Bang! Bang! Bang!
A heavy, violent pounding echoed from the thick wooden door.
Inside the cramped thatched hut, Green, curled beneath a threadbare quilt, was startled awake. The icy numbness seeping through his feet made him gasp sharply, yet he dared not linger.
"Coming!" he called.
Ignoring the frostbite gnawing at his toes, he hastily pulled on his worn clothes, snatched up the cracked leather coat he used as a second blanket, and unlatched the wooden door.
A blast of winter wind, laced with ice shards, struck him, sending a shiver through his body.
Outside, old Hamm hunched atop a rickety wooden cart, a whip in one hand and a smoking pipe in the other. The wheels carved deep tracks in the uneven, snow-covered road.
"Hurry up! The roads are bad today—be late and you'll get an earful," Hamm muttered after a sharp pull on his pipe.
"Oh, I know," Green replied, shutting the door and climbing briskly aboard the cart.
It was all routine by now—ever since he had followed Uncle Hamm into this modest but steady line of work, he heard the same grumble every morning.
Without further chatter, Hamm drew once more on his pipe, then cracked the whip with force. The old horse snorted, trudging forward through the pitted snow.
Leaning against the battered cart rail, Green glanced up at the dim, starless sky before closing his eyes again. From experience, he knew the journey to the viscount's estate in Bisser City would take at least half an hourglass in this weather. By then, dawn would be breaking.
The familiar scent of dry tobacco drifted on the air, and Green felt a quiet surge of gratitude toward Hamm.
His earliest memory—if it could be called that—was of a snowy winter's day, white as a blank page. All else before it was darkness. No one had seen where he came from, as though he had simply sprung into existence.
Since then, he had roamed the streets of Bisser with other orphans, living off scraps and the mercy of strangers—until the day old, childless Hamm took notice of his quickness. Pondering his own empty household, Hamm had taken him in.
"I'm telling you, boy," Hamm had chuckled, "when I'm gone, these two huts and this old horse will be yours."
They were worth little in silver, but to Green, they were priceless—he saw Hamm as a second father.
Their livelihood was simple: before dawn each day, they would reach the viscount's estate to clear away the heaps of refuse left after the nobles' nightly revels, cart it beyond the city, and then purchase all the supplies needed for the next evening's feast. The trip took most of the day.
Half an hourglass later, the cart jolted onto smoother cobblestone. Without prompting, Green roused himself, brushed the snow from his clothes, and straightened his appearance.
It was pointless—the nobles rarely even looked at them—but the estate's old butler was a viper, forever inventing petty reasons to extort coin from Hamm. A wrinkled coat could cost a silver.
The two sentries at the gate, armored and towering, barely spared them a glance—they had seen this pair every morning for years. Hamm offered a thin smile; Green hopped down, head bowed, and slipped inside toward the grand hall they always cleaned.
Something in the air was different today. At the hall's entrance, the butler stood, his narrow, triangular eyes full of menace. He stalked toward them, hissing, "Wait here. Shut your ears. Close your eyes."
"Yes, sir," they answered quickly.
From inside came the muffled sound of a girl's furious shouting. Green and Hamm exchanged a look—this was no ordinary visitor.
Nearly an hourglass passed; the snow had numbed their legs to the bone. The butler returned, face darker than ever. "If you can't stand the cold, don't bother coming tomorrow," he barked.
Hamm's jaw tightened. After a moment, he fished out a silver coin from beneath his ragged coat and slipped it into the man's palm. "We can stand it. We can stand it."
The butler pocketed it without a word and resumed his anxious vigil at the door.
Green muttered, "Damn it, he just took from us the other day—"
"Let it go," Hamm sighed. "Plenty would kill for our job. He's hoping we'll quit."
Before they could speak further, the doors burst open. A girl in fine noble dress, her delicate face streaked with tears, ran out. She halted beside them and shouted back into the hall:
"I will not go to Lilith's Cottage Witch Academy—and I will never be a witch!"
With a furious gesture, she hurled a book to the ground, then stormed away.
"Outrageous! You two—why are you standing there? Go after her!" roared a red-faced, portly nobleman at two armored knights.
What startled Green most was the sight of the viscount himself—usually aloof and imperious—smiling obsequiously beside the fat noble, murmuring placations.
"Hmph! She understands nothing. For the sake of some petty lover, she would refuse the great cost I paid to hire a wizard? In half a year, it will be—"
The two nobles hurried off into the snow, the butler and gate guards trailing behind, leaving the courtyard deserted.
When Green bent instinctively to pick up the discarded book, Hamm rapped his knuckles with the pipe. "Are you looking to die?"
"It should be fine," Green whispered. "If anyone asks, we'll say it was tossed out with the rubbish."
After a long pause, Hamm glanced about, then gave a reluctant nod. Green tucked the book under his coat and set to work clearing the hall.
No one asked about it. After all, they often found small treasures among the nobles' refuse.
Later, as their cart creaked out of Bisser with a full load of trash, Green pulled the book from his coat. He could read a little—thanks to Hamm's past as a merchant's apprentice—but the title puzzled him.
The Reconstruction of the Hunting Nose and Atlas of Scents.
He had expected a bard's romance, not such an odd work. Then a thought struck him—could this be a wizard's grimoire?
To commoners, wizards were figures of fear and awe, whispered to wield magic capable of slaughtering towns or twisting living flesh. They were untouchable beings, rarely glimpsed in a lifetime.
Green's heart pounded. If he became a wizard, he'd never bow to a noble again.
Eagerly, he began reading—word by word, pausing over unfamiliar terms. The book spoke of scents, the human nose's pitiful range compared to certain beasts, and the art of reshaping one's body to rival them. It told of the infant-cry fowl, able to detect over 6,500 odors; the carrion moth, over 8,200; and the three-headed hound—able to distinguish 17,852.
This, it claimed, was the essence of the Hunting Nose Reconstruction: refining one's senses through arcane transformations, using bizarre materials, and something it called "cells"—a word Green barely grasped.
"Green! Green!" Hamm's voice jolted him back. He hurriedly hid the book and helped unload the rubbish.
By evening, after delivering the nobles' supplies, they began the long ride home. Green opened the book again, utterly absorbed.
"You've been bewitched by that thing," Hamm grumbled with a sigh.
Green only grinned. His mind was already wandering—toward distant lands, impossible creatures, and the secret heart of wizardry.
"You're seventeen now, eh?" Hamm said after a pause. "Next year I'll see about fixing the house, maybe find a decent girl nearby to wed you. Before I go to the grave, I'd like to see a grandson."
"Don't talk nonsense," Green murmured without looking up. "You'll live a hundred years and rule the world before that."
Hamm chuckled, and the cart rolled on down the familiar road.