The days that followed Grandpa's revelation were a whirlwind of planning, laughter, and sweat-soaked work. The mountain was ours, and with it came a freedom we'd never even dreamed of. We spent weeks trudging across ridges, surveying the land, and arguing over blueprints that kept changing every other hour. The most heated debate of all? The outhouse.
Joey swore it needed to face east "for the morning breeze." I said west, so the smell would blow away from the house. Grandpa just sat there, chin propped on his hand, grinning like a man watching two puppies fight over a stick.
Every decision, no matter how small, became a game, and the constant squabbling turned the labor into a series of ridiculous little adventures.
Joey thrived in this chaos. His street smarts translated oddly well into construction work. He knew which lumber sellers cut corners, which blacksmith would give us a discount on nails if we promised to advertise his forge, and which townsfolk were the easiest to barter with.
I, on the other hand, approached the project like I used to approach spreadsheets in my past life—methodical, calculating, and slightly obsessive. I had measurements scrawled on scraps of parchment, neat little charts of supply costs, and schedules that Joey never bothered following.
Grandpa, leaning on his cane, smirked through it all, the glint in his eyes saying he'd seen a hundred "bright ideas" crumble before the first nail was hammered.
"You two are going to build the house crooked," he barked one afternoon, as Joey insisted that a random tree stump made the perfect foundation marker. "Measure twice, cut once, or I'll measure you instead!"
"Grandpa," I groaned, sweat running down my neck, "he's got a point. That stump is perfectly level."
"Level?" Grandpa's laugh rumbled like gravel. "Boy, you've been measuring with your eyes again. A stump's not a foundation, unless you're planning to live like squirrels."
Joey just smirked, balancing a plank across his shoulders. "Honestly, squirrels sound smarter than you guys right now."
"You guys are the worst bosses ever," he added, even though the grin on his face betrayed him.
I shot back, "Bosses? You mean babysitters."
"Babysitters?!" Joey protested, nearly dropping his plank. "I thought street work was hard..."
"Street work? You mean running from angry bakers?" I cut in.
"Hey! Those bakers are vicious," he snapped. "You haven't lived until you've had a loaf of bread hurled at your head like a brick!"
"Or a fish," I added, grinning.
Joey threw his hands up. "Exactly. Don't underestimate a fish thrower."
Grandpa just wheezed with laughter, muttering, "And these are my apprentices… Saints save me."
Weeks blurred together in a haze of blisters, sawdust, and lopsided beams. Somehow, against all odds, the cabin grew taller, stretching into a sturdy two-story house with a spacious ground floor that could finally breathe. Every nail hammered in felt like a victory. Every shelf built without collapsing under Joey's weight was a miracle.
One sunny morning, as we argued over chimney placement, Grandpa sat on a boulder with his arms crossed, sighing dramatically. "You know, when I was in the Royal Knights, nobody wasted breath arguing over chimneys. You lit a fire, and you were glad to have smoke instead of frostbite."
"Yeah, but did your Royal Knights have Joey here?" I teased, nodding to the boy, who was balancing on a log like a circus act, hammer twirling dangerously in one hand.
Joey grinned and struck a pose. "That's right. I'm the spice to Alden's boring cooking. Without me, this house would be flavorless."
Grandpa arched an eyebrow. "Spice? More like a storm in a teacup."
Joey wobbled on the log. "Storms are exciting!"
Grandpa just shook his head, chuckling, while I tried not to imagine him actually falling on the half-built wall.
Finally, the day came to put up the shop sign. We'd painted the wood carefully, sanded the edges smooth, and stood shoulder to shoulder in front of our handiwork. My hand clenched the paintbrush, Joey held the stencil, and Grandpa stood behind us with his hands folded, the perfect image of a proud but perpetually unimpressed mentor.
"Alright, this is it," I said. "Ready to make it official?"
Joey smirked, red eyes gleaming. "Let's just hope your handwriting isn't as crooked as your sword swings."
I huffed. "Please. My swordsmanship is flawless."
"Then we're doomed," Joey muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.
Grandpa barked a laugh, his shoulders shaking.
By the time the sun dipped low, casting the shopfront in warm amber light, we stepped back to admire the bold, freshly painted letters: Rowan & Co.
"There," I said proudly. "That's our mark. Officially open for business."
Joey tilted his head, squinting at it. "Rowan & Co., huh? Guess that makes us Rowans now."
Grandpa's voice softened as he stepped forward. "Aye. Rowan's the name. Make it count. This is more than a sign, boys. It's your home, your business, your family."
We all laughed then, a long, warm laugh that carried through the woods, mingling with the rustling leaves. For the first time, it felt like the forest itself was laughing with us.
Life quickly found a rhythm. Mornings brought light sparring matches... more comedy than combat. Joey darted with daggers, trying to flank me, while I swung the River Blade with exaggerated flourishes just to make him snicker.
"You call that an ambush?" I bellowed one morning. "My grandma hits harder than that!"
"Your grandma probably had more aura control too!" Joey shouted back from behind a crate.
Grandpa leaned on his cane nearby, shaking his head. "If the two of you spent half as much energy training as you did trading insults, you'd be unstoppable."
"Insults are training," Joey argued. "Builds character!"
Grandpa smirked. "Builds nonsense, more like."
By midday, we were merchants instead of warriors. Joey arranged shelves with a street hawker's eye for attraction, muttering to himself about "impulse buys" and "display angles," while I tracked stock and scribbled numbers. Travelers trickled in, drawn by fair prices, Grandpa's war stories, and Joey's ability to appear behind them with exactly the item they hadn't realized they needed.
One night, after bolting the shutters, Joey collapsed onto the couch with a groan. "I hate to admit it, but we're gonna need more help soon."
I raised a brow. "More help? Please. We're a well-oiled machine."
"A well-oiled, exhausted machine," he corrected, throwing his arm over his face. "We've got the shop, the storage, the cleaning, and the endless bookkeeping. At this rate, I'll start charging you wages."
Grandpa chuckled from his chair by the fire, the flames casting his weathered face in bronze. "The boy's right. You can't carry the whole mountain on your backs. You'll need more hands, sooner or later."
I laughed, leaning back. "Maybe we'll find someone at the next caravan. Another stray looking for a home."
Joey peeked at me, a sly grin tugging at his lips. "If they're half as cool as us, they'll fit right in."
Grandpa muttered under his breath, "Saints help me… one stray was already enough."
We all laughed, and for a moment, the cabin felt like it held the whole world inside it. The warmth of the fire, the scent of herbs and bread, the steady creak of timber... all of it wrapped us up like a promise.
Rowan & Co. wasn't just a shop. It was our banner, our dream, our ridiculous little empire at the edge of the wild.
And for the first time in my life, I believed it would last.