The snow had gone hard underfoot.

  Each step broke clean now, the crust sharp enough to answer back. With the added height in his soles, Harbek stood a fraction taller than he had the week before, though it didn’t make the walking easier. The snow had entered its cumbersome stage — no longer drifting, no longer forgiving. The kind that remembered weight.

  Wind carried the sound poorly this morning. It tore the edges off voices, leaving only volume behind. A line of dwarves ahead argued over something small, their laughter and shouts flattened into a single rough noise that the gale pushed past him without care.

  Harbek kept his head down.

  The wear in his cloak showed more with every storm. The fabric had thinned along the shoulders and upper back, the weave pulled loose where pack straps had worried it raw. When the wind cut through, it found the same path each time — down between his shoulders, along the spine, and into the space beneath his tunic.

  Not enough to wound.

  Enough to remind.

  The forge was no kinder.

  Inside, the heat pressed low and steady, but the work waiting for him did not require his hands yet. The anvil answered readily to the apprentices now — close enough that he didn’t need to intervene. Light repairs. Practice. Nothing that asked judgment.

  That left him with space.

  Harbek crossed to one of the older workstations and drew a folded cloak from beneath it. The cloth was smaller than his own, the color uneven where dust and sunlight had taken their share. He held it up, sighted the length and checked the shoulders.

  It would do.

  He laid it across his existing cloak and pinned it into place by feel, offset just enough to cover the worst of the wear. He stitched slowly, deliberately, giving the thread more room than usual — not sloppy, but forgiving. Enough that the seam would move instead of tear if it had to.

  From a hook near the bench, he took some padding cut from an old forge apron, the leather darkened where flame had once caught it. He trimmed it down and worked it between the layers, building thickness where the wind had learned him best.

  When he pulled the cloak on again, it sat differently.

  Bulkier. Shorter. It no longer brushed the floor when he walked, and the added weight settled across his shoulders with a presence he couldn’t ignore. Not heavy — just there.

  He turned once. Then again.

  Satisfied, Harbek threaded the needle and began closing the collar, finishing the work without hurry.

  Runa noticed the cloak before she noticed anything else.

  Not the bulk — that was obvious. It was the way the weight sat wrong for someone who hadn’t planned to move far. The stitching along the shoulders was too careful, too forgiving. Not a repair meant to last the season. A repair meant to endure strain.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  She didn’t comment on it.

  She finished her set at the anvil and stepped aside, letting the iron cool while she wiped her hands on her apron. Harbek was still working at the bench, needle moving steadily through the collar seam.

  “You left the top loose,” she said, not looking at him.

  “For now,” Harbek replied.

  She nodded, as if that answered something she hadn’t asked aloud.

  Runa leaned against the stone post near the forge wall, eyes tracing the space the cloak occupied rather than the man wearing it. “It’ll pull when it’s wet,” she said. “If you keep the padding there.”

  “It’s stitched for it.”

  “Still will.”

  Harbek drew the thread tight and tied it off without lifting his head. “I know.”

  That was the edge of it.

  Runa shifted her weight, boot scraping once against the floor. “If it tears, I can rework the seam,” she offered. Not insistence. Not permission. Just availability.

  Harbek set the needle down and finally looked at her. “If it tears,” he said, “we’ll see.”

  She met his gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then looked away first.

  “Alright,” she said, already moving back toward the anvil.

  The forge resumed its rhythm.

  Nothing had been decided.

  That was the point.

  Harbek finished the cloak and hung it where it would dry evenly, the weight settling into itself as if it had always been meant to sit that way.

  He didn’t test it again.

  Instead, he turned to the smaller things — the kind that didn’t announce themselves as preparation unless you knew what to look for.

  He checked the latches on the tool chest, tightened one hinge a quarter turn. Replaced a cracked wedge in the hammer rack. Rewrapped a handle that didn’t strictly need it, choosing a thicker leather than before. Less precise. More forgiving.

  The work stayed inside the forge.

  No packs were filled.

  No rations measured.

  No words spoken that would have made it real.

  Still, when he knelt to retie the cord on his pack hook, he adjusted the knot so it would release with one pull instead of two. When he stood, he shifted his weight unconsciously, testing the new soles against stone and packed ash.

  They answered differently now.

  Durnek passed once, paused, then moved on without comment. He had seen enough years to know the difference between readiness and restlessness.

  By the time the light thinned toward afternoon, the forge felt smaller again — not closing, not threatening. Just finished with him for the moment.

  Harbek wiped his hands and stepped back, letting the work settle where it stood.

  He didn’t leave.

  Not yet.

  He stood where he was, long enough for the forge heat to thin against his back, long enough that the choice stopped feeling like one at all.

  Outside, the cold pressed in hard and clean.

  Harbek pulled the cloak close and felt the padding take the strain, the stitch lines holding as intended. The comfort surprised him — not because it worked, but because he’d expected it to.

  That expectation lingered longer than it should have.

  He stood there until it faded, then turned back toward the village, carrying the knowledge with him without naming it.