(Coldspring village, Aftermath of the earthquake)

  Finn didn’t believe what had happened to his home.

  Finn stopped in his tracks.

  His smithy—gone.

  The tent that had sheltered his forge lay in ruins.

  The canvas, which once stood firm against wind and rain, was reduced to scorched scraps.

  The wooden frame, strong enough to hold the weight of his tools, had collapsed under the heat, leaving behind a heap of charred metal and shattered stone.

  The furnace was still there—blackened, cracked, and useless.

  Frustrated, he kept rubbing his left ears till it flushed red.

  This wasn’t just a workspace. This was his father’s legacy.

  Most of the village had suffered damage from the earthquake. Some tents had fallen, some poles had snapped—but only his had burned.

  What the hell happened?

  Finn stepped inside what was once his smithy. His boots crunched against the scorched remains. His eyes were searching; searching for an answer.

  And he found it.

  The cauldron.

  It lay on its side, metal warped from the heat, its contents long since turned to ash. The earthquake must have knocked it over. The oil, the embers—it all made sense now.

  A bitter laughter escaped him. How stupid. How careless.

  He and his father had always kept the fire alive, every minute of the day, to keep the forge at the right temperature.

  But, he should’ve known better.

  His father wasn't with him anymore.

  A fact that Finn should've understood sooner.

  And now… there was nothing left to keep warm.

  A voice broke through his thoughts. “Finn. I’m so sorry.”

  Finn turned to see Gunnar standing at the edge of the wreckage. His black fur swayed in the cold wind.

  “We tried to put it out,” Gunnar continued, voice low. “It all happened so fast.”

  Finn exhaled slowly, forcing a small smile. “I know. Thanks for trying.”

  He meant it, but the words sounded hollow. What good were efforts when the result was the same?

  He turned to his side, his eyes met another pair.

  The girl.

  She was standing a few paces behind, arms tucked into the oversized coat he’d given her. Her eyes lingered on the burnt remnants of the forge—wide, wary. She didn’t say anything, but her expression was tight, lips pressed into a thin line.

  Not fear.

  Just shock and confusion.

  Finn followed her gaze, then quickly looked away.

  She didn’t belong here. Not yet. Maybe not at all. But she hadn’t run. Her presence nagged at him—unspoken questions trailing behind her like smoke.

  She’d arrived from nowhere. Knocked him back with magic. Couldn’t understand a word they said.

  Should I tell Chief Sigrid about her?…Eventually.

  He turned fully now, gesturing at her like he had before. “Follow… me.”

  Whether she understood him or not wasn’t the point. It just felt wrong to say nothing at all.

  She blinked, then stepped forward, silent.

  Gunnar and his sister fell in beside them, heading toward the village center.

  The girl walked a step behind, her head constantly turning, eyes flicking from tent to tent. Finn wasn’t sure if she was lost, cautious, or just... cataloging everything. Maybe all three.

  (Village Square, Coldspring)

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  The village square looked more crowded than usual as it had been transformed into a fully working temporary camp.

  more and more makeshift tents were prepared in the open space, lit by the soft glow of lanterns and campfires.

  The air was thick with smoke and the scent of cooking food. Men hammered stakes into the ground, securing tents against the wind. Women bustled around large pots of boiling stew, stirring in vegetables and chunks of meat.

  Strips of venison roasted over open flames, their juices hissing as fat dripped onto the coals. It felt weirdly warm though nothing about this was normal.

  Finn’s hands clenched as he helped secure one of the larger tents. He tried to focus on the work, but his thoughts drifted back to the forge—his father’s forge.

  Would his Dad be disappointed in him?

  He had spent years learning under his father’s watchful eye, struggling to master each step. Heating the metal just right. Feeling the resistance of the hammer’s swing. Knowing when to temper, when to quench.

  He had dreamed of taking over the forge, improving it, maybe even passing it down to his own son someday. Now, there was nothing left to pass down.

  A soft stomach growl cut through the noise.

  Finn blinked, pulled from his thoughts.

  He turned to see the blonde girl standing stiffly nearby, arms crossed over her stomach. See? You should've eaten my bread.

  She was clearly trying to look casual, but something about her posture had changed.

  Her eyes kept flicking towards Gunnar—and then away again, quickly, like she was afraid staring too long might be considered rude. What 's the problem with him? Gunnar is definitely one of the more approachable Lupin. Don’t tell me she’s one of those racist city nobles...

  Not that Gunnar seemed to notice. He was too busy gnawing on a skewer of roast meat to care.

  “Here.” He quickly dished up a bowl of stew and handed it over.

  She hesitated before taking it. She dipped a finger into the broth, testing it, then took a cautious sip.

  Her face scrunched slightly. Still, she kept eating. Polite. Careful. Watching everything.

  “Too bland?” Gunnar muttered beside him after seeing Zoe's subtle hesitation. “But she’s polite about it. I'll give her that.”

  Finn gave a small shrug, amused. “Probably not what she’s used to.”

  Gunnar tilted his head, eyeing Zoe as she continued to eat in silence. “So, uh…” he lowered his voice slightly, “who is she?”

  Finn paused.

  That was a good question. And one he hadn’t actually asked yet.

  “She hasn’t said much,” Finn replied.

  Something clicked in his mind.

  He clapped to get Zoe's attention.

  He touched his chest. “Finn.” Then pointed at Gunnar. “Gunnar.”

  Zoe blinked.

  Then, after a moment, she pointed to herself.

  “…Zoe.”

  A beat of silence.

  Then one of the older men near the fire leaned over and muttered loud enough to carry. his breath reeked alcohol, “Name’s Zoe, eh? That’s a bit fancy for a girl hanging around a soot-faced stray.”

  Another piped up, grinning, “Careful now—she might be the one fixing him up, not the other way around.”

  Laughter broke out in small waves, warm and teasing.

  Zoe stiffened at the sudden noise. Her eyes darted toward the speakers, uncertain—like she was trying to decide whether or not she was the joke. But when she saw no scorn, just amused faces and

  friendly grins, she hesitated… then smiled back, politely.

  Finn felt the flush rise in his cheeks. “She’s not—look, it’s not like that.”

  Gunnar clapped him on the back, smirking. “Don’t worry. She’s got taste, apparently.”

  Zoe tilted her head at the banter, clearly not understanding a word, but sensing the mood. She gave a small laugh of her own—quiet, a little unsure, but genuine.

  The fire crackled. The night settled.

  By the time the meal was finished, the night was deep and quiet. The villagers divided up the tents, ensuring everyone had a place to sleep. Finn ended up lying next to Zoe.

  As he stared up at the canvas ceiling, his thoughts swirled.

  The forge was gone.

  His father was gone.

  What was left?

  He still had his hammer, his skills—but what good were those without a place to work?

  He sighed, rubbing his temples. I’ll figure it out, I hope I could. Yeah.

  His father had always told him that a good smith never panicked when metal bent the wrong way. He adjusted, reshaped, reforged.

  Maybe that’s what he needed to do now.

  A shift in the tent caught his attention. Zoe had curled up on her side, her breathing soft and steady.

  She didn’t seem worried. At least that’s what he thought.

  Finn envied that.

  He exhaled softly, settling deeper into the scratchy blanket beneath him.

  The tent was quiet now, save for the occasional shuffle from nearby tents and the steady crackle of fire.

  He turned his head, just slightly. Zoe lay an arm’s length away, curled beneath the coat he’d lent her.

  Her breathing was slow—too slow.

  Finn frowned, narrowing his eyes.

  Her skin looked smooth even in the dim firelight, pale in a way no one from the northlands ever was. Her lashes rested lightly against her cheeks.

  And she was beautiful, in a strange, unfamiliar way.

  He didn’t mean to stare.

  He was just... close. Closer than he'd ever been to any girl.

  She looked fragile somehow—like a dream that had wandered into the wrong world and didn’t quite know where to land.

  Then her eyes snapped open. Turned out she wasn’t asleep. Not even close.

  For a moment, they just stared at each other.

  Her red irises caught the firelight, bright and otherworldly—startled, wary.

  Zoe flinched, drawing back slightly, breath catching.

  Finn scrambled to sit up a little. “Sorry! I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—uh…”

  He gestured helplessly at the ceiling. “I was just thinking.”

  Blank stare.

  Of course. She didn’t understand a word.

  But her posture shifted—tense, alert. Her eyes narrowed—not afraid, but more guarded now.

  Finn winced. Great. Real smooth.

  Zoe let out a soft huff—half sigh, half tired scoff—and turned her back to him, tugging the coat tighter around her shoulders.

  Finn lay back down, dragging a hand over his face.

  Perfect ending to a perfect day… Arghhhhh.

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