-toed towards the ropes that held them, and freed them.