> "Steel your heart with steady warmth,

> For the world is cold and wishes harm."

>

> - Saying of the North

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Hammer struck searing metal, the sparks flying over the blacksmith’s leather apron as he made surgical strikes to the sword. Arkith was a hulking man, the pale muscles bulging with each strike, his arms a river of veins and a land of rough skin. The anvil rang clear and consistent, proof that it was a master at work.

Through it all, Tomuir the boy keenly observed the routine, wishing to learn the blacksmith's art.

He had sat at the peripheral vision of the man, not wishing to interrupt the process. Beside him lay a cart of iron ores, delivered by the boy at the blacksmith’s request. After a time, a notification rang inside his head, information simply absorbed than read.

[Apprentice Smithing +1]

A smile came unbidden to his lips, reminding him that his Apprentice Smithing now reached LV. 6. Four more levels, the boy thought, and I’ll reach Intermediate Smithing.

The progress had crawled at a snail's pace since LV. 5, as there was only so much you could learn from observing. But no matter, smithing wasn't his main focus.

At one point the hammer striking against anvil stopped, and he heard the sizzling of water as the molded sword was bathed in its cold.

"Ores delivered?" the smith asked straight to the point, his bald square face a shining sheen and full black beard slick with dripping sweat.

"Aye. half a ton, good quality from the boys of Traithon's mine," Tomuir replied in the same manner.

The older man nodded in thanks, his brown eyes weary yet held hidden excitement, giddy for the chance of making more steel. Tomuir had heard the news, they say the duke requested a squad's set for his daughter's guard.

The smith reached for his work table and picked up a pouch of copper coins, tossing it to him, "here, for your troubles."

The boy caught it with a frown, "thought there was no pay, as long as you let me observe your work?"

The man waved him off, "be greedy, damn you," he said with a grunt, "your mother has had enough of your quirkiness. Treat her, there's celebration to be had. The duke's daughter is to be 13!"

The duke's daughter. Amelia Swordfang.

A major character from the game he played.

A game which he was now living in.

Weird.

Shaking his head, Tomuir nodded to the smith with genuine gratitude. "Thank you," he said, standing as he saw the smith turn his back on him, going back to his work.

As Tomuir was about the leave the smithy, Arkith spoke,

"Boy."

He turned to look and saw the smith's back of rippling muscles, his hand a pale-white grip on his hammer and eyes seemingly far away as it reflected the furnace flames.

"If you wish to learn,"

The boy then remembered that before, the smith had been reclusive, only reluctantly agreeing to Tomuir's request as there was no pay. The man had eyes only for his forge, closing his heart to the world that took his son in the northern winter.

"Say so, and I'll teach you all I know."

He heard then the faintest emotion in the old northerner's voice, the small crack of the man's heart, slowly letting itself open up once more.

I live in a game, he reminded himself, yet it all feels as real as the wounds that etch my hands.

"There's pay, then?" He asked jokingly.

A grunt, "so long as you don't embarrass me."

He chuckled, "you know I won't," and went on his way.

Walking the snow-cleared road, Tomuir passed by the wooden buildings of Winter’s Pass, a village nestled between a forest of dark spruce with a great mountain range to its north.

Before long he found himself before the Seamstress’ shop, knocking on its door. Ms. Tana opened it, greeting him with a warm smile, and he couldn't help but smile back.

She was an aging lady, locks of white tracing her dark bunned hair. Yet beyond her numbered wrinkles her eyes held youth untamed by the winter north’s glare.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I've been waiting for you, boy! There's work to be done, the duke's daughter is to be-"

"13, I know,"

"Come, come! Help me with my work!" She continued as she went back inside, her lithe body a bundle of energy that no frozen gale could stop. She held out a pile of cloth, needle, and thread, and Tomuir took them with practiced ease.

Without word he sat at his usual stool, weaving and stitching in comfortable silence, making tunics and flags of white and indigo, the colors of House Swordfang. There was welcome familiarity in the act of sewing, and though it did nothing but progress his Intermediate Embroidery and Dexterous Hands, he welcomed it still.

After some hours Tomuir noticed Tana was already done with her pile, yet he still continued at his pace, not rushing. She stared at him, he knew, with a complicated gaze he did not give notice. Then she reached out, her gentle hand on his, stopping his stitching.

“Dear,” Tana began, tracing the crisscross of lines that etched his palm and fingers, borne from countless sword swings and scrapes from handling a wooden sword. “You’ve no need to be a warrior, the north no longer has dangers to brave, only the winter to endure.”

He stared at her, and knew he could not explain. How could he say then that he lived before in a different life, one where he played this world as a game than lived in it. How could he convince her that there are dangers, only hidden and waiting for their chance, like a candle to be lit.

The demon kin would rise from the ground below, the waters would rage and ancient aquatic behemoths would raise its maws to break the land and make it sea. The southwest continent would crack, splintering the magic and make it anew, breaking the known principles of the system and ensuing pandemonium for all to experience and see.

How could he tell her then, that even with this knowledge, they came only in fragments and blurred images, the only clarity that came is how he became the greatest swordmeister, and with the dangers he has only the faint idea of, he had no choice but to hold the blade and once again be its master.

Granted, he had mastered the sword only as a player in the game, but even then, he believed he could do it. He had to.

So he could be strong enough to protect those he love.

He could not tell her this, so he didn’t.

Tomuir shrugged, “it is my dream, Ms. Tana.”

She thinned her lips, but did not argue. The northerners lived their life in freedom, theirs to choose and theirs to end. Only the snow could stop their tracks, and she was not snow.

Especially so since he was of age 15. One is considered a northerner after enduring 13 years in the north, they who had survived thirteen winters and can survive more.

Ms. Tana clicked her tongue and picked up his remaining pile, and gave him the stack of copper coins he was due. “Go on your way, now,” she huffed, “spend time with your mother, before she finds you on the wrong end of the blade, you fool.”

The boy sighed, knowing she held no high opinion of warriors and their like. For like the smith, she had lost her son, as well as her husband, fighting a war waged in foreign lands.

“Take care always, Ms. Tana,” he said as he stood, taking the coins and placing them in his smith-given pouch, “be graced with winter's warmth."

She was silent, intent on her sewing, gray eyes only at the needle and cloth.

He shook his head, and went for the door.

"Be graced with winter's warmth, boy," she muttered.

A smile formed on his lips. He knew she wanted the best for him, and though he thought otherwise, he appreciated it still.

“Thank you for everything,” he said as he left the seamstress’ shop, back to the trodden paths of the village.

There he passed by the butcher Hurlo and his son Rek, buying deer meat their mother had hunted beyond the forests of the village.

Then he went to Tanner Borum, buying leather armor, enough to protect him from scrapes and grazes and falls.

"What war you off to, kid?" Borum asked with his wide smile of some missing teeth, scruffy beard frosted and eyes holding a teasing glint.

Not taking to the bait, Tomuir shrugged. "Off to hunt," he lied, "provide for my own."

"Oh," the chubby tanner replied, disappointed, evidently hoping for some juicy gossip, "safe travels, then."

"Safe travels."

He then went to haggle with the visiting merchant Kurpit, buying rope and iron picks, as well as sturdy metal hooks that could bite into rock.

He had a mountain to climb after all.

But before anything else, he had to face his mother.

Tomuir stood before their house, the entrance a suddenly looming door that towered over him, as if it was a waiting maw that would chew and spit him out.

This was a long time coming, he reminded himself, now was the opportune moment to traverse the mountains, and according to his hazy memories of the game, he would attain a relic that would boost his strength.

According to the game.

But is it true? Was this world the game he remembered?

He shook his head, my memories are not false, and now I can finally prove it.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

Already, his mother stood before him, waiting. Velan had a face of sharp angles and forever narrowed eyes. Her fire-touched hair had been tied into a bun, and her snow-white hands lay on her hips. She slowly gazed at his sack of tools with piercing blue eyes, as if in silent judgment.

She stood before him, and though she was a woman that never expressed much, she exuded disappointment all the same.

"I've deer meat," he began his already failed attempt at placating her, "I can cook."

"I'm no fool, and you're no cook," she took his proffered meat, and went to the kitchen to prepare.

You're no cook, either, he had the sense, at least, to keep quiet and awkwardly amble after her.

He had prepared many arguments, explanations, and even righteous 15-year-old retorts, yet as he sat before the table, watching his mother diligently place ingredients into the boiling pot, all of it seemed to vanish.

Before long the soup was made, a mother’s concoction of everything and anything she could put in the pot. Yet he could not complain, for it was a hale and hearty meal by northerner standards, and the strange taste was something he got used to.

Later, as the wooden bowls were emptied and the pot cleared of its soup, they sat at the dining table, and still, he could not think of anything to say, only staring at his mother.

She stared back, her azure eyes shimmering like ice, seeing through him. As always, she sat with straight back, chin angled high and hands poised in front of her. She was of elegance that sometimes made him wonder if a woman like her even belonged in a village like this.

He started to speak, but she spoke over him.

"You are to come back," she started as she stood, slowly approaching him. She cupped his face with her porcelain hands marred with calluses, "you are of north. A survivor. Survive again, and survive still. Where are you off to, child?"

"To the mountains, mother," he said, and nothing else.

She pursed her lips, disappointment still in her eyes, yet tradition told her she could do naught but accept it. She nodded in finality, "The snow will not stop you,"

"Only my own feet will," he finished.