It was the 19th of Fillbror, as cold as ever, each day worse than the last.
That morning, Aron had to head to the village center to run some errands. He needed to sell the pelts; working them into clothing would fetch a higher price, but that had been his mother’s trade. He had never learned it, and even if he had wanted to, he wouldn’t have had the time.
He also needed to buy salt, as their supplies were nearly gone. The nails were completely out as well, which had complicated his attempt the day before to repair Betsy’s small stable. During the night, probably frightened by the storm, Betsy had kicked, hitting some beams, detaching them, and even breaking a few.
Leaving the house, Aron stepped into the frigid world outside, where even his padded coat couldn’t shield him from the cold that seeped into his bones. Tied outside the door, Betsy waited patiently. Aron loaded onto her back all the pelts he had gathered over the last few weeks: mostly from small animals, with the exception of a roe deer he had hunted a few days prior. Alongside the pelts, he added some dried meat to sell, as the roe deer’s kill had left them with more than enough provisions for two people, especially considering that one barely ate.
“To the village, hooray! It’s been a while since we’ve gone” exclaimed the Voice, cheerful as always just to irritate Aron.
“Yeah, it must have been a month or more. There wasn’t even snow last time” he replied, trying to stay calm. He had learned that ignoring it didn’t work; he had to feed it to keep it from consuming him.
“Oh, oh, oh, how wonderful! Finally, some different faces and voices. I can’t stand you anymore!”
“You? Can’t stand me?” Aron’s calm tone wavered under the weight of such absurd accusations.
The Voice answered with utter seriousness, “Yes, yes, you. You’re the problem.” Then, with growing heat, “Watching your miserable life every day is BORING. You live in a shithole with practically the only company being a mule. The other one, I don’t even know what it is. And you’ve lost everything. Oh, and I don’t mean family or friends, but yourself—your ambition, your desires, your passions. You’re EMPTY. In your insignificant routine, you’ve nearly reached twenty, and your worries have boiled down to salt and nails. Pathetic.”
“You’re right, I can’t deny it,” Aron responded seriously, but then, trying to defend himself, said, “But it’s not my fault the path was closed to me. Yes, I wanted to become a knight, to fight, to travel, to kill; I didn’t care for whom, where, or why, even at the risk of dying, but I wanted to do it! But without the opportunity to grow, what’s the point? Tell me!” The words drained him of energy, each one as heavy as a mountain.
“You’re the same as always,” the Voice replied, cold and glacial, like the wind descending from the Dragonspine. “It’s never your fault. You couldn’t do anything. But you know… even if the door was closed, you could have broken it down! At least tried. But you didn’t. So, you made this NOTHING your home, your place of comfort. Even if it’s barren and hard, at least it’s familiar.”
Silence met those words. Finally, though, something different began to fill the air: human voices, smells, the sounds of life. They had reached the village. They were leaving the life of the forest behind for that of men, perhaps less familiar than the former.
Walking through the muddy paths that connected the village outskirts to its center and eventually reaching cobblestone streets, one could glimpse the everyday life of the northern empire. Scant people, heavily dressed, rushed back and forth through the streets, leaving behind clouds of warm breath, the only trace of their passage, which the cold devoured just as quickly.
They arrived at a shop, the hunter’s house, marked only by a shabby sign outside, swaying in the winter wind.
“It’s always the same,” said the Voice as Betsy was tied outside.
“What did you expect? Nothing ever changes here,” Aron thought as he pushed open the heavy door, designed to protect those inside from the voracious Fillbror.
A mix of smells infiltrated his nose, ranging from acidic to acrid. They came from the spices and animal fats used to treat pelts. But here, it wasn’t just clothing that was bought and pelts that were sold: anything a hunter might need could be found. Traps, medicinal ointments, arrows, and bows; even dried meat could be sold at a preferential price. Everything a hunter needed or could produce was available here.
“Aron, still alive, boy! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, but then again, it’s been years of the same,” came a deep voice.
It belonged to a burly man emerging from the back room near the stove, where the dancing light of the fire cast itself into the entryway. He was tall and robust, with a large receding hairline and a face marked by the harsh northern climate. Every man born and raised here became like the environment: rigid and unyielding.
“I’m not that weak. It’s just the start of winter,” Aron replied arrogantly.
“I have my doubts about the weak.”
“Mph… Boy, it’s not just the cold that’s dangerous,” he said, giving Aron a disapproving look. “So, what do you have for me today?”
“Brandon, I brought you 21 rabbit and hare pelts. I also have a full roe deer hide and a few kilos of dried meat.”
“Bring them in and let me take a look.”
With that, Aron stepped out to retrieve the pelts and the bag of meat, untying the bundle from Betsy’s back.
SLAM!
He dropped everything onto the long table near the entrance on the right. Brandon immediately began examining the quality of the pelts, taking all the time he needed.
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After more than half an hour, Brandon raised his head and declared, “8 rabbit pelts intact, 5 slightly damaged, 8 heavily damaged, and 1 perfect roe deer hide. I can give you 345 Sparks for the pelts and another 100 for the meat. 445 total, okay?”
“Only 345 for the pelts? It’s winter; the price should go up, but instead, it’s lower than last time. What’s going on, Brandon?” Aron was stunned, feeling cheated, and the thought annoyed him.
“Damn it, Aron, this fat bastard is trying to screw us! Who the hell does he think he is? We should skin him alive and throw him into the snow, then see how much he offers for his own hide!” the Voice concluded with a laugh full of expectation.
“Aron, merchants arrived last week. I don’t remember where from, but they brought loads of woolen clothing. So, you can imagine… I didn’t like it either, but asking around, my price is still the best.”
“He’s trying to deceive us. Don’t believe him.”
Aron looked straight into the burly man’s eyes and said, “Make it 500. I don’t want to play merchant games here, so be serious. That’s the fair price.”
“Haaah… Let’s make it 450 and a portion of disinfectant ointment and one of hemostatic. They’re worth 50 Sparks each. Deal?” Brandon made his offer, also looking the boy straight in the eyes. But his gaze held no anger or anything else—just pity. Pity for a creature that seemed to bare its teeth and growl out of fear, cornered and terrified.
“Okay…”
They finished the exchange in silence. Aron pocketed 4 silver coins. Three were the well-known Silver Wings, bearing the imperial crest on one side and the phoenix wings on the other. The other came from the nearby kingdom of Forak: the imperial crest was still present, but the other side featured an armored helmet resembling the mandibles of a large ant. In addition to the silver, he received 5 copper coins, each worth 10 Sparks.
“Why did you accept?! He could have gone higher. And what were those eyes?! How dare he look at us like that! At us!” The Voice was furious, burning with rage. It wasn’t about the money, clearly. It didn’t care for that human game; it was the eyes.
"That filthy bastard! We’ll gouge out his eyes and eat them! Savor his screams… heheheh yes, we’ll do it! Who cares if he’s known us since we were kids or was a friend of our father? None of that matters."
“Stop it!” Aron shouted firmly and decisively. “We won’t do anything of the sort. He wasn’t lying, and you know it. Your behavior is childish. We’re not children anymore.” He finished the sentence, and with it, the debate ended. The Voice hated being scolded; it was proud.
Untying Betsy, the two headed toward a tavern. Aron was starting to feel hungry; it was around noon, and the pale sun was high in the sky.
After leaving the mule in a small shed next to the tavern—a place specifically set up for tying horses or other animals—he made his way toward the entrance. For one Spark, they also provided hay, a useful service for those stopping to eat.
He entered the tavern and found it nearly empty. After all, who could afford to spend money on a meal away from home? It would certainly be busier in the evening when tired workers gave in to the thirst for fresh beer.
Aron sat at the counter, and shortly after, a waitress approached. She was new. Despite rarely coming to the village, he had known this tavern since he was a child: Mrs. Berta had always been the hostess taking orders, while her husband handled the cooking. Only on the busiest evenings did other girls step in to help with the service.
“Hello! What can I get you?” The waitress’s voice was lively and youthful.
“The dish of the day and a beer. Also, some hay for the mule outside.”
“Perfect! Anything else?” The girl looked at him with a bright smile and an energy that left him feeling unsettled. He wasn’t used to such warm and welcoming faces, especially not in the village.
“No, that’s all. But… where’s Berta?”
“Oh, Berta! She’s been home for almost a week. One of her daughters, the pregnant one, isn’t well. She decided to leave the tavern to me and go help her.”
“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that…” He never knew what to say in situations like this. He had never been good at it.
“By the way, where are you from? I’ve never seen you, and the others you see here have been around the past few days. Are you from a nearby village? What do you do for a living?” The girl’s vitality continued to disorient him. Seeing such youth and positivity in someone his age forced him to compare himself to her.
“No, I’m from here. I live on the edge of the forest. No particular job: just a simple hunter,” he replied calmly, trying to mimic a gentle tone.
“The wolf in sheep’s clothing. Pathetic,” murmured the Voice, disgusted.
“Ah, that explains it! You must rarely come into the village. I imagine it’s a tough life—not everyone could handle it!” the girl concluded cheerfully, extending her hand. “Lucy.”
Aron hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand as well. “Aron.”
Lucy smiled at him, then turned, her long blonde hair swirling as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Aron sat there, still stunned, staring at his hand. A question came to his mind: “How long has it been since I last felt the touch of a living person?”
“Well, excluding the creature that inhabits your house, I’d say… months? Years? Tsk… I have no idea about such insignificant things,” the Voice replied.
“Could you stop acting like that? You’re pathetic. She’s just a pretty girl. Get your hormones under control.”
“It’s not that… it was just… the way she behaved and spoke.”
“Sure, if it makes you feel better, keep believing that.”
A plate placed in front of him interrupted the conversation.
“Rabbit leg with potatoes,” announced Lucy, placing the plate alongside a pint of beer. “The hay has already been taken outside. That’ll be 5 for the meal, 2 for the beer, and 1 for the hay. A total of 8 Sparks.”
Aron pulled out a 10 Spark coin and handed it to her.
“I’ll be right back with your change,” said Lucy, disappearing briefly into the back room. When she returned, she placed two coins on the counter.
“Thank you,” mumbled Aron, almost under his breath, as if the words were foreign to him.
“Mph… Since when do you know how to say thank you? You’ve never said it to me. Ungrateful, with all the great advice I give you,” scoffed the Voice.
Aron ignored her for the rest of the meal. He ate slowly, savoring the food—not just to fill his stomach but to truly enjoy it. He drank his cold, bitter beer, which felt refreshing. Then he left as soon as Lucy disappeared into the kitchen again, preferring to avoid another interaction.
After leaving the tavern, he headed to the nearby salt shop. The purchase was quick: 5 kilograms for 60 Sparks, as their stock was running low.
From the salt shop, Aron moved on to the hardware shop, a cluttered shop full of iron trinkets. The village didn’t have a smith—it wouldn’t have been practical—so everything was imported, often from the kingdom of Forak, nestled at the base of the southeastern Spinedragon mountains.
Entering the shop, he immediately asked the owner for about forty nails. After the experience at lunch, he had a strange desire to return home—to that home.
“That’ll be 30 Sparks.”
“Here,” he said, handing over a Silver Wings coin.
As the shopkeeper prepared his change, he suddenly remembered something. “Hey, I just remembered—you asked about a hinge last time. Do you still need it? 15 Sparks; it’s on sale!”
Aron hesitated for a moment. The idea of fixing the door felt like a distant, almost alien thought, but a useful one. With a tired sigh, he answered, “Yes, I need it. Add it on.”
It was finally time to head home. The early afternoon sun was also the last sun of the day. The road back seemed strangely long, an endless wait. The wind, growing stronger and more violent, heralded his arrival home. It wasn’t welcoming, it wasn’t warm—it was the opposite. But it was his refuge, the place he called home.