Morning came clear.

  The freezing rain had passed in the night, leaving the village caught beneath a thin skin of ice that broke the light into pale shards. Snow still clung to eaves and stone, but the air itself was calm—cold, yes, but steady. The kind of cold that held its ground.

  Harbek stepped into it with his pack already on.

  The thicker straps settled where he expected them to now, weight drawn close instead of pulling back. He rolled his shoulders once, felt the load answer, then left it alone. The boots took the crusted snow cleanly. The tread bit differently than before—broader, less forgiving—but his stride adjusted without thought.

  The village was awake in its winter way. Smoke rose straight. Doors opened and shut. Somewhere, metal rang—an apprentice early or late enough that the difference no longer mattered.

  Harbek followed the stone path toward the lower storerooms.

  The door stood open, light spilling across packed snow. Inside, the air smelled of oiled wood, cured leather, and grain kept dry by stubborn care. Nothing here was rare. That was the point.

  Harbek went to the far rack.

  He took down a bow.

  Unremarkable. Yew-backed, grip worn smooth by many hands. The string had been replaced recently—clean twist, no fray. He flexed it once, slow, feeling the resistance travel evenly through the limbs.

  Balanced. Honest.

  A quiver followed—plain leather, darkened by use. He checked the seams, pressed the base, then slung it across his back and adjusted the lay against his pack. The bulk of the cloak shifted how it sat, but not poorly.

  The keeper watched him for a moment longer than courtesy required.

  “Herd’s thin,” Harbek said.

  The keeper grunted. No argument.

  At a side bench, Harbek added to his belt with care.

  A short skinning knife.

  A whetstone, thumb-sized and already oiled.

  Twine, wrapped flat.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Steel and striker.

  A bone awl.

  A narrow iron hook.

  The weight settled low and familiar.

  When he stepped back into the morning, a few heads turned. Not sharply. Just the small recalibration that came when someone carried more than they had yesterday.

  Harbek took the longer path out of the village, skirting the sheds and stacked stone until the snow thinned beneath use. The trees stood dark beyond, their branches still holding yesterday’s ice.

  At the treeline, he stopped.

  The forest was quiet—not empty, but held. No birds yet. No wind worth naming. Somewhere deeper in, water moved under ice.

  Harbek adjusted the pack once, then stepped forward.

  The herd trail came easily. It always did. Wide paths, packed firm by weight and habit, now softened at the edges where snow had begun to reclaim them. He followed at a measured pace, eyes low, then high, then low again.

  After a time, he stepped off the trail.

  He found a deadfall half-buried in snow and ice, its trunk split where frost had worried it apart. Harbek set the pack down, unbuckling it carefully, and leaned it against the wood where it would stay dry.

  He took the bow in hand.

  The first draw was stiff. Not wrong—just unfamiliar. The string bit his fingers differently than hammer haft or chisel ever had. He held it a moment, then let it down without loosing.

  Again.

  This time he set his feet. Adjusted the angle of his shoulders to account for the cloak’s bulk. Drew slower.

  The bow answered.

  He loosed at a knot in the fallen trunk. The arrow struck low, thudding into bark and stopping short.

  Harbek retrieved it without comment.

  He shifted his stance by a thumb’s width. Drew again.

  The second arrow struck closer. Still low. Still clean.

  He did not hurry. He did not count. He let the cold settle into his hands and learned where the bow resisted, where it yielded. Each shot was followed by a small correction, made without ceremony.

  This was not hunting.

  This was alignment.

  After a time, he stopped. Re-strung the bow. Checked the arrows. Then he shouldered the pack again and returned to the herd trail.

  As he walked, he listened.

  The forest offered nothing new. No fresh breaks. No scatter of prints beyond what he already knew. But the absence felt heavier now, shaped by yesterday’s memory.

  He followed the trail until the light thinned, then turned back while it still held.

  When the village came back into view, smoke rising straight and true, Harbek did not slow.

  The bow rode at his back as if it belonged there.