The first light of dawn crept in through the crooked shutters of Kaelen's loft, turning the dust motes into drifting flecks of gold. The wooden beams overhead were warped with age, some carved faintly with the marks of long-forgotten tenants. Outside, the city was just beginning to stir — the muffled rumble of wagon wheels on cobblestone, the rhythmic splash of a bucket at the public well, and somewhere far below, a baker calling out his morning bread in a voice rough from years of shouting over the marketplace din.
Kaelen sat at the small table pressed against the window, the legs uneven enough that it wobbled whenever he leaned too hard. He was tightening the straps on his leather bracers, the faint creak of the worn hide matching the rhythm of his thoughts. His sword leaned against the wall within arm's reach, and his forearm mini-crossbow — an intricate little thing of polished oak and steel — sat on the table beside a bowl of half-eaten porridge.
Across from him, Miro was hunched over a plate of bread and cheese, eating with the stubborn concentration of someone determined to make breakfast last as long as possible. His blonde hair stuck up at odd angles, and he hadn't bothered to tie back the leather straps on his twin dagger sheaths yet.
"You're slow today," Kaelen said, tightening the last strap and flexing his wrist to test it.
"I'm savoring," Miro replied, his words muffled around a mouthful of cheese. He gestured with his fork for emphasis. "This is the good cheese."
Kaelen smirked. "The good cheese is for paying customers."
"Then I'll put it on your tab," Miro shot back, grinning.
They finished breakfast in a companionable quiet, broken only by the faint thud of boots on the stairs outside and the occasional creak of the rafters.
From the open window drifted the scents of fresh bread, river water, and faint woodsmoke — the smells of Harrowick waking for another day. Somewhere nearby, a hawker called out charms for sale, his voice trailing a singsong litany of promises: "Wards for safe travel, pendants for luck, rings to guard your sleep!"
Kaelen leaned an elbow on the table, letting his gaze wander over the narrow street below. It was a simple moment, one of those rare mornings without urgency. But he knew better than to trust days that began in perfect calm.
By the time they stepped out of the loft, the sun had risen high enough to bathe Harrowick's crooked streets in warm gold. The city was alive now — a tapestry of sound and motion.
The air carried a mingling of scents: roasting chestnuts from a street vendor, the sharp tang of iron from the blacksmith's forge, the faint briny note of the river that curved lazily around the city's southern edge.
They made their way toward the market square, Kaelen adjusting the strap of his sword as they went. Miro twirled one of his daggers idly in his fingers before sheathing it again — a habit Kaelen had long since stopped telling him to quit.
Halfway down Southcord Lane, they passed Garron the guard leaning against the gatepost of a narrow alley, helm tucked under his arm."Mornin', lads," Garron called. "No trouble last night. Unless you count a drunk trying to fight a rain barrel."
"Who won?" Kaelen asked.
"The barrel," Garron said with mock gravity, earning a chuckle from both brothers.
At the market, the cobblestones widened into a sunlit square ringed by shops and open stalls. Merchants hawked their goods with rehearsed enthusiasm, the calls overlapping until they became part of the city's heartbeat.
They began with the fletcher's stall, where Serenya often bought her arrow shafts. The fletcher, a wiry old man with a nose like a hawk's beak, had a bundle of ashwood shafts neatly bound with twine. Kaelen bought a few for her — she wasn't with them this morning, but he knew she'd use them before the week was out.
Next, they stopped at Maerin's Leatherworks to have one of Miro's dagger sheaths restitched. Maerin, a broad-shouldered woman with arms like tree trunks, worked the awl with quick, practiced motions."You two still here?" she asked without looking up. "Thought you'd be gone weeks ago."
"Coin's been steady enough here," Kaelen said. "But we're thinking of moving on soon."
"Best do it before the autumn rains," she advised. "Mud on the South Road will eat your boots in a day."
Leaving Maerin's, they crossed the square toward the smithy. Kaelen handed over his mini-crossbow to a young apprentice to have the trigger spring oiled. While they waited, Miro spotted Old Lysa, the baker's widow, struggling to carry two crates of flour from her cart.
Without a word, both brothers stepped over to help."Bless you boys," Lysa said, wiping sweat from her brow. "These feel heavier every year."
"That's because you keep buying more flour," Miro said, setting one crate down inside her shop.
"More mouths to feed," she replied with a smile. "Now take a loaf for your trouble — still warm."
They left with the loaf wrapped in cloth, the warmth seeping into Kaelen's hands.
By mid-morning, their errands were done. They paused by the fountain at the square's center, the water catching the sunlight in silver flashes. Around them, Harrowick bustled on — children darting between stalls, a mage's apprentice trying to make his stack of tomes float, a bard plucking a lute in the shade of the old clocktower.
For Kaelen, it was the kind of morning that made the city feel like it could last forever. But he knew better.