They left at first light, when the frost still clung to the ground and the sky offered no warmth.
The wagon stood finished—solid, broad-framed, its wheels bound in iron. Nearly two weeks of labor had shaped it, each joint fitted with care, each beam cut to endure weight and winter alike. Doyce rested his hand on the wood for a moment, not in pride, but in quiet inspection. This was the kind of work that kept his name moving from one holding to another.
It was why orders continued to find him.
Doyce's wagons were known to be good, durable, and modestly priced. Thirty silver coins was the usual payment for a commission of this size. In the frozen outskirts of the Northern Kingdom, it was enough to survive a season if spent wisely. Enough for food, firewood, and tools. Never enough for comfort, and never enough to change one's standing.
Remus climbed onto the wagon and sat atop the load, legs hanging loosely from the side.
"So this is worth thirty silver," he said.
"If it lasts," Doyce replied, "it is worth more."
Halen took his place at the rear and pushed. The wagon groaned, then rolled forward, its wheels biting into the frozen road. They did not hire a horse. A single work horse cost three silver coins for the day—an expense Doyce would not consider. Three coins fed a household for weeks.
"Pushing will take more than a day," Remus said.
"Yes," Doyce answered evenly. "And it will cost nothing."
The road stretched southward, long and pale beneath the winter sky. Halen pushed until his breath grew heavy, then Doyce took over while Halen rested. They worked in silence, trading effort without complaint.
By late afternoon, the land began to change. The road widened. Stone markers appeared. The air carried new scents—smoke layered with iron, spiced oil, and the sharp bite of spirits.
The city emerged from the frost like a living thing.
It was not crowded by southern standards, but to Remus it felt busy. People moved through the streets with purpose. Lanterns burned even before nightfall. A tavern stood near the outer road, its door open, laughter and the smell of ale spilling into the cold air. Somewhere nearby, perfume clashed with the harsher scents of sweat and metal.
Remus sat up straighter. "It smells… different."
"Cities always do," Doyce said.
Blacksmiths worked behind open shutters, sparks flashing in the dim light. Merchants argued over prices. Soldiers of the Duke's guard moved through the streets in pairs, mail coats clinking softly, hands resting near their weapons. Order, unlike warmth, was carefully maintained here.
They reached the checkpoint as dusk settled in.
"Halt," one of the guards called, stepping forward. His gaze swept over the wagon, then lingered on Halen. "Business?"
Doyce reached into his coat and produced a folded document, worn at the edges.
"Commissioned work," he said. "For Lord Berrick Thorne."
The guard took the paper, reading slowly. Another guard examined the wagon, tapping the wood with the butt of his spear. After a moment, the first guard nodded.
"Carpenter Doyce," he said. "You may pass. Deliver directly to the Duke's residence."
The gate opened with a heavy creak.
As they entered the inner district, the noise softened but did not fade. Stone buildings replaced timber, and the road smoothed beneath the wheels. Ahead, rising above the surrounding structures, stood the residence of the Duke—solid, guarded, and unmistakably separate from the rest of the city.
Remus watched it in silence, feeling the weight of the place settle on him. This was not the frozen village of his birth. This was where power lived—and where their work, at last, would be judged.
Crossing the inner gate felt like stepping into another realm.
Remus leaned forward on the wagon, his eyes moving everywhere at once. Beyond the walls, the air was colder—trapped between stone and shadow—yet the place felt alive.
Buildings pressed close together, their narrow gaps funneling sound and movement. Boots struck stone. Steel rang against steel. Voices carried orders that were obeyed without question.
He saw young soldiers drilling in an open yard, their forms tight and disciplined. Some sparred in pairs, wooden blades cracking together in steady rhythm. Others practiced formations while officers barked commands. Along one wall, squires brushed and saddled horses, steam rising from the animals' backs as they shifted and stamped.
"It's like another world," Remus murmured.
Doyce did not answer. He never did when Remus spoke like that.
Servants moved quickly between buildings, arms full of ledgers, crates, and bundled cloth. Nothing here lingered without purpose. Everything belonged to someone higher.
They were directed toward the supply quarter—a massive stone structure set apart from the residences. Remus slowed when he saw it. The building was enormous, easily ten times the size of their entire home, its doors reinforced with iron, guards standing watch as if it were a fortress in its own right.
Inside, the scent of grain, oil, leather, and metal blended into a thick, practical air. Wagons stood in ordered rows.
Crates were stacked to the ceiling. Men moved between them with tablets and chalk, counting and marking.
A broad man with graying hair approached, already smiling.
"Doyce," he said. "Right on time."
"Close enough," Doyce replied.
The man was Clark, head of the Duke's supply buildings. His eyes passed briefly over Remus—then moved to Halen without surprise. Clark had seen him before. More than once.
Still, he paused.
Halen stood quietly behind the wagon, towering over everyone nearby. Two grown men stacked together might have reached his height and breadth. His shoulders were wide as a doorframe, his hands hanging loose at his sides like restrained weapons.
Clark shook his head faintly. "I'll never understand how you managed to tame him," he said. "Looks more like a siege beast than a man."
Halen blinked, unsure if he was being praised or mocked.
"He listens," Doyce said simply.
Clark snorted. "Better than most guards." His gaze flicked to the nearby soldiers.
Several of them were watching Halen closely. The younger ones, especially, shifted uneasily, hands tightening around spear shafts. One recruit took a half-step back without realizing it. Halen noticed and frowned, confused.
"He won't bite," Clark said dryly. "Unless you give him reason."
Doyce ignored the remark and gestured to the wagon. "Inspect it."
Clark circled the frame, knocking on the wood, testing joints, spinning a wheel. He nodded with satisfaction. "Solid. As always."
"That's why you pay me," Doyce replied.
Clark opened a small iron chest and counted out coins. "Thirty silver. As agreed."
He paused, then added five more, pushing them forward with his thumb. "For the boy. Winter will be harder this year."
Remus stiffened.
"He doesn't need charity," Doyce said calmly, though he took the coins.
Clark glanced at Remus again, this time with a more careful eye. The boy was lean, not frail—his muscles defined by labor, unlike the softer children from the south who never touched real work.
"Still," Clark said, "it's better in his pocket than mine."
Doyce closed his pouch. "Then we're done."
As they turned to leave, Remus glanced once more at the soldiers—some still watching Halen as if expecting him to move suddenly. Halen, oblivious, waved at one of them with a crooked grin.
The soldier did not wave back.
Behind the walls of Lord Berrick Thorne's domain, Remus felt the weight of power, order, and fear woven tightly together—and understood, dimly, that even strength like Halen's bent easily to the right hands.
They left the supply quarter on foot.
The wagon was no longer theirs. It now stood among dozens of others, marked and claimed by the Duke's seal.
The weight of thirty-five silver coins rested in Doyce's pouch, but the absence of the wagon made the streets feel wider—and more uncertain.
Lanterns were being lit as dusk settled over the inner district. The air carried layered scents: oil, iron, spiced food, and ale drifting from a nearby tavern. Remus walked close to Doyce, his earlier awe thinning into quiet fatigue.
Halen walked ahead.
At first, neither of them noticed when Halen slowed and drifted away from the path. His steps became lighter, uneven, his attention pulled by a flicker of pale color near a stack of crates—a butterfly, absurdly alive in the cold, fluttering weakly between patches of warmth leaking from the buildings.
Halen's face brightened.
"Flying," he whispered, and followed it.
The sound came suddenly.
Wood splintered. A sharp crash echoed down the street, followed by shouting. A merchant cried out as his trading cart lurched sideways, crates spilling across the stone.
"Halen?" Remus turned sharply.
Halen stood at the center of the mess, staring at the fallen goods as if they had appeared out of nowhere. A moment later, frightened voices rose around him.
"Hey! Watch it!"
"Move away from there!"
Confused, Halen stepped back—and collided with another stall. More shouting. More noise. Panic spread quickly.
"Father," Remus breathed. "Father—!"
Doyce was already pushing forward.
Armored boots struck stone as patrol soldiers closed in from both ends of the street. Spears lowered. Steel scraped from scabbards. Halen's eyes widened, his breathing turning shallow as he backed away.
"No," he whispered. "Too many."
Doyce leapt in front of him without hesitation, arms spread.
"Hold," he commanded. "Do not touch him."
A spear stopped inches from his chest.
"He caused a disturbance," a patrolman said coldly.
"He doesn't understand," Doyce replied, his voice steady despite the tension. "He is slow of mind. He meant no harm."
Halen crouched behind him, hands clamped over his ears, rocking slightly.
"Too loud," he muttered. "Make it stop."
Remus stood frozen at the edge of the forming circle, his heart hammering. He wanted to help. To speak. To move. His body refused him.
After a tense pause, the lead patrolman spoke. "He will be taken in."
Doyce shook his head. "No. I am responsible for him. He listens to me."
"That is not for you to decide."
Two soldiers stepped forward and took hold of Halen—careful, but firm. Halen whimpered, twisting to look back.
"Knight," he said, voice breaking. "Don't leave."
"I'm here," Doyce said immediately, following them. "I'm here."
Remus trailed behind, his thoughts scattered and useless.
They were led through narrowing streets toward a guarded structure away from the main road. Doyce spoke the entire way—explaining, pleading, offering coin, reason, and name. He spoke of work done for the Duke, of years without trouble, of a man who could not tell right from wrong as others did.
The patrol soldiers did not respond.
Their faces were as cold as the northern ice—shaped by duty, unmoved by explanation.
Lantern light flickered across stone walls as the city swallowed their footsteps.
And Remus, walking a few paces behind, learned how quickly fear could outweigh strength, and how little kindness mattered once order decided otherwise.
The patrol tried to move faster.
One of the soldiers pressed the blunt end of his spear into Halen's back, urging him forward. The pressure was not meant to wound—but Halen did not understand intent, only threat.
He cried out.
Instinct took over.
Halen twisted suddenly, his massive arm swinging wide as he turned. The motion was clumsy, unmeasured—and devastating. The soldier was lifted off his feet and thrown hard against the stone, skidding several paces before coming to a stop.
For a heartbeat, the street went silent.
Then voices erupted.
"Form up!"
"Surround him!"
"Weapons ready!"
Steel rang as swords cleared scabbards. Spears leveled. Soldiers rushed in, spreading into a tight circle. Fear sharpened their movements. This was no longer a misunderstanding—it was a perceived threat.
Remus felt his stomach drop. He could not breathe.
"Halen!" Doyce shouted.
Halen stood frozen, chest heaving, eyes wide with terror as he realized what he had done. He raised his hands uncertainly, then dropped them again, overwhelmed by the noise and the ring of steel.
"They're shouting," he said, voice breaking.
"Too many. Too loud."
"Halen," Doyce said again, louder now, forcing his way past the soldiers' line. "Look at me."
A spear jabbed toward Doyce's side, warning him back. He ignored it.
"Halen," he said, slow and firm. "Down. On the ground. Now."
Halen hesitated, panic written across his face.
"Down," Doyce repeated. "Do not fight."
The words cut through the chaos.
Halen obeyed.
With a whimper, he dropped to his knees, then flattened himself against the cold stone, arms over his head. His great body curled inward, making himself small in the only way he could.
"I'm down," he said softly. "Not fighting."
The soldiers held their positions, breathing hard, fingers white on their weapons. One of them glanced toward the fallen patrolman, who was already being helped to his feet, shaken but alive.
Before another command could be given, a new voice cut through the street.
"Enough."
It was calm. Controlled. Used to being obeyed.
The soldiers stiffened at once and stepped back, lowering their weapons. From between two buildings emerged Lord Berrick Thorne himself, flanked by clerks and guards. He held a bundle of parchment under one arm, ink staining his fingers, irritation plain on his face at the interruption.
"This quarter is not a training yard," the Duke said coolly. "Explain yourselves."
The patrol leader stepped forward and bowed. "My lord. The man caused a disturbance and struck one of my men."
Lord Berrick's gaze shifted to Halen—still prone on the stone—then to Doyce standing protectively beside him, and finally to Remus, pale and rigid a few steps away.
"And you?" the Duke asked Doyce. "Who are you?"
"Doyce," he replied, bowing his head. "Carpenter. I delivered the wagon to your supply hall today."
Recognition flickered in Lord Berrick's eyes. He looked again at Halen, this time with sharper interest.
"That thing," the Duke said carefully, "does not look like a common rioter."
"He is not," Doyce said. "He is slow of mind. He does not understand force, only fear."
The Duke was silent for a moment, studying the scene—the shaken soldiers, the frightened giant on the ground, the boy standing helplessly nearby.
Then he closed his ledger.
"Get him off the street," Lord Berrick said. "And I will hear the rest."
No one moved until he added, colder now, "That was not a suggestion."
The weapons lowered.
The shouting died.
And for the first time since the chaos began, Remus felt the city release its grip—if only slightly—as power, not panic, took control.
Doyce summoned to Lord Berrick's office.
A young guard led him through narrow
corridors of stone, past high windows that bled pale northern light into the halls.
The warmth of the inner keep did little to ease the tension in his chest. Each step echoed too loudly, as if the castle itself were counting them.
The office of Lord Berrick Thorne was spare and orderly.
A wide oak desk stood near the far wall, buried beneath stacked parchment, ledgers, and sealed letters. Behind it sat Lord Berrick, his cloak set aside, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest a man who worked as much as he commanded. To his right stood another figure—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in mail polished to a dull sheen.
Ser Erlan.
His hand rested casually on the pommel of his sword, his eyes fixed on Doyce with the calm attention of a veteran who had seen too many men break under questions.
Doyce stopped two paces from the desk and bowed his head.
"Explain what happened in the yard," Lord Berrick said without preamble.
Doyce spoke plainly. He told of Halen's wandering, the collision with the merchant cart, the panic, the soldiers' response. He did not embellish, nor did he excuse. When he finished, the room fell into a brief, heavy silence.
Lord Berrick tapped a finger once against the desk.
"Your companion is dangerous," the Duke said. "Not by malice, but by nature."
"Yes, my lord," Doyce replied. "And that is why he listens—when spoken to properly."
Ser Erlan's brow lifted slightly, but he said nothing.
Lord Berrick leaned back in his chair. "Your name."
"Doyce," he answered. "Doyce of Frostcave."
At that, Ser Erlan shifted his weight. "The quarry village," he said. "Far north."
"Yes," Doyce replied. "Stone and ice. Little else."
Lord Berrick studied him more closely now. "Your age."
"Thirty-nine," Doyce said.
The Duke's gaze moved over Doyce's frame—the weathered hands, the scarred knuckles, the posture of a man long accustomed to labor and endurance.
"Old enough to know obedience," Lord Berrick said. "And young enough to still be useful."
Doyce did not respond. He simply stood, waiting, as men from places like Frostcave always did.
Doyce stood where he was told.
Lord Berrick regarded him for a moment longer, then spoke in a tone that left no room for refusal.
"Remove your outer garments."
Doyce hesitated only briefly. He loosened the worn leather straps, set aside his coat, then his tunic. Cold air brushed against skin hardened by years of labor.
There was no softness to his body. No ornament, no excess. His frame was shaped by frost, stone, and repetition—broad shoulders drawn from hauling timber, arms corded from axes and saws, scars laid unevenly across knuckles and forearms. The build of a man formed not by training yards, but by survival.
Lord Berrick rose from his chair and circled him slowly, like a craftsman assessing raw material.
"This," the Duke said, "is not the body of a carpenter alone."
Ser Erlan's eyes narrowed slightly. He recognized it as well.
"You have the structure of a foot soldier," Lord Berrick continued. "Endurance. Strength. The kind that does not flee when winter closes in." He stopped in front of Doyce. "I could make something of you. Rank. Pay. A place in the chain of command. A future."
Doyce lowered his gaze. "My lord," he said carefully, "I did not come seeking favor. I only wished to answer for what occurred. Halen meant no harm."
Lord Berrick returned to his desk and rested both hands upon it.
"You misunderstand," he said. "This is not favor. It is opportunity."
Doyce shook his head once. "I thank you, but I must refuse. I am no soldier. I am a father."
The room grew colder.
Lord Berrick's expression hardened. "Then understand this clearly," he said. "Your refusal carries a price."
He turned his gaze toward the window, where the distant city lay beneath the pale northern sky.
"The giant will be hanged at dawn," the Duke said evenly. "In the square. Unless you reconsider and accept service as my soldier."
The words settled with brutal finality.
Doyce said nothing. His hands clenched at his sides.
This was no longer a question of pride, or choice, or even himself. It was a ledger, balanced in blood and obedience—one life weighed against another, and a decision that could not be delayed beyond the coming morning.
Doyce lifted his head once more.
"My lord," he said, carefully choosing each word, "I will accept your terms—but I ask that you hear me fully."
Lord Berrick gestured for him to continue.
"My wife has been dead for seven years," Doyce said. "My son has no one but me. If I enter your service, he cannot be left behind. And neither can Halen. Let them remain here. Give them work—whatever work you deem fit."
Ser Erlan shifted his stance slightly, but remained silent.
Lord Berrick's eyes narrowed. "You ask much."
"I offer certainty," Doyce replied. "You gain a soldier. You gain order."
The Duke turned toward the door. "Bring the boy."
Remus was led inside. He stood rigid, hands clenched at his sides, eyes moving between his father and the two men of authority.
"Your father wishes you to stay here," Lord Berrick said. "To work. Are you willing?"
"Yes, my lord," Remus answered, his voice tight but clear.
"And what work would you do?"
"In the kitchens," Remus said after a breath. "I can cook. And I cut wood. Better than I tend horses."
Lord Berrick regarded him for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Very well. The kitchens and the wood yards."
The Duke's attention returned to Doyce.
"And the giant," Lord Berrick said. "Explain to me why I should not see him as a threat"
Doyce straightened. "Halen will listen to me," he said firmly. "And before I take the oath, I will entrust him to my son. I will command him to obey Remus in all things. He understands loyalty, even if he does not understand law."
Lord Berrick watched him closely. "And if you are not present?"
"He will still listen," Doyce said. "Because I will tell him to."
Silence followed.
"And if he fails?" the Duke asked.
Doyce did not hesitate. "Then take his fingers," he said quietly. "Chain his legs to limit his movement. I accept that punishment in advance."
Ser Erlan exhaled slowly through his nose.
At length, Lord Berrick rose from behind the desk.
"So be it," he said. "You will serve as my soldier. Your son will work in the kitchens and wood yards. The giant will labor under watch."
His voice turned cold once more.
"If Halen causes unrest again, his fingers will be cut, and his legs chained to restrain him. There will be no second mercy."
Doyce bowed his head. "I understand, my lord."
Lord Berrick gave a single nod. "Then we are agreed."
Remus felt the weight of the words settle upon him.
They had not won freedom—but they had preserved one another. In the North, that was the only bargain that ever truly mattered.