The morning sun stretched lazily across the treetops, spilling warm gold over the clearing where Qen tightened the worn leather harness of their wagon. The air smelled of dew-soaked earth and pine, and the hut they had built—rough, uneven, but still standing proud—sat behind them like a stubborn monument to their first effort at survival. Qen let his gaze linger on it for a moment. It was solid enough to keep out the wind and rain, but in his chest he felt a gnawing truth: something was missing.
"A hut's just walls and a roof if we don't know how to shape the inside," he muttered under his breath. His hand brushed the pommel of his sword—the same blade he'd used to shovel dirt and wedge timbers into place.
Hert, crouched nearby and checking the edge of his dagger, flicked his wolfish ears toward him. "You mean tools? Furniture?" His tone was half-amused, half-curious.
"Tools, knowledge… everything," Qen replied. "We can't keep using my sword for digging holes."
At that, Hert chuckled, a low sound in his throat. But his expression quickly turned serious, sharp black eyes reflecting the sunlight. "So we go to Guana?"
"Yes," Qen said firmly. "The villagers there seemed kind enough. The elder knew me from my last stay… and I still have coin left from my soldier's pay." He patted the pouch at his belt, the faint jingle inside a reminder of his dwindling funds. "Enough to buy what we need."
Behind them, Freon stirred. The massive white direwolf yawned, jaws stretching wide to reveal fangs like ivory blades. He leapt down from the wagon with a thud, stretched his long legs, then hopped back up in one smooth motion. The beast's golden eyes flickered with quiet intelligence, as though he understood every word.
"Then it's decided," Hert said, sliding his dagger back into its sheath. "Let's visit Guana Village."
---
By midday, the trio arrived at Guana. The village looked almost unchanged from a week before—sturdy wooden fences ringing its outskirts, quiet fields waving gently in the breeze, smoke curling from humble chimneys. The smell of livestock and hearthfires mingled with the crisp mountain air. Life here moved slow, steady, and undisturbed.
As Qen guided the wagon through the dirt path, a few villagers paused from their work. They squinted, then their faces lit with recognition.
"Eh? Sir Tavious?" called a farmer, wiping sweat from his brow with a ragged sleeve. "You've returned already?"
Qen offered a nod and a small smile. "Just a week apart, but it feels longer. I came back because I need tools—and knowledge, if possible."
The farmer chuckled, shaking his head as if to say soldiers never rest. Already, the news spread among the villagers like sparks in dry grass. By the time Qen reached the square, Elder Doran himself was waiting, walking with a steady but deliberate pace, his staff tapping softly against the ground.
Doran's lined face softened with recognition. "Qen Tavious… I thought you'd be deeper in the eastern forest by now. What brings you back so soon?"
Qen dismounted, bowing his head respectfully. "Survival, Elder. I've built a hut, but I lack the tools and the skills to make anything decent. I came to ask if your village might sell me some carpenter's tools—and perhaps share a little knowledge. I won't take it for free; I still have coin from my service."
The elder's gaze sharpened as he stroked his beard, weighing the words. Villagers crowded closer, whispering. Doran finally nodded. "You speak plain, and you paid fair coin last time. Tools, though… they are precious to us. Still—" His eyes glinted. "There may be another way."
---
That "other way" turned out to be Keir Cernal.
He was just seventeen, with sharp, restless eyes and a frame still filling out with youth. His hands bore the calluses of labor, though his grip was not yet as steady as a craftsman's. His father was a modest woodworker, skilled enough to build wagons and simple furniture, though never acclaimed as a master. Keir was his apprentice, and his eagerness to prove himself burned bright enough to be seen by anyone.
When Elder Doran suggested Keir accompany Qen, the boy nearly jumped at the chance. His parents, however, were less eager.
"You want my son to live in the forest?" his mother said, brows drawn tight with worry. "It's dangerous. Goblins, beasts… worse."
His father scowled, folding his arms. "He's barely of age. A week's travel beyond these fences and the boy could be dead."
Qen dropped to one knee, lowering his head before them in respect. "I won't ask lightly. I promise to protect him as I would a younger brother. Hert, my companion, is sharp-eyed and quick-handed. And Freon—" he glanced at the direwolf, who lounged a few paces away, golden eyes fixed unblinking on the family "—is not a beast to underestimate. Your son will not walk unguarded."
Keir, unable to hold his tongue, burst in: "Father, Mother—I want to go. If I stay here, I'll just keep making stools and fence posts. But if I go with him, I'll learn real carpentry. How to build in the wild, with no master holding my hand. It'll be good for me. Please."
The air thickened with silence. Only Freon's heavy snort cut through, the direwolf's presence both menacing and strangely reassuring.
Finally, Keir's father let out a long sigh, shoulders slumping. "…Fine. But only if Sir Tavious swears to bring him back should things turn dire."
Qen pressed a fist to his chest. "I swear it."
Keir grinned, wide and bright.
---
Before their departure, Elder Doran arranged for Qen to purchase a set of basic tools: a small iron axe, a hammer with a worn wooden grip, a hand saw sharp enough for lumber, and a chisel for shaping. The weight of them in his hands felt heavier than swords or spears ever had—because these were tools of building, not destruction.
Keir insisted on carrying most of them himself, strapping them proudly to his satchel as though they were badges of honor. His father muttered something about foolish pride, but his eyes lingered with reluctant pride of their own.
As they prepared to leave, Elder Doran raised his staff. "Qen Tavious, Hert, Keir… the forest is no place for the careless. But I see your determination. Build your shelter, carve out your living—but remember, Guana will always trade fairly with you, so long as you bring no harm."
Qen bowed low. "Then one day we'll return with goods worth trading. Thank you, Elder."
And so, as the sun began to tilt westward, the wagon rolled once more toward the forest. Qen walked at its side, Hert lounging atop it, Keir chattering with boundless excitement, and Freon padding silently behind. The direwolf's fur bristled in the evening breeze, eyes sharp and ears twitching at every sound of the wild.
The hut awaited them. But more than that, a beginning awaited them—tools in hand, knowledge on the way, and a new bond forged in trust.