A full night in his own bed should have helped.

  It didn’t.

  Harbek woke no more rested than he had on the mountain. The small of his back was still stiff from the pack, the ache lingering as he sat up. His boots waited by the door, soles torn and chewed thin by stone that had never cared whether leather held or failed.

  Forge leathers would not hold.

  He ate oats and scones in the quiet, the absence of sound heavier than the forge ever was. Durnek sat across from him, unhurried as always, eating with the same steady focus he brought to his work. His copper-grey beard shifted with each bite, flecked and unbothered, as though nothing beyond the table existed.

  The forge told a different story.

  The work stood where it had been left, piled no higher, no lower—unimpressed by last night’s effort. Bulk orders waited alongside smaller ones: replacement knives, a battered kite shield set aside for repair, fittings for a chest piece, axes promised to farmers who would come looking before the week was out.

  Harbek took it in without comment.

  The day had already claimed him.

  Harbek had the kite shield braced against the anvil stand, its curve wrong enough that it wouldn’t settle flat no matter how he shifted it. He ran his palm along the inner grain, feeling where the wood had tightened and pulled, fibers drawn inward as though they’d tried to flee their own shape.

  Heat damage. Not fire. Not clean.

  The iron boss at its center had taken on a dull blue smear, uneven and thin, the color of metal held too long where it shouldn’t have been. The rawhide edge was stiff as horn in places, scorched hard without ever catching flame.

  He scraped carefully, lifting what he could without tearing deeper than necessary.

  The elder at Durnek’s shoulder leaned her weight against the stone post, arms folded inside layered sleeves darkened by salt and age. Her beard was braided tight, cord threaded through it pale and worn instead of metal.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Helda Brinecroft watched the shield without looking at it.

  “Routes above the west pasture are thinning,” she said. Not a complaint. Not a report. “The animals won’t hold them.”

  Durnek grunted once.

  Harbek eased pressure along the shield’s curve, coaxing the grain back where it had tightened too far. The wood resisted, then settled, never quite forgiving what had been done to it. Whoever had held it had kept it between themselves and something heavy. Something that pressed rather than struck.

  “They spooked early,” Helda went on. “No sign of wolves. No tracks that made sense.”

  The iron boss caught the light — blue-stained, uneven.Harbek left it that way. It wasn’t rust. It was a warning.

  “And if the way is open?” she asked.

  Durnek didn’t answer.

  Harbek scraped again, careful not to lift more than necessary. Heat damage. Not fire. Not clean — too close, too long, the kind of mistake made when retreat mattered more than form.

  He was aware of the weight behind him — not expectation, not instruction. Attention. The kind that waited to see what shape a thing would be left in.

  The shield resisted, then settled. Not true. Not broken.

  He could have chased the warp further. Forced it flat. He didn’t.

  The blue stain stayed where it was

  Helda nodded once, as if to herself.

  “What then?” she asked quietly.

  The shield creaked faintly as Harbek worked it. It resisted, then gave, settling into a shape that would hold — not true, not clean, but strong where it mattered.

  Durnek said nothing.

  Harbek didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

  The shield would never sit flat again.

  Harbek decided that was acceptable.

  Harbek set the shield aside and wiped his hands on his apron. The curve held. Not perfect — but honest. The blue stain remained, dull and thin, catching the light only when he shifted.

  Durnek didn’t comment. Helda said nothing more. The forge noise filled the space they left behind.

  Harbek turned back to his bench, reaching for the next piece of work without thinking.

  Only when he had already begun did he realize no one had given him a new task.

  They were wa

  iting to see what he chose to pick up.