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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: Edge of the Dreadwood, Near an Unnamed Smithing Hamlet
It took three days to reach the Dreadwood.
The forest rose ahead of them like a scar in the land—dense, uneven, and quiet in a way that didn't feel natural. There were no birds. No streams running clear. Just damp ground, too much shadow, and a silence broken only by the low groan of old trees shifting in the wind.
Arthur didn't say much. He walked steadily. Sarra followed five paces back, sometimes closer when the path narrowed.
She didn't ask questions about the sword on his back, or where they were going. She just watched.
Sometimes, when they stopped to drink, she mimicked his stance. Matched how he balanced weight across his heels. Watched how he held a blade without tensing his wrist.
By the end of the second night, she copied his movements with her knives—not perfectly, but better than most squires.
He noticed. Didn't comment.
They reached a small hamlet just past dusk on the fourth day. Eight buildings, maybe less. Smoke drifted from one chimney. A forge glowed faintly on the far end, tucked behind a shed built from mismatched planks and patch-patched hides.
The place smelled like old iron and boiled leather.
They were passing through, or that was the plan, until they heard shouting from the far side of the forge.
Arthur didn't change pace. But he adjusted his grip on the strap over his shoulder.
A man stumbled out from the smithy, holding his ribs. He spat blood onto the dirt. Behind him came a larger man—broad-shouldered, shirt off, fists calloused and blackened with soot. He didn't follow with a weapon. Just stood in the doorway, breathing hard.
"You want your silver," the big man said, voice low. "Come back with someone who earned it."
The first man muttered something and limped off toward the main path.
The big man turned, picked up a length of warped iron, and went back inside.
Sarra watched him disappear into the forge.
"Don't see that every day."
Arthur glanced at her. "No."
They stopped at the well in the center of the hamlet. A boy sat nearby carving something into the dirt with a stick. He didn't look up until Arthur drew a bit of water.
"Best not to bother the smith," the boy said.
Arthur nodded. "He always throw people out like that?"
The boy shrugged. "Only if they lie. Or if they come drunk."
"What's his name?"
The boy looked surprised. "Don't know. Just 'Garron.' No one calls him anything else."
Arthur passed him a coin and moved on.
Sarra walked beside him now. "You think he's one of the ones you're looking for?"
"Maybe."
"You going to ask him?"
Arthur didn't answer.
Sarra kept pace with him as they walked back toward the forge, the sound of hammering echoing down the path.
Arthur didn't speak.
He hadn't planned to stop here. But when the man—Garron—had stepped out of the smithy and squared his shoulders, Arthur felt something stir beneath the surface. Not from the man's size. Not from his stance.
From his stillness.
Qi flickered like heat between them for only a moment. Raw, unshaped, but present. A deep-rooted stability in Garron's body—like forged iron not yet cooled. He wasn't trained, but he carried strength in the marrow of his limbs. No excess. No waste.
Arthur had felt something similar once.
A long time ago. Another life. Back when his name still carried weight in sect halls and challenge stones.
That man had stood in white robes, wielding a spear of wind-bound steel, unbending and without ego. A genius of body cultivation from the Clear Spring Sect. Arthur had broken his spine with his bare hands.
But it hadn't been easy.
This man—Garron—had none of that man's refinement. No schooling in qi, no elegant technique.
Just the potential.
And the quiet kind of anger that didn't show in words.
Sarra glanced at him but didn't say anything this time.
Arthur didn't need to ask. He didn't need to test him.
He would leave the offer unspoken.
If Garron had even a piece of that power waiting inside him, he'd find his own way forward.
They returned to the forge just as the heat inside flared again. Sparks crackled from the open pit, and the big man—Garron—was hammering a bent piece of metal into shape. His blows were even, deliberate. He didn't rush. Didn't glance up.
Arthur waited at the edge of the doorway.
After five strikes, Garron set the hammer down.
"You want something?" he asked without turning.
"Just watching," Arthur said.
Garron grabbed a jug, drank, then wiped his mouth. "You don't look like a buyer."
"I'm not."
"You want a fight?"
Arthur shook his head. "Had a few already this week."
"Then what?"
Arthur stepped inside, just enough for the firelight to catch the wrap on his sword.
"I'm building something."
Garron turned slightly. His brow creased. "A warband?"
"No."
"What then?"
Arthur looked around the forge. Tools worn smooth. Anvil cracked near the edge. Blades in various states of repair. Not a display. Just use.
"I don't know yet," Arthur said. "But I need people who don't ask what they get out of it first."
Garron smirked. "That's a good way to find dead men."
Sarra leaned against the wall behind Arthur. "He's not one of those."
Garron looked her over. "And you are?"
She didn't answer.
Garron took another drink, then stepped forward. He stood taller than Arthur by half a head, heavier by more than that. But there was no threat in the way he moved. Just a kind of certainty.
"You kill easy?" he asked.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"
Garron tossed a small blade from the table. "I think you've got soft boots."
Arthur caught it. Tested the balance. Too top-heavy. Handle worn.
He flipped it once, then tossed it back.
"You hit harder than the edge on that."
They stood there a long moment.
After Garron said, "I've got work to finish. If you're still around tomorrow, maybe we talk," Arthur didn't press him.
He and Sarra left the forge quietly and made camp just outside the village, beneath a bent pine that blocked the worst of the wind. The ground was hard but dry, and Sarra laid her pack without complaint.
"He's not afraid of you," she said, stirring the coals in their small fire.
"No."
"Not many people aren't."
Arthur stared at the slow flicker of flame. "That's not always a bad thing."
"You think he'll come?"
Arthur shook his head. "He said we'd talk. That's enough."
The next morning, Arthur returned to the forge just after first light. Garron was already working. Shirt off, arms blackened to the elbow, hammer moving in a steady rhythm. A lesser man might have waited for a break in the noise.
Arthur didn't.
"You ever plan to do more than make blades for people who won't use them well?" he asked, standing in the doorway.
Garron paused.
Set the hammer down.
Turned slowly.
"I've done worse," he said.
Arthur nodded. "So have I."
They stood a moment in the orange glow of the forge, the heat thick and the quiet more tense than hostile.
"You want something from me," Garron said.
"I want you to come with me."
"To do what?"
"To hit things harder than you've ever hit before. But not for gold. Not for lords. Not for songs."
Garron wiped his hands on a rough cloth. "And what do I get?"
Arthur answered plainly. "A purpose. A fight that matters. A group that doesn't answer to anyone who doesn't bleed beside them."
Garron studied him.
"I had that once," he said. "Worked for a northern banner house. Fought the Boltons' scraps during the Bear Island disputes. Got tossed out for crushing the wrong man's arm—rich lordling tried to take a girl who wasn't his. No trial. Just exile."
Arthur didn't flinch. "Would you do it again?"
Garron nodded. "Twice, if he'd gotten a word farther."
Arthur leaned slightly against the doorway. "That's why I came back. I don't need perfect men. Just ones who know what they've done. And who they've done it for."
The smith looked down at his hands.
"You won't promise land?"
"No."
"Gold?"
"If we earn it."
"Glory?"
Arthur shook his head. "No one will sing for us. But they'll know we were there."
Garron chuckled, a low sound. "You talk plain. I like that."
Arthur turned to go. "We'll be here one more night. If you come, bring your hammer. Not for smithing. For what's next."
That night, they stayed in the inn.
Arthur sat in the corner of the common room, Sarra sharpening her knives at the same table. Garron showed up after sundown. He didn't join them at first. Just stood near the fire, arms crossed.
After a while, he walked over and dropped something on the table.
It was a short blade—clean, plain, well-balanced.
"For you," he said to Sarra.
She picked it up, turned it in her hand. "You made this?"
"I did."
"You think I need it?"
"No. But it's better than the thing you've been using."
She nodded once. "Thanks."
He looked at Arthur. "What do you call it? This thing you're building?"
Arthur shook his head. "I haven't named it."
"That's good," Garron said. "Let the name come after."
He left without saying good night.
In the morning, Arthur stepped outside to find Garron already waiting near the well.
He had a pack slung over one shoulder, hammer strapped across his back, and a battered helm hanging from his hand.
"I don't follow easily," he said.
"You don't need to," Arthur replied. "Just walk beside me."
They shook hands once. Firm. No pageantry.
Behind them, Sarra leaned on the doorframe of the inn, half-smiling.
"This is going to be a strange group." she said.
Location: Near the Dreadwood – Smithing Hamlet, then Roadside Inn
The three of them didn't speak much as they walked. Garron didn't ask where they were going. Sarra didn't ask why he came.
Arthur liked it that way.
By midday, they came upon a roadside inn built where two old trade paths crossed. The wood looked warped from age, the roof patched with bark in places, but smoke rose steady from the chimney. The sign creaked overhead: The Bronze Mare.
Arthur led them inside.
The innkeeper looked up from behind the counter, blinking as he took in Garron's size and Sarra's knives. Arthur didn't bother with names. Just put down a silver stag and said, "Three days. Two rooms. Hot meals."
"Two rooms?" Sarra asked as they followed the innkeep up the stairs.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want three."
She smirked. "You offering to share?"
Garron grunted behind them. "Don't think I snore quiet enough for that."
Arthur said nothing. Just took the room key and pushed open the nearest door. It was clean enough. A straw mattress, cracked basin, small table.
Sarra leaned on the doorframe. "You do everything quiet?"
Arthur glanced at her. "Would you prefer loud?"
She shrugged. "I just like knowing when I'm the one making noise."
He met her gaze, then closed the door gently.
That evening, they ate in the common room, seated near the hearth while a few travelers passed the time with dice and watered wine. Arthur said little. Sarra picked at her food but kept her eyes on everyone who entered. Garron drank slowly, eyes half-lidded, not drunk, just settled into his size like a bear learning to sit in a too-small chair.
On the second day, Arthur tested Garron.
There was a mercenary group that passed through the inn's yard around noon—five men, loud, joking, blades polished but hands too clean. They made a point of staring at Garron as they passed. One made a comment about hammer men compensating for small coin purses.
Garron didn't rise.
He didn't reach for the hammer slung behind his belt.
He just said, "Keep walking, lads."
They did.
Arthur watched all of it from the window above. He nodded once to himself.
That night, Sarra sat on the stairwell with one knee drawn up, carving the edge of her knife with a whetstone.
"You going to tell me what you're looking for?" she asked as Arthur came down the steps.
"I'll know it when I see it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the truth."
She studied him for a long second. "You always this careful?"
He shrugged. "Used to be worse."
She smiled a little. "You don't flirt much either."
Arthur sat beside her, not touching. "You don't seem like you'd fall for words."
"I don't," she said. "But it's nice when they don't come from cowards."
They sat there, quiet, listening to the fire pop in the hearth below. After a while, she asked, "You ever been in love?"
Arthur didn't answer right away.
"Once," he said. "Didn't end well."
Sarra nodded. "Same."
A beat passed.
"We should take shifts," he said. "I'll go first."
She stood. "Don't fall asleep. I'd hate to have to save you."
Arthur allowed the faintest trace of a smile. "I'll try not to need it."
By the end of the third morning, Arthur knew what he needed to know.
Garron wasn't just strong—he was disciplined. When tested, he didn't rise to provocation. When quiet, he listened. He sharpened his tools each morning, but never complained about the travel. Never asked where they were going. Never tried to take the lead.
He followed—not because he was weak, but because he knew what he was.
That was enough.
As they left the inn, Sarra fell in beside Arthur. Garron walked behind, adjusting the thick leather belt around his hammer.
"So," Sarra said, glancing sideways. "What now?"
Arthur pulled his cloak tighter. "We keep walking."
"That's the plan?"
"For now."
Garron snorted. "Simple enough."
They walked south—three shadows on an old road, no sigils, no songs. Not a company.
Not yet.
But close.