At dinner, Bran once again refused the Duke’s offer to send guards. The castle was barely a hundred meters away, and with the strength of the knights, they could reach it in an instant. Moreover, the Northern nds were vast and sparsely poputed. Knights patrolled the castle’s outskirts daily, ensuring its safety. In winter, no one dared to wander beyond the castle's perimeter—nature itself was the greatest deterrent.

  What caught Bran’s attention that evening, however, was the faint markings that had appeared on his brothers’ faces. According to Dany, this meant they had heard the call of the Wastend.

  Though not particurly close to his brothers, they were still family, bound by years of growing up together. It was only natural that he felt a sense of responsibility to help them however he could.

  For some reason, Northerners never spoke openly about the coming-of-age trial. It was almost an instinctual rite—one that took pce at a predetermined time and location, much like the migration of wild animals. Those about to leave were sternly instructed by elders to keep silent, and those who returned never spoke of their experience. This secrecy frustrated Bran; he had hoped to gather information from his brothers but was met with silence.

  What puzzled him even more was that both of his brothers had been called at the same time. Did this mean his second brother was more gifted than the eldest? When Bran voiced this thought, his eldest brother’s face turned red.

  The Duke’s response was heavy with meaning. “No. Returning alive is what matters most.”

  His words cast a solemn hush over the table.

  “They’ll be fine,” Bran decred, his voice strong. “I’ll craft the best weapons and armor for them.”

  He was confident his brothers had a high chance of returning. The Duke’s influence ensured they had the best training and superior equipment, which significantly increased their odds of survival. But as he looked around the table, sensing the weight in the air and recalling Dany’s words about the Wastend being alive, unease crept into his heart.

  The following morning, Bran gathered all the knights of the castle and announced that their weapons were ready. Over the past weeks, he had withheld every weapon he forged, rigorously testing them to ensure their quality. Now, with more pressing matters at hand, it was time to distribute them.

  For the knights, today was a joyous occasion.

  Ever since Aesa had returned with his two-handed sword, stories of its miraculous craftsmanship had spread like wildfire. The knights eagerly anticipated their own weapons, yet none showed impatience. In this era, excellence took time. Some even offered rare materials—believed to be meteorite ore or other mystical metals—as gifts in hopes of enhancing their weapons.

  Bran did not disappoint. The dispy of weapons at the workshop entrance left the knights awestruck. Each bde, axe, or spear bore a name tag, marking its owner. Dany stood to the side, reluctant to part with them, while the knights stepped forward, reverently unsheathing their weapons. The looks of pure satisfaction and awe on their faces amused Bran.

  With the knights gone, Bran closed the workshop doors. Now, he could focus on crafting weapons and armor for his brothers.

  For Bran, forging was effortless. He simply did not wish to be confined to the life of a bcksmith. He enjoyed exploring, observing, indulging in short bursts of curiosity, only to be distracted by the next interesting thing.

  But st night’s solemn atmosphere weighed on him. This time, he would act before regret set in. Before his brothers left for the Wastend, he would do everything he could for them. If nothing else, he wanted them to leave home with joy rather than regret.

  His brothers, on the other hand, were ecstatic about their upcoming trial, which baffled Bran. Was adulthood truly that alluring? At fourteen or fifteen, they were fearless, unconcerned about their parents’ worries, eager to break free of their constraints, desperate to prove themselves. Perhaps what they sought to escape now would one day be what they longed to cherish most.

  His brothers were almost identical—simir in height, both with dark red hair and the signature rugged features of Northerners. Even in their youth, their faces bore no trace of baby fat. Though their bodies had yet to fully develop, the broadening of their shoulders and the thickening of their necks hinted at the strength they would one day possess.

  Bran, momentarily lost in thought, stared at them bnkly. His pet hawk, mimicking its master, tilted its head and fixed its gaze on them as well. This made the brothers uncomfortable.

  His eldest brother was the first to snap him out of it. “Stop daydreaming. Get on with it.”

  “Uh.” Bran felt the weight of their expectant gres. He decided not to argue. A civilized person should not resort to violence.

  He took their measurements—arm length, shoulder width—then had them test different weapon weights. As soon as he was done, he promptly sent them on their way. Though he had considered using this as an opportunity to bond, their evident enthusiasm for weapons made him wary. Their eagerness was almost dangerous. Luckily, at the crucial moment, Dany appeared at the workshop entrance, her presence alone enough to deter them.

  The crafting process went smoothly. For a bit of amusement, Bran designed wolf-head helmets. When worn, the top jaw rested over the forehead while the lower jaw protected the neck, with the rear extending to cover the nape entirely.

  He forged two crossbows, single-handed swords, round shields, and half-body scale armor.

  The scale armor was particurly troublesome. The combination of leather underyers and meticulously arranged metal ptes offered excellent protection, but assembling the pieces by hand was an exhausting task.

  Hearing his brothers ughing outside as their trained hawks cried sharply, Bran had a revetion. Rushing outside, he convinced Dany to bring the armor materials outside under the pretense of teaching his brothers how to maintain it. Then, instead of working himself to exhaustion, he had his brothers painstakingly ce the scale ptes together.

  By evening, the two boys, wearing unfinished scale armor and their wolf-head helmets, weapons slung at their sides, and their arms full of unassembled armor ptes, ran back to the castle beaming with excitement.

  In the rugged North, farewells were simple and direct. His brothers’ departure was no different from saying, “I’m going out for a ride.” Accompanied by two retainers, they set off toward the Wastend. The retainers would return once they reached the trial site—leaving the boys to face the wilderness alone.

  Every night at dinner, Bran stared at the two now-empty chairs, an unfamiliar dread gnawing at him. It felt as though a vast, unseen maw y ahead, waiting to swallow him whole.

  He could feel the weight of his parents’ expectations and worry. But what he could not understand was—why was this trial necessary?

  To Northerners, was it truly so important?

  To Bran, life itself was most precious. To be alive meant endless possibilities. Why gamble with something so fragile?