The faint light of dawn filtered through the frost-rimmed window, casting a pale glow over the hovel’s interior. Calder stirred beneath the thin wool blanket, the room's chill seeping into his bones despite the embers still glowing faintly in the hearth. With a quiet groan, he pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

His morning routine was as methodical as ever. Pulling himself out from his bed, he went to the corner where a water basin sat. He splashed water from the basin onto his face, the icy chill shocking him fully awake, before wiping himself down with a cloth sitting next to it. Once he was done and put on a fresh pair of clothes, he moved to the small table where his gear sat. He retrieved his bow and quiver, checking each arrow for wear and the bowstring for tension. Satisfied, he set them aside and reached for the sharpening stone on the shelf, giving his knife a few quick strokes until the edge gleamed faintly in the dim light.

As he worked, his eyes flicked to the wooden shelf above the hearth. Nestled between a few old tools and jars of dried herbs was a small steel pin, shaped into the intricate form of a double-headed eagle. After staring at it for some time, Calder stood up and reached for it, his fingers brushing the cold metal.

The pin had belonged to his father—a gift from a lord who had once marveled at his skill with a bow. Calder could remember the stories, told by firelight when his father returned from the forest with fresh game slung over his shoulders. The scent of pine and leather would cling to him as he sat by the hearth, recounting tales of hunts that seemed almost mythical to Calder as a child.

There was the time his father had shot a hawk mid-flight to save the village’s dwindling chickens or the hunt where he had brought down a stag so large it fed the entire village through a particularly harsh winter. But it was the story of the pin that Calder remembered most clearly—how his father had shot a running boar cleanly through the heart from a distance no other hunter dared attempt, earning not only the lord’s respect but a rare token of it.

Now, the pin rested in Calder’s calloused hands, its steel edges dulled with time but still solid, still unbroken. He traced the engraving of the double-headed eagle with his thumb as he looked at it before eventually, he placed it back onto the shelf.

Calder pulled on his thick furs, the weight of them settling heavily on his shoulders as he adjusted the clasp at his neck. The fabric was well-worn but reliable, patched in places with scraps of leather from past hunts. Grabbing his quiver and bow, he slung them over his back, the familiar motion as natural to him as breathing.

He paused briefly by the door, his gaze drifting back to the pin resting on the shelf. The faint light from the hearth glinted off its surface, but he forced his thoughts away. The day was waiting, and there was no time to linger in the past.

Pushing open the door, Calder stepped out into the crisp morning air. The cold bit at his face, the frost-laden breeze carrying the faint scent of pine and smoke from the village chimneys. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way down the narrow path that led toward the square, his breath forming clouds in the chill.

At the village square people came and went as they did their daily duties. A woman bundled in layers of wool trudged past with a basket of eggs balanced on her hip, her breath visible in the chill air. Nearby, a pair of children chased each other around the frost-rimmed well, their laughter carrying over the murmur of the morning.

Merchants were setting up their stalls along the edges of the square, their wares ranging from dried meats to roughspun fabrics and simple tools. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the baker’s shop, mingling with the sharper tang of the blacksmith’s forge. Calder’s boots crunched on the packed snow as he walked, his hood pulled low against the icy wind.

He nodded to a farmer unloading sacks of grain from a cart and exchanged a brief greeting with an elderly man tending to a cluster of chickens scratching at the frozen ground. As he was about to step into the butcher's shop to collect his meat and money, a familiar voice called out from behind.

“Calder! Wait up!”

He turned to see Otto striding toward him, his broad frame unmistakable even through the layers of soot-streaked wool and leather. Otto’s hair, the color of ash and perpetually tousled, glinted faintly in the morning light. His hands were blackened from work at the forge and underneath his left arm, a bundle of something could be seen.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Calder couldn’t help but smirk as Otto approached, his usual energy evident in the confident stride and easy grin. Otto was a fixture of the village, as much a part of its lifeblood as the forge he worked in alongside his father. At nearly eighteen, he stood taller than most, his broad shoulders a testament to years of swinging hammers and hauling iron.

Though his frame and steady hands marked him as a smith in training, Otto had never been one to confine himself to the forge. He was as likely to be found helping with repairs around the village, swapping jokes with the guards, or lending a hand to farmers struggling with broken tools. His charm was his true weapon—quick with a laugh or a clever quip, Otto had a way of making even the most dour villager crack a smile.

“Morning,” Otto said as he stopped in front of Calder, his grin as broad as ever. He shifted the bundle under his arm slightly, revealing a hint of its contents—a set of dull green bars, their edges gleaming faintly in the weak sunlight.

“What’ve you got there?” Calder asked, nodding toward the bundle.

Otto’s grin widened as he unwrapped one of the bars and handed it to Calder. “Orichalcum,” he said, his tone tinged with pride. “The good stuff. Came in just yesterday.”

Calder took the bar, his brow furrowing as he adjusted his grip. The metal was cold and unyielding, its dark green surface etched with faint natural veins, almost like marble. It was far heavier than it looked—so much so that Calder could barely lift it with both hands.

“Careful, don’t drop it,” Otto teased, holding the remaining five or six bars under his arm with ease. “I’d rather not spend the morning hammering dents out of the cobblestones.”

Calder let out a low whistle as he passed the bar back to Otto. “And I thought the elk was heavy. What’s it for?”

“Commission from Lord Haramont,” Otto replied, carefully rewrapping the bundle. “Dad’s been tasked with making him a set of weapons—blades, axes, maybe even a spear or two. The whole lot’s supposed to be orichalcum. Big job.”

“That’s impressive,” Calder said, his tone genuine. “Congratulations. It’s not every day you get work straight from the lord.”

“Tell that to Dad,” Otto said with a chuckle. “He’s been cursing since sunrise. Says this stuff’s harder to work with than any metal he’s touched before. I think he’s just worried about getting it perfect.”

The two started walking toward the forge, the conversation flowing easily between them. They talked of familiar things—rumors of a merchant caravan delayed by snow, the latest antics of the village’s stray dogs, and Calder’s last hunting trip. Otto’s easygoing nature made the walk seem shorter, the weight of his bundle no more a burden to him than the talk itself.

When they reached the forge, the steady ring of hammer on metal filled the air, the sound resonating through the yard. Heat radiated from the open forge, where Roland, Otto’s father, was already at work. The man was a towering figure, his muscled frame clad in a thick leather apron darkened with soot and age. His black hair was streaked with gray, pulled back into a tight knot at the nape of his neck. A thick beard framed his stern face, though his sharp eyes gleamed with a focus that bordered on obsession.

Roland stood over the anvil, his hammer rising and falling with precise, measured force. The orichalcum glowed faintly under the heat, its dark surface shifting to a dull amber as he shaped it into the beginnings of a blade. Sweat glistened on his brow despite the cold air, and his forearms rippled with each swing.

“Dad!” Otto called, setting the bundle down by the workbench. “Brought the rest of the bars.”

Roland didn’t look up, his voice gruff as he spoke between hammer strikes. “Good. Get to work cleaning the molds—we’ll need them ready by noon.”

Otto rolled his eyes good-naturedly and turned to Calder. “See what I mean? All business.”

Calder nodded to Otto and once greetings and goodbyes were given, turned toward the path leading back to the butcher’s shop and began walking. Before he could take more than a few steps, however, Otto called after him again, this time in a quieter tone.

“Wait, Calder.”

Calder turned, raising an eyebrow. Otto stepped closer, glancing toward his father to make sure he wasn’t watching. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “There’s something you should know. About the winter festival.”

“What about it?” Calder asked, his curiosity piqued. The winter festival was the village’s biggest event of the year, a celebration held at the turn of the season to honor both the harshness of the cold months and the resilience of those who survived them. Bonfires would light up the square, tables would groan under the weight of food and drink, and the air would hum with music, laughter, and the clatter of mugs.

Otto smirked, clearly enjoying the question. “The chief’s offering a reward this year. Good coin to anyone who brings in the biggest animal for the feast.”

Calder folded his arms, studying Otto. “And how do you know this?”

“The chief’s son,” Otto said, rolling his eyes. “He’s been bragging about it all morning, strutting around like he’s already won. Says he’s bringing in a ‘beast the size of a house.”

Calder smirked faintly. “And you think I could beat him.”

“I know you could,” Otto said with confidence. “It’d be a walk in the park for you. Besides, it’d shut that little twerp up for once.”

Before Calder could reply, Roland’s voice rang out from the forge, sharp and commanding. “Otto! I need those molds cleaned, not your mouth running.”

Otto winced but grinned at Calder, waving him off. “Guess that’s my cue. Think about it, yeah? Easy coin for you.”

Calder gave a small nod, watching as Otto jogged back to the forge and grabbed a set of iron molds from the workbench. He glanced back once with a playful salute before getting to work, the clang of metal ringing through the air once more.

Turning back toward the village square, Calder adjusted the strap of his quiver and began walking toward the butcher’s shop. The morning light glinted off the snow as his boots crunched along the path, but his thoughts weren’t on the cold or the meat he had to collect.

“A reward, huh...” he muttered under his breath, the idea turning over and over in his mind…