The morning came, though the sun never showed itself.
Pale light filtered through thick clouds, casting the village in a colorless glow. Snow drifted down in slow, deliberate flakes, covering the prints Maverick had left only hours before. The forge was still warm from the night coals, and Maverick had not left it.
He'd slept on the bench by the wall, back curled against the stones, wrapped in his cloak. The stew bowl sat empty beside him, cleaned more out of habit than hunger. When he woke, he didn't move right away.
He just listened—to the creak of wood, the groan of snow settling on the roof, the distant crow-call carried in on the wind.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured, heavy, familiar.
The door creaked open.
"Coals are still warm," said the voice.
Maverick sat up. "Didn't feel like crossing the snow."
Torren Voss stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed in gray morning. He was built like the anvil he worked over—broad-shouldered, thick-armed, with a beard gone silver at the chin. His shirt was simple wool, sleeves rolled back to the elbows. He always worked in the cold.
"Could've banked the coals tighter," he said, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.
"They held," Maverick replied, already rising.
Torren gave a grunt that might have been approval. Or not. It was always hard to tell.
They worked without words at first.
Maverick reset the bellows while Torren laid out iron stock. Hooks, hinges, and nails were needed today—nothing glorious, just village work. A new gate latch for the baker. A replacement axehead for the woodsman who never smiled.
The metal glowed slowly. The hammering began.
There was a rhythm to it: three strikes, turn; two strikes, water; brush, flip, strike again.
Maverick matched his father's movements with practiced familiarity. The way they moved around each other—one reloading the fire while the other worked the blade—looked almost rehearsed. They weren't performers. Just craftsmen. Men who understood rhythm and silence better than conversation.
Torren said nothing for a long while.
Finally, as they took a moment to cool the tongs, he muttered, "How was the wall?"
"Quiet," Maverick said. "Thinned patrol. Wind was worse than the shift."
Torren grunted. "Alric still alive?"
"He's half frostbite and cheap brandy, but yes."
Torren smirked faintly. That was practically laughter, coming from him.
They switched stations. Maverick took the anvil, and Torren worked the fire. The clang of steel filled the forge. In between hammerfalls, the wind whispered against the shutters, the occasional gust drawing a breath through the stone walls.
"I heard something about the roads," Torren said, eyes still on the fire. "Brune mentioned it yesterday."
Maverick didn't look up. "More merchants pulling out?"
"Caravan from Varek turned back before the pass. Said the eastern bridge was buried under ice."
"Bridge has stood for fifty years."
"Not anymore."
They didn't speak for a while after that. There wasn't much else to say.
The door burst open just before midday, dragging a gust of snow in behind it.
"We're starving!" came a high voice, followed by another echoing it: "You promised stew!"
Two small figures darted in, tracking wet bootprints across the stone.
Ren and Rune—identical twins in patched cloaks and wool caps too big for their heads. Both were ten. One had a bit of charcoal smudged on his cheek. The other carried a carved wooden sword held proudly aloft.
"Did not promise stew," Torren muttered, barely lifting his head.
"You looked at Mama when she said we'd eat it for lunch," Ren declared, as if that settled the matter.
"That's as good as promising," Rune added with a dramatic bow.
Maverick set down his hammer and crossed his arms. "You brats eat three times more than anyone else in this house."
"And yet we remain so small," Rune sighed.
"So cold," Ren added.
"So neglected."
"So unloved."
Torren tossed a rag at them without looking.
"Out. Scrub your boots first. You drag in one more mess and you'll be cleaning the forge floor with your tongues."
The twins shrieked and ran out, laughing and slipping in the snow.
"We were never that loud," Torren said, finally glancing at Maverick.
"You were. I wasn't." Maverick snorted.
Torren's face tightened briefly. Then he shook his head. "Come on. Let's eat before your mother sends the whole pot out here."
The cottage was warm, heavy with the scent of herbs, stew, and fresh bread. Elira stood at the hearth, her hands wrapped in a cloth as she ladled stew into clay bowls. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid streaked with gray, her sleeves rolled to the elbows.
"You let them drag snow into the forge again?" she asked without turning.
"They snuck in while I blinked," Maverick replied, hanging his cloak by the door.
"I'll start sewing their boots shut."
"Please do," Torren muttered.
They sat at the table—Maverick, Torren, Elira, and soon the twins, who bounded in again with fresh energy and damp hair.
The stew was hot and rich, the bread thick and crusted golden. For a while, they just ate. That was the way meals usually went in the Voss house. Quiet. Grateful. Elira kept the room warm. The twins whispered stories between bites. Torren chewed like he'd never get another chance. And Maverick just… watched.
Not out of distance. Just habit.
He watched the way his mother smiled at the twins' nonsense. The way his father reached for more bread without asking. The way Rune dipped his bread in Maverick's bowl and pretended not to. The way Ren handed him a carved bird from his pocket and said, "He's yours now."
All of it felt fragile.
A knock at the door broke the moment.
Three knocks. Firm. Hesitant.
Torren rose first, exchanging a quick glance with Elira. Maverick followed, keeping to the side as the door creaked open.
Standing in the snow was Old Thern, a goat farmer who lived past the edge of the main road. Bent-backed and gray-eyed, with a shawl wrapped around his shoulders.
"Sorry to bother you," he rasped, eyes flicking past Torren to Maverick. "Didn't want to bring this to the town guard just yet."
Torren nodded for him to speak.
"I've lost three goats in four days. Vanished. No blood, no trail. Pen door wasn't broken. No prints. Just... gone."
"Could be a fox," Torren offered, measured.
"A fox with no feet?" Thern said quietly.
Maverick looked at the man, then past him—toward the gray sky over the village. The wind picked up again.
"I'll come by tomorrow," Maverick said.
Thern nodded. "Didn't know where else to go."
"You came to the right place," Elira called from inside.
The door shut gently behind him.
That night, Maverick sat in his room with the bird carving beside his bed. His shift wouldn't start for hours, but he didn't feel like sleeping.
He thought about Thern's goats. About the silence in the trees. About the bridge that fell, and the roads gone white.
About how even the sky looked afraid to open.