(Coldspring Village, Northern Province)

  Let’s see. Hmm. Something ain't right.

  Finn frowned, twisting the newly forged vambrace in his hands. He put his hammer aside as he wiped sweat from his forehead. He had started this side project for months in the hope that one day he could wear the full armor set fully made by him.

  “Finn, will you deliver those damn spears already? And can you stop playing with that garbage for God’s sake!”

  His father’s voice cut through Finn’s focus like a sharp blade. He sighed and set down the vambrace he had been adjusting.

  He knew better than to argue.

  “Yes, sir! I’ll get right on it!” he called back.

  His father’s grumbling from the forge continued as Finn wiped the soot off his hands. He knew the routine well—any delay, and he’d get another two-hour lecture about responsibility and time management.

  Heimd Thorne was not Finn’s biological father, and He never protected Finn from that fact. Still, he taught Finn everything he needed to know about smithing, as he would if he had his own son.

  “So, I need to send these ten spears to Chief Sigrid and collect the payment of five gold and twenty silvers?” Finn asked, hoping to reassure his father.

  His father only grunted in reply. That was close enough to approval.

  Finn pulled on his thick wool-lined coat and fastened his dark fur cloak over his shoulders. The cold winds bit through anything lighter, so he wrapped a scarf around his neck before stepping outside.

  His breath curled in the air like smoke as he loaded the spears onto a small sled attached to his horse.

  As he climbed onto the sled, he gave his horse, Hilda, a pat on the neck. "Let’s get this done quick, girl," he muttered.

  The ride to Chief Sigrid’s hall was short but bumpy. Unlike the larger cities, Coldspring had no paved roads—just packed dirt and snow-covered trails.

  The nomadic village, for now, had stopped on the available open spaces near the Clintstone mine; tents, lodges and wooden wagons were set up around the cave opening.

  At the largest wooden structure in the village—Chief Sigrid’s lodge—two guards stood outside, wrapped in heavy cloaks. When Finn approached, one of them raised a hand in greeting. “I’m here to deliver the order,” Finn said. “Heimd smiths.”

  One guard nodded and helped him unload the crate, while the other opened the door and gestured inside. The warmth of the hall hit Finn immediately. A large fire burned in the center, its flames flickering against the wooden walls.

  Chief Sigrid sat at a long table, his small frame wrapped in a thick white-furred cloak. His hair was grey, his beard well-groomed, and his ever-present smile made him seem younger than his years.

  “Finn! How’s the old man? Still swinging that hammer like he’s twenty?”

  Finn chuckled. “Yeah, you know him.”

  Sigrid laughed, his voice deep and warm. “That stubborn fool. Come, sit. Warm yourself.”

  They quickly completed the transaction, and Chief Sigrid handed him seven gold, definitely more than he expected.

  “Umm, Chief. You gave me extra?” Finn pointed out.

  “Consider it a little thanks for your father’s good work,” Sigrid said with a knowing smile.

  Finn nodded and pocketed the coins. As he stepped outside, he wondered what to do next. The village was quiet, aside from the usual sounds of traders and miners.

  Not many people needed a blacksmith in a place like this—most requests were for repairing tools or shoeing horses. Maybe I could go fishing with dad. It's been a while.

  His thought abruptly stopped as he looked at the sign of Lars’ tavern, swaying slightly in the cold wind.. Right. This is it.

  As Finn stepped into the tavern, the warm scent of roasted meat and spiced ale hit him—along with the tail end of a heated exchange near the hearth.

  “That old bastard flunked my shift,” growled a Lupin—a doglike sapiens with mottled black-and-white fur and a permanent scowl. “Now I’m stuck pulling night watch till morning. Fucking bullshit—I didn’t do anything wrong. His nephew’s just a soft-eared pup who couldn’t handle real work.”

  Across from him, a Felian—orange fur with creamy undertones—snorted into his mug. “Or maybe he just didn’t like your dog-face.”

  Laughter rippled through the room. Tankards were raised. A few tails flicked in amusement.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The Lupin’s ears pinned back, eyes narrowing. “Careful, whiskers. Keep flapping that tongue and I’ll rip it out and serve it on toast.”

  The Felian bared his teeth in a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Any time, mutt.”

  The tension was thick, but no one moved to break it.

  “Lars, one tankard of honey mead, please,” Finn called out as he approached the counter.

  “Coming right up,” the barkeep grunted without looking.

  From behind him, the Felian raised his mug with a grin. “Forget that sweet stuff—be a man and drink some potato spirit, boy!”

  “And don’t forget,” he added, pointing a clawed finger at Finn, “you owe me big time.”

  The Lupin and a few others closed in, dragging over stools and dice cups.

  “Mhm,” Finn muttered, noncommittal.

  “The dice!” The Felian shouted. “Time to avenge my loss from last week!”

  The table erupted in laughter and jeers as they clattered together their makeshift gaming setup. Lars handed Finn his drink just in time.

  Finn took a sip, letting the warmth settle in his chest. “Sure,” he said, smirking. “I’ll take your coin again. Just let me know if you need to borrow some to feed your pup when you lose.”

  “You prick!” the Felian barked, but even he was laughing.

  The game commenced with gusto. Wooden dice rattled across the tabletop, coins clinked, and insults flew like snow in a blizzard.

  But,

  Luck wasn’t on Finn’s side tonight. He lost round after round, watching his bonus from Chief Sigrid dwindle into nothing.

  The Felian leaned in with a grin sharp as his teeth. “Get ready to get asswhooping from your dad Finn, I’m taking all your money today.”

  More laughter erupted around the table.

  By the twelfth round, the winds of fortune finally began to shift. His roll was solid—high numbers, just enough to take the pot.

  Then—

  Brack.

  The tavern door slammed open with a gust of icy wind, and every head turned. Gunnar, his best friend and neighbor, stood in the doorway, chest heaving, ears twitching, eyes wild.

  “Finn,” he called, his voice tight. “We need to go. Now.”

  Finn frowned, setting down the dice. “What’s the rush? Sit, have a drink first.”

  “No,” Gunnar said, voice low. “It’s your father.”

  The room seemed to shrink. A pit formed in Finn’s stomach.

  Something in his tone sent a chill through Finn’s spine—one that had nothing to do with the cold. Without another word, he stood and followed Gunnar outside.

  When they reached his house, Finn saw a crowd gathered outside. He pushed through the people and rushed inside, past worried faces, past murmurs.

  The old blacksmith’s hands—scarred and soot-stained—were folded neatly across his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Finn,” someone whispered.

  A lump formed in Finn’s throat. “No… no, he was fine this morning.”

  A shaking hand touched his father’s chest.

  Cold.

  Too cold.

  “Master Thorne has passed,” a voice said. The words hit him like a hammer.

  For a moment, Finn just stared. His mind refused to accept it. His father, Heimd Thorne—who had raised him, who had been there through everything—was gone. His breath hitched, his chest tightened.

  But no tears came.

  Finn sat alone in the work chamber, staring at the forge. His father’s tools were still in place, untouched. The silence felt unbearable.

  The funeral had been held under the great oak tree near the village, where many had gathered to say their final goodbyes.

  The priest lead the ceremony,

  Chief Sigrid gave a eulogy,

  The people offered their respects.

  But Finn? He said nothing. Even now, he hadn’t cried.

  That night, as he lay awake, the weight of it all settled in. He remembered his father, sitting by the forge just days ago, muttering about warped steel and wasted coal.

  He let out a small chuckle at the irony—his father had always been there for him, but in his final moments, Finn had been drinking at the tavern.

  Then, suddenly, tears did come.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should have been there.”

  —

  Three Days Later

  Finn finally left the house, carrying his father’s favorite fishing pole.

  “Going fishing?” Gunnar asked, stepping out of his own lodge.

  Finn forced a smile. “Yeah. Could use some fresh air.”

  Snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way past the village, through open fields and quiet pine groves, toward the semi-frozen river. The wind bit at his cheeks. He passed a few older fishing holes, most now sealed over with a thin crust of ice.

  He picked a spot near a tree where he could lean against the bark while casting his line. Kneeling, Finn chipped away at the ice with a small pickaxe. Once the hole was wide enough, he baited the hook with a mix of bread and dried fish, then lowered the line into the cold, dark water.

  Time passed.

  His fingers went numb.

  He thought of his father—the times they’d sat in silence like this, watching the ripples.

  “You need to be patient,” Finn muttered, mimicking Heimd’s gruff tone.

  A small tug. His heart skipped. He yanked—too fast. The line came up empty. “Damn it,” he breathed.

  Another hour passed. Finally, he caught a small fish. Just big enough to keep.

  Finn smiled faintly. “See that, Dad?” he whispered. “I’m not that bad.”

  The sun began dipping behind the jagged peaks, the air sharpening with evening frost.

  Then—

  The ground trembled.

  At first, it was subtle. Just a vibration beneath his boots, like distant thunder rolling beneath the ice.

  Then, a deeper, shuddering quake.

  The river groaned.

  Hairline fractures spidered across the surface, racing outward like veins of shattered glass.

  An earthquake? Finn’s breath caught. He held still, pole clenched in his hand.

  Then—light, from the sky.

  A ring of searing white ignited above him, carving through the clouds in a perfect circle.

  Too bright.

  Too clean.

  Too unnatural.

  Snow hissed into steam around it. The ice at his feet began to sweat. Finn stumbled backward, shielding his eyes. His shadow stretched across the river, swallowed by the growing radiance.

  Then—

  The light exploded.

  A blinding pulse. A deafening, all-consuming roar.

  —