Mornings in Eldenhold didn't begin so much as resume.
The cold never left. It only paused to gather strength.
By the time Maverick stepped out of the side room behind the forge, the sky was already shifting to its usual overcast hue—neither morning nor night, just a flat, indifferent gray. No birdsong. No barking. No movement beyond what the forge itself allowed.
He pulled on his boots silently. They were stiff near the toes from frost that had worked its way through the seams.
The door to the forge creaked open with a groan that felt older than it had any right to. The smell hit him first: coal smoke, oiled leather, old iron, and the faint sweetness of burnt wood. Home.
Inside, his father was already awake, already working.
Torren Voss sat at the anvil, sleeves rolled, hammer in hand. His beard was streaked with ash, and his shoulders hunched in the same posture Maverick remembered since childhood—one born from decades of leaning over steel.
He didn't look up.
"You're late," he said.
"It's morning," Maverick replied. "That's the only thing I'm not late for."
The hammer came down with a dull clang.
Torren didn't smile. "Then you're getting soft."
Maverick picked up a cloth and wiped the frost from a stack of tools near the wall. "That, or just smarter."
"Same thing, these days."
The forge was quieter than usual. Not just in sound—there was an absence of heat that felt subtle but wrong. The coals glowed, the air wavered, but the warmth didn't settle. It flickered at the skin, then backed away, like it had other business elsewhere.
Maverick didn't mention it.
Torren wouldn't answer anyway.
He picked up a blade blank, inspecting its edge, testing the flex.
"Half the village wants new blades," Torren muttered. "Half of that half wants them for free."
"And the other half?"
"Too scared to admit why they want them at all."
Maverick turned. "How many came through yesterday?"
"Seven, maybe eight."
"All men?"
"Two were women. One was a boy."
"What did they ask for?"
"Knives. Hammers. Something easy to swing."
Maverick nodded. He could imagine their eyes. The quiet fear masked with purpose. The kind of fear that lingered in hands long after voices went silent.
The back door opened again.
This time it was Elira, balancing a tray of steaming cloths and a small bowl of drying herbs. She glanced at Maverick and gave a nod that could have been affection or obligation. He nodded back—grateful for the warmth in her eyes, even when the words didn't come easily.
"You're not eating again," she said, handing Torren a cup.
"I will."
"You say that every day."
"Then I'm consistent."
Elira sighed and turned her attention to Maverick. "Selene passed by the square this morning. She asked if you'd stopped in."
"I haven't."
"She didn't look surprised."
Maverick cleaned a length of wire with oil and a rough cloth. "She's better off not waiting."
"She's not waiting. She's watching."
Torren looked up at that, briefly. Then back to his work.
Elira moved toward the main room. "Breakfast in fifteen. If you're not there, I'll assume you're dead and eat your share."
"Fair."
She paused at the door. "She cares, Mav. Even if you don't know what to do with it."
"I know what to do," Maverick murmured.
"Then do it."
She left without waiting for an answer.
He stood in silence for a long while, the clang of Torren's work filling the room like a heartbeat. Finally, Maverick spoke again.
"They were never that loud."
Torren paused.
"You were," the older man replied, glancing up for the first time. "I wasn't."
Maverick gave the ghost of a smile. "We weren't raised during wartime winter, either."
Torren didn't laugh. But his expression shifted—just a flicker. Not quite pride. Not quite regret.
"They're too soft," he said finally. "They play too much."
"They still believe it's safe."
"It's not."
"That's why I let them keep believing."
Later that day, Maverick passed through the upper lane toward Brune's inn. He wasn't headed anywhere in particular, but walking kept the silence from collecting too quickly in his chest.
The streets were thinner now. Fewer faces. More doors bolted even during daylight.
A few refugees milled about near the bakery, waiting for Elira's sister to distribute stale loaves. A man near the well tried to hide the way he counted each passerby.
Suspicion had replaced curiosity.
Fear had replaced hospitality.
Maverick didn't stop to speak to anyone.
He moved like the cold—unnoticed unless he stood still too long.
Brune stood out front of his inn, scarf tucked down, pipe in hand.
He gave Maverick a nod. "Your shift again soon?"
"Later."
"You still keeping the high wall?"
"Always."
Brune puffed once. "Had a traveler in last night. Said the lower pass near Byward is buried. Not from snowfall. From collapse."
Maverick frowned. "That road was reinforced."
Brune shrugged. "Not well enough. Or something else brought it down."
"You believe him?"
"Didn't have reason to lie. Looked half-starved and scared of his own echo."
Maverick looked past Brune's shoulder toward the ridge. "Did he say what he saw?"
"No. But he said he heard something."
"What?"
"Like breathing."
Back at the forge, Ren and Rune were attempting to duel with two short brooms.
Elira tried to separate them once, gave up halfway, and muttered about winter rotting minds.
Maverick sat at the back table, sharpening the edge of his spear with methodical, deliberate strokes. The sound—steel against stone—was steady. Controlled. Familiar.
"You're going back to the wall tonight?" Elira asked.
"Yes."
"More missing livestock?"
"No livestock left to miss."
She sighed.
"Can't you take a rest?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because the wall is the only place the silence makes sense."
That night, as Maverick walked the snow-packed path to the western tower again, he paused at the turn.
The sky had cleared for once. No stars. Just space. Vast and black and watching.
The kind of sky that made you feel like you'd never be warm again.
He turned up his collar.
And walked on.