The forge still burned hot as Dorin finished the last of the nails. His father could have done them quicker—Hagan's hammer never missed a beat—but Dorin took pride in setting each one straight, clean-headed, no waste. He wasn't as fast, not yet, but he could finish an order before dusk and that counted for something.
He quenched the final piece, steam hissing, then set it to cool on the bench. The glow of the coals painted the forge walls a tired orange. He wiped his brow with a rag and let out a long breath. The day's work was done.
And still, his thoughts drifted where they always did now: to Kaden.
By rights, the boy shouldn't be alive. Dorin had seen men wounded less and buried by morning. But there Kaden was, back on his feet, swinging axes, cracking jokes. Laughing, as if he hadn't been half-dead a week ago.
When asked how, Kaden only shrugged. Said he didn't know. And Dorin believed him. Still, the thought gnawed at him. No man should rise from wounds like that without scars to prove it.
He banked the coals carefully, covered the fire so it would keep until morning, and stepped into the chill night. Frostvale hummed low: dogs barking, smoke curling, laughter drifting faint from the longhouse. Dorin pulled his cloak tighter and turned toward the sound.
Kaden waited outside, leaning on the fence with his usual careless grin.
"You close up the forge, or are you letting the fire gods keep watch tonight?" Kaden asked.
"Better watch your mouth," Dorin said. "Fire gods have long memories."
Kaden laughed, and just like that the heaviness slid off Dorin's shoulders. He was still alive. Still himself, for now.
"Come on," Dorin said, jerking his head toward the longhouse. "Drinks are warmer than this wind."
They pushed inside. Heat slammed into them first, the roar of voices next. Torches blazed on the walls, shadows swaying. The air stank of sweat, smoke, and ale—the smell of Frostvale at ease.
Benches lined the hall, all crowded with villagers nursing pints or tearing at plates of roasted goat. Hunters bragged, children darted between legs, and the skald in the corner strummed a harp half a note off.
They found a table near the middle. Dorin set down two pints, one already foaming over. Kaden grabbed his with a grin, took a long swallow, and sighed like he'd been saved.
Mira arrived before the second pint was gone. She slipped onto the bench across from them, braid swinging, bow left behind for once.
"You two would starve without me," she said.
"Untrue," Kaden said, mouth full. "We'd just eat nails. Dorin makes plenty."
"You're not clever," she told him flatly.
"Yet still devastatingly handsome."
Dorin rolled his eyes. Some things never changed.
The pints piled up. The plates emptied. Laughter came easier, and for a while Dorin forgot the whispers that shadowed Kaden everywhere else. Here, at this table, he was just the same reckless boy he'd always been.
But then Kaden stilled, his head tilting like he'd caught something no one else could. His grin slipped.
At the far end of the hall, a group of hunters huddled close, their voices low. To Dorin's ears, it was just noise under the clamor of the hall. But Kaden strained, his eyes narrowing, his breath shallow.
"Strange things in the hills," one hunter murmured.
"Tracks that don't match deer or wolf," said another.
"Beasts moving like they've gone mad. Too close to the palisade."
Kaden's hand clenched around his pint. His chest tightened with each word, as though the air itself pressed against him. He focused harder. The sounds grew sharper, pulling apart from the rest of the noise until he could hear every syllable.
"Blue eyes," a third hunter whispered. "I swear I saw them. Watching."
Kaden flinched, nearly spilling his drink. He forced a laugh to cover it, but Dorin and Mira both glanced at him.
"You alright?" Mira asked.
"Too much ale," Kaden lied quickly. "It makes the walls spin."
Dorin frowned, unconvinced, but let it drop.
The hunters laughed at some joke he didn't catch. The sound of their voices faded again, swallowed by the roar of the hall. But the words stayed burned into Kaden's mind.
Blue eyes.
They left the longhouse late, the three of them weaving into the cold night. Frost clung to the grass. Stars wheeled sharp above.
They walked together until the path forked. Mira's longhouse to the west, Dorin's to the north, Kaden's toward the center. They lingered, reluctant to part.
"Don't drink so much next time," Mira told Kaden, though her tone was softer than her words.
"Don't lecture so much next time," Kaden shot back.
She shook her head, but there was a small smile before she turned away.
Dorin clasped Kaden's shoulder. "See you in the morning."
"Wouldn't dare miss it," Kaden said.
They split there, each swallowed by their own shadows.
The longhouse was quiet when Kaden slipped inside. His mother and sister had gone to bed, the hearth coals low. He moved quietly, boots soft on the floorboards, thoughts loud in his head.
Strange beasts. Odd behavior. Blue eyes.
It had to be connected. The creature that had torn him open, the whispers of hunters—it wasn't chance. Something was moving in the mountains. Something dangerous.
He touched the pendant through his tunic. Warm. Always warm now. He wanted to rip it off, hurl it into the dark. But his fingers wouldn't obey.
"Son."
Kaden froze. His father stood by the hearth, arms crossed, eyes steady as always. Erik rarely wasted words. When he spoke, you listened.
"There'll be a gathering in the morning," Erik said. "The elders want every family present. Strange signs in the wild."
Kaden's stomach tightened. He nodded once.
"Get rest," Erik said, before turning back toward his pallet.
Kaden sat down on his own, staring into the faint glow of the fire. Rest would not come easy. Not with blue eyes haunting the dark behind his own.