The journey back to their camp felt different this time. The wagon creaked beneath its load of tools, and Keir Cernal sat at the back beside the bundle of supplies, his eyes shining with eagerness as he asked questions about the forest, about Freon, about the hut they had already built.
"Is it true you made it without any real tools?" Keir asked, wide-eyed.
Qen glanced over his shoulder, amused by the boy's excitement. "A sword in place of a shovel. My hands for rope. Hert's strength to lift trunks. We made do with what we had."
Keir's mouth curved into a grin. "Then it's a miracle it's still standing."
Hert chuckled at that, his ears flicking in good humor. "It does lean a little to the left."
"Not my fault," Qen muttered, but even he smiled.
By the time they reached the hut, the sun was dipping westward. Their rough shelter stood proudly among the trees, imperfect yet solid. To Keir, though, it was as though he had stepped into a new world. He circled the hut, ran his fingers across the rough walls, and marveled aloud.
"You made this with no knowledge at all," he whispered, half in disbelief, half in admiration. "Then with tools, we can make something even better."
Qen laid the tools on the workbench they had fashioned days before, still amazed they had managed to shape it without splintering the wood too badly. He turned to Keir. "You said you're an apprentice. What should we build first?"
Keir tapped his chin, thinking hard. "You already have a workbench, so that's good. But you can't eat standing up forever. A table—and stools to go with it. After that, storage. A chest or shelves. And later… a bed, maybe."
Hert tilted his head. "Bed? Isn't the floor good enough?"
Keir blinked at him. "Do you like sleeping with bugs crawling up your fur?"
Hert's ears flattened, and even Qen stifled a laugh.
"Alright," Qen said, clapping his hands once. "Table and stools first. Let's put your skills to the test, Keir."
---
The next morning, their work began.
Qen and Hert hauled the logs Keir pointed out—straight ones for legs, flatter ones for the table's top. Keir demonstrated how to strip bark cleanly with the axe, showing them how smooth surfaces made everything easier.
"See? No splinters when you eat," Keir explained. His strokes weren't always perfect—he was still learning—but he had the confidence of one who knew the process, and that alone set him apart from Qen and Hert.
Hert tried his hand at the axe next, though his wolfkin strength nearly split the wood in two. Qen had to steady the piece, chuckling under his breath. "Gentle, Hert. You're not trying to kill the log."
Freon lounged nearby, golden eyes following their work with disinterest, though his ears perked whenever someone stumbled or cursed. At one point, when a log rolled too close, the direwolf lazily swatted it back toward the pile with a massive paw, earning Keir's astonished stare.
"Does he always help like that?" the boy asked.
"Only when it amuses him," Qen replied.
Bit by bit, the table came together. They used thick pegs instead of nails—Keir showing them how to whittle the pegs and fit them snug into carved holes. It was crude, uneven, but sturdy. By midday, they had a rough table standing proudly in the middle of the hut.
When they finally set it upright, all three stood back to admire it.
"It wobbles," Hert observed.
Keir shrugged. "Then don't lean on it too much. It's still a table."
Qen chuckled, running a hand over the rough surface. "Better than eating off the floor."
---
The stools came next, though not without frustration. Their first attempt toppled the moment Qen sat on it, sending him to the ground with a heavy thud. Hert howled with laughter, ears twitching, while Keir buried his face in his hands.
"Legs too uneven," the boy groaned. "Alright, again. This time, measure properly."
It took the rest of the afternoon, but by evening they had three stools of varying height and wobble. Imperfect, yet serviceable. Qen, Hert, and Keir sat together around their table for the first time, Freon curled like a silent guardian at the entrance.
For their meal, they ate smoked meat and berries, and though the food was simple, it felt different now—more civilized, more theirs.
"This," Qen said quietly, looking at the table, "feels like the beginning of a home."
Keir's grin was radiant. "Wait until we make a chest. Or shelves. Then you'll really see."
---
The following days settled into rhythm.
Keir guided them to craft a simple chest—using flat boards hammered together, reinforced with wooden pegs. It creaked and groaned but held their spare clothes and food away from damp ground.
Next, shelves lined one corner of the hut, rough but functional. Qen was amazed how simple knowledge—like carving joints to fit snug—made all the difference. Hert grew skilled at smoothing wood, his claws surprisingly useful for scraping edges.
At night, they sat at their table, lit by a small oil lamp bought from Guana, speaking of plans for the future. Keir often asked about Qen's days as a soldier, about the battles he had fought, and about the wider world beyond Guana. Hert, meanwhile, taught him about the ways of wolfkin—how to sense danger in the forest, how to read the shift of the wind.
And Freon, ever silent, listened with glowing eyes, his mere presence a shield against the lurking dangers of the wild.
---
By the end of the week, their hut had changed. No longer just a crude shelter, it bore the marks of growing life inside: a table and stools at its center, shelves stacked with food, a chest at the corner, tools lined neatly along the workbench.
Keir stood back one evening, hands on his hips, and said proudly: "It's not just a hut anymore. It's a home."
Qen met Hert's eyes, and for the first time in many days, allowed himself to truly relax. "A home," he echoed. "Built by our own hands."
And in the silence that followed, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the steady breath of the direwolf at the door, Qen felt something stir within him—something stronger than survival.
The beginning of belonging.