The scent of fresh earth still lingered in the air, mingling with the distant birdsong, filling the yard of the Steiner family’s modest farm. Gunnar was already at work, hauling sacks and crates to the cart as if they were no heavier than bags of grain. His face glistened with sweat, but the usual cocky grin never left his lips.

  “Come on, Johan!” he called, tossing a heavy sack into the cart with ease. “Or are you waiting for the horse to start before you do?”

  Johan, flushed and panting, struggled with a much smaller crate.

  “You were born to carry things, Gunnar... I was born to use my brain.”

  “Oh, right,” Gunnar laughed. “That must be why you're red as a beet and haven’t moved an inch.”

  Brann, adjusting the old brown horse’s harness, looked over his shoulder. His face was stern, but his eyes betrayed the weariness of someone who’d seen too much.

  “More likely this nag makes it through the journey than you keeping your mouth shut for five minutes, Gunnar.”

  Gunnar shrugged with a wide grin and heaved the last sack into the cart. Brann tugged on the reins, testing their strength.

  “We’ll stop by Olaf’s forge,” he said, wiping his hands on the frayed cloth at his belt. “Those tools won’t fix themselves.”

  The road to the village wasn’t long, but the silence along the way was heavier than the creaking cart wheels over stone. Johan walked beside it, kicking pebbles and trying to look nonchalant. Brann remained quiet, his gaze distant, sweeping across the golden fields like he was counting how many harvests he had left.

  “Gunnar,” Johan broke the silence with a crooked smile, “you think Olaf can light the forge just by staring at it?”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “If he could, the temple would’ve canonized him already,” Gunnar replied, chuckling. “But I wouldn’t put it past him to convince half the village of that.”

  Brann shook his head, muttering, “You two…”

  They reached the forge, where the air was thick with the heat of metal. Olaf was already there, sleeves rolled up and beard dusted with soot.

  “Brought me more work, huh?” he said, wiping his hands with a cloth that looked dirtier than his hands.

  “As always,” Brann replied, already unloading tools.

  While they talked about iron and debts, Gunnar leaned against the doorway, mischief in his eyes.

  “So, Master Smith… when are you going to tell us the secret? Lighting the forge with your mind, right?”

  Olaf chuckled, shaking his head.

  “If I had that gift, I’d be forging swords for dukes in Trowell, not fixing crooked hoes here.”

  Johan, ever curious, joined in.

  “Have you ever made a sword… you know, an important one?”

  Olaf paused for a moment.

  “I have. For a ranker. Big man, broad shoulders, eyes like burning coals. Asked for the best blade I could make.”

  “And how do you become a ranker?” Johan asked, eyes wide.

  Olaf scratched his beard, clearly making it up on the spot.

  “First, lots of porridge. Then you slay a few wolves. And finally, a mage shows up and says, ‘You’re strong.’ Boom — ranker.”

  Gunnar covered a laugh with his hand. Johan, however, absorbed every word like gospel.

  As the men continued talking, Gunnar glanced toward the house next door and saw Ada hanging clothes on the line. A smile crept across his lips. He stepped quietly, silently approaching.

  “Surprise!” he whispered, tapping her shoulder.

  Ada jumped and smacked him lightly on the chest.

  “Gunnar! One day I’ll drown you in the well.”

  “You’d miss my surprises,” he replied, wrapping an arm around her.

  She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

  “Surprises or irritations?”

  “Both. It’s a package deal.”

  They laughed together — but her laughter faded.

  “Gunnar... you’re stalling. I’m not going to wait forever for you to build a castle before marrying me.”

  He rested his forehead against hers, voice soft.

  “I’m not stalling. I’m planning. I want to do this right. You deserve more than a corner in my uncle’s barn.”

  “I don’t need luxury. I just need you.”

  He kissed her gently.

  “Still, I want to give you the best.”

  Just then, Rurik appeared, wooden planks balanced on his shoulders.

  “Gunnar!” he called out, firm voice cutting through the air. “Haven’t you tired of lurking around here?”

  “Just checking if your daughter is still gorgeous. Mission accomplished.”

  Rurik chuckled but shook his head.

  “So? Know how to use a chisel yet, or still breaking everything you touch?”

  Gunnar pulled a small wooden carving from his pocket — a crude wolf, but carefully made.

  “I’m improving, sir.”

  “You’ll end up carving your own cane at this rate,” Rurik said, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of pride.

  Later, inside the house, Astrid served hot soup and soft bread. Gunnar ate like a s

  tarving soldier, and conversation flowed easily, until the warmth of the fire took the place of words.