As I work at the forge, the rhythmic clang of my hammer is interrupted by a soft gasp from Laura. She points outside, and I follow her gaze to see the first snow of the year. A month has passed since the siege and Henrik’s fateful fight. The late November morning frost clings to the grass, sparkling faintly in the pale sunlight, as delicate snowflakes drift lazily to the ground.

Working the forge has become second nature to me. My hands are calloused, my shoulders broader, and the faint outline of abs is now visible—a fact Laura, of course, was the first to point out with a smirk.

We make it a habit to visit Henrik every day. Laura peppers him with questions about magic, eagerly soaking in every tip he offers, while I show him my steadily improving craftsmanship. As always, Henrik finds something to criticize, though it’s often accompanied by a rare glimmer of approval hidden beneath his gruff demeanor.

And now, here we are—back in the same clearing where Laura first began to train a month ago. She stands motionless, her eyes closed in concentration, as I sit on a simple stool I crafted just last week. The crisp air is heavy with anticipation, the quiet broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind through the barren trees.

“Show me what you’ve learned!” I shout from a safe distance, my voice carrying through the crisp, freezing air.

At my cue, the temperature drops sharply as a faint red aura envelops Laura. A ring of transparent crystals radiates outward from where she’s standing, their sizes more uniform and orderly than before. It’s not perfect, but the progress is undeniable.

Her eyes snap open, focused and intent, as she steps forward. The crystals follow her movements, spreading in sync with her slow, deliberate steps. Despite the measured pace, there’s still an air of hesitation—a lingering lack of confidence in her strides.

With a sweeping motion of her hand to the left, the ground erupts. A massive red spike bursts forth, piercing the imagined target with precision. The sheer force of the display sends a chill down my spine, not from the cold, but from the raw power she’s beginning to harness.

“Great work, Laura,” I say as I walk toward her, my voice filled with genuine pride.

She exhales, and the red aura fades. The crystals around her dissolve into vapor, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Only the jagged gash in the earth remains, a scar from the massive spike she had summoned.

“What about you? I never see you practicing your magic,” she says, turning to face me with a raised eyebrow.

Smiling slightly, I extend my hand. A crimson blob of Red Water appears, its volume having grown to about a hundred milliliters over the weeks. Opening my palm fully, I begin manipulating the liquid. Slowly, it takes shape—a crude, miniature figure of Laura, like a rudimentary clay statuette.

Her expression shifts from curiosity to incredulous amusement. “That’s supposed to be me?”

“If that’s your first guess, then it’s good enough,” I say, smiling proudly at my creation. “My power’s strength is in its utility; in other words, I train by messing around.”

Her eyes narrow as she inspects the little figure. “I think the nose is the best-looking part, wouldn’t you say?” I add, barely holding back a laugh.

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“That’s a literal bump,” she says flatly, crossing her arms.

“I know,” I reply, grinning like an idiot.

Before she can respond, I bolt. “Hey! Get back here!” she shouts, sprinting after me.

My laughter echoes in the cold air as I put distance between us, my long legs and improved stamina giving me a clear advantage. She chases me all the way back to the house, shouting curses all the way.

As I approach the house, a familiar figure catches my eye. Henrik stands near the door, leaning against crutches, his posture as stern as ever. Bandages peek out from underneath his clothes, a reminder of the battle he barely survived.

“Stop messing around, you lovebirds. Why isn’t the forge running?” he asks, his tone gruff.

I straighten up, still catching my breath. “We took a little break,” I say, trying to sound casual despite my heaving chest.

Laura slows her pace as she catches up, but freezes when she spots Henrik. Her eyes widen, clearly surprised to see him standing there. The tension in her shoulders makes her hesitation obvious.

“Doesn’t matter,” Henrik says, waving his hand dismissively. He turns away, his crutches clunking against the ground. “Let’s go. We’re moving out soon.”

“Already? You’re still injured,” I protest, stepping forward instinctively.

Henrik glances back, his expression hard. “Hubbert has been with the demons for an entire month. We need to get him back as soon as possible.”

“Don’t we just need to pay a ransom?” I ask cautiously.

Henrik smirks, a glint of determination in his eye. “We’re not paying.”

We walk to Kundor, trailing behind Henrik, who sits atop a horse. The snow intensifies as we go, laying a thin, pristine blanket across the ground. Each step crunches underfoot, marking our path.

When we arrive, the town is bustling once again. Kundor seems to have returned to normal after the chaos of the siege. People move about the streets with purpose, their voices blending into the hum of daily life.

Back in the keep, the Blue Claw mercenaries are lounging around. Some are sharpening their weapons; others are polishing their armor, casting furtive glances at Henrik. It’s obvious they’re trying to look busy under his watchful eye.

“Lads, we move out tomorrow,” Henrik announces, his tone firm and commanding.

Everyone within earshot immediately straightens up, their casual demeanor replaced with military precision. “Yes, sir!” they shout in unison, their voices echoing through the stone halls.

Morning arrives, and we begin packing for the journey ahead. I pull on my gambeson and thick boots, feeling the weight of anticipation settle over me. Laura dons the same attire, though on her smaller frame, it looks a little oversized.

“You look like a boy pretending to be his dad,” I joke, grinning.

She shoots me a flat look. “Hilarious,” she replies, clearly unimpressed.

As we move out of Kundor, a familiar voice cuts through the bustle. I squint at the figure running toward us, his lanky frame unmistakable. It’s David, a large backpack slung over his shoulders.

“Please, sir,” he shouts, desperation clear in his tone. “Let me join you!”

Henrik reins in his horse, turning to face him. Perched atop the steed, Henrik radiates authority, his commanding presence making David pause.

Henrik says nothing at first and simply unties a bundle of supplies from the side of his horse. With a swift motion, he tosses it at David, who staggers under the weight but manages to keep his footing.

“Carry this, boy,” Henrik commands, not breaking his stride as he continues forward.

David straightens up, his determination clear. “Thank you, sir,” he responds, his voice steady despite his struggle.

I can’t help but grin at the interaction. Apparently, I’ve earned some seniority around here—after all, I’m “lad,” and he’s “boy.”

“Welcome to Blue Claw,” says one of the mercenaries, tapping David on the shoulder.