Morning reached Ashstone without gentleness.
It did not arrive in colors, or warmth, or birdsong.
It simply… appeared.
A wan, colorless light pressed itself against the inn's narrow windows, smearing pale grey over stone and wood. The cold had not lessened during the night; if anything, it had grown more patient, slipping into cracks and under doors, seeping into bones with quiet resolve.
Kel descended the stairs from the upper floor of The Brass Dagger with measured steps.
His clothes were the same dark, travel-fitted attire as the day before, but newly re-aligned—collar straight, cuffs set properly at his wrists, cloak loosely fastened at his throat. His pale hair, still slightly damp from the brief wash, was combed back with his usual precision.
The air of the common room held the remnants of last night's smoke and ale, now mixed with the sharper scents of morning: porridge, stale bread reheated over embers, bitter tea.
The tavern was quieter at this hour.
Hands that had clutched mugs now wrapped around bowls.
Voices that had argued constellations now confined themselves mostly to yawns and muted curses toward the cold.
Kel's eyes swept the room once.
He didn't need long to find them.
Reina sat at a table near the same hearth as before, but one seat further from the fire, as if refusing to get too comfortable. Her cloak was folded neatly over the back of her chair; she wore a dark, close-fitting tunic and simple leather trousers—practical, unadorned, a soldier's efficiency worn on a former noble frame. Her hair was tied back severely, not a strand loose. Her gaze rested on her bowl, but the angle of her head made it clear she was tracking the entire room.
Landon, by contrast, sat with his chair slightly turned, one arm draped over the backrest, body angled so he could see both the door and the stairs. His hair was still tousled from sleep, his travel coat open to reveal a simple wool shirt beneath. He ate with honest hunger, tearing bread into a thick stew and swallowing in large, unpretentious mouthfuls.
Kel approached their table.
Neither of them needed to be called.
Reina's eyes rose first.
Landon's followed a heartbeat later.
Kel slid into the vacant seat with his back to the wall, cloak settling around him like a pooling shadow. A barmaid dropped a bowl in front of him—a thin porridge attempted to be thickened with leftover stew. It was hot. That was enough.
He ate slowly.
The three of them shared the kind of silence that did not feel empty.
Each was measuring the day in their own thoughts.
It was Kel who broke it.
He set his spoon down with deliberate quiet.
His grey eyes lifted, catching both of theirs.
"Today," he said, voice light but carrying a quiet edge, "we stay."
Reina's brow tilted by a fraction.
Landon swallowed the last of his bread. "Stay?" he echoed. "Not moving out yet?"
Kel inclined his head.
"We move toward the northeast tomorrow," he said. "If we go today, we will carry what we have."
He glanced at their gear—a single pack each, travel-worn, not yet truly prepared for the depth of mountain cold.
"What we have," he added, "is barely suited for Ashstone's outer frost. Not for what waits beyond its walls."
Understanding flickered in Reina's gaze.
"Supplies," she said.
Kel nodded.
"Supplies," he confirmed. "Equipment. Repairs. Whatever this town can spare that might keep us alive when the path narrows."
Landon leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight.
"So today is for buying and planning," he said. "And tomorrow… we start not dying."
Kel's lip twitched faintly.
"You could phrase it that way."
Reina's eyes moved from one to the other.
"We split," she said simply.
It wasn't a question.
Kel studied her face for a brief second.
Then nodded.
"We split," he agreed. "You two know weapons and armor from this world's perspective better than I do."
He didn't say this world aloud.
Only thought it.
"Reina," he continued, turning his gaze to her, "focus on what you need for mobility and endurance. Clothes. Reinforced light gear. Anything that lets you move without freezing."
She inclined her head.
"Understood."
"Landon," Kel went on, "check what the town offers for layered protection. You will be absorbing the most direct force when things go wrong."
Landon grimaced, but not in refusal.
"So I'm the shield again."
Kel's eyes softened by a sliver.
"You are the mountain," he replied. "Mountains do not shatter easily."
Landon blinked.
Then huffed.
A short breath that might have been amusement or acceptance.
"Then I'll find clothes thick enough to deserve the name."
Reina's gaze returned to Kel.
"And you?" she asked.
Kel's hand shifted under the table, fingers flexing once as if testing invisible strain.
His answer carried no embellishment.
"I will find a weapon," he said.
Reina's lashes lowered minimally.
Landon frowned.
"You already have a sword," the older boy said. "Samuel's line, too. I saw you at the estate. You're not exactly… lacking."
Kel's eyes dropped to his own hands.
He could still feel the familiar weight of a sword hilt there.
The memory of wood, then steel.
The feel of a blade as extension of will.
In close distance, a misstep is death.
Especially with a curse running like corrupted ink through his veins.
He lifted his gaze again.
"I cannot afford," he said calmly, "to rely on close combat."
Landon blinked. "Because of your… condition."
The word hung in the air.
Reina watched, expression unreadable.
Kel's lips moved, the faintest ghost of irony touching them.
"You've seen me up close," he said. "My current body isn't built for sustained melee in northern conditions."
He paused, letting a breath curl white into the air between them.
"So I will learn to reach further."
Reina's eyes distinctly sharpened.
Landon frowned. "What do you mean, 'reach'?"
Kel answered plainly.
"I'll be visiting a weaponsmith," he said. "To buy a bow."
That earned a visible reaction.
Landon's brows shot up. "A bow? You shoot?"
Kel held his gaze.
"Not yet," he replied softly.
The honesty was disarming.
Reina didn't flinch.
"You intend to learn from scratch," she said.
Kel nodded once.
"I intend," he said, "to be alive while both of you handle what gets too close."
His voice carried neither apology nor shame.
Only acceptance of his limitations—and a cold determination to weaponize what was left.
They fell silent again.
The fire beside them crackled.
Ash shifted.
The inn murmured with morning life.
Then chairs scraped softly as they rose.
Three travelers.
Three tasks.
Same destination.
They separated outside.
Ashstone's day had fully opened its eyes by then, though it did so without enthusiasm. The sky remained a flat white-grey sheet. Snow still drifted, fine and steady, settling over rooftops, seeping into alleys, softening edges of stone and wood.
Reina moved with quiet purpose toward the eastern lane where clothiers and supply stalls were clustered.
Landon veered toward the smithing quarter; the scent of coal and iron hung heavy that way.
Kel turned in another direction entirely.
The north row.
Where weapons gleamed behind frosted glass and under hanging braziers, steel and wood resting in arrangements like sleeping beasts.
The Weapon Shop
The first shop he passed was more display than craft—shiny blades, polished axes, decorative hilts meant to impress mercenaries with more ego than experience.
Kel did not slow.
The second had better promise; he could feel the faint aura of actual use around it. Weapons in racks showed scuffs, as if often handled and tested.
He stepped past two more storefronts before stopping in front of one that looked…
Tired.
But not careless.
The sign above the door bore a simple, carved emblem:
⚒️ — a hammer crossing over a shafted weapon.
The wood was old, its paint mostly worn away by years of snow and wind. But the door's hinges were maintained. The pale glow inside was steady. And the faint ring of metal on metal sounded at irregular intervals, as if someone worked because they must, not because they wished to impress.
Kel pushed the door open.
A small iron bell chimed overhead.
The scent of the shop hit him first—metal, oiled wood, quenched steel, faint coal ash. The kind of smell that clung to fabric and fingers and never fully washed away.
The light inside was low but sufficient; small glass-covered lanterns lined the walls, their glow reflecting on steel edges and polished bow-staves.
Swords.
Spears.
Knives.
War hammers.
Polearms.
And there, along the right wall, hung neat rows of bows.
Short bows.
Hunting bows.
Two longer ones, scarce and more finely made.
Kel stepped in.
He let the door close behind him.
The air felt heavier here, as if every weapon carried a story it refused to leak.
Behind a wide wooden counter, a man looked up.
He was older, his hair more white than black, bound at the nape of his neck. His skin was tanned from years near fire and frost alike, hands thick and scarred, knuckles dark from old bruises. A leather apron wrapped his broad torso, dotted with burn marks and oil stains.
His eyes, a dull but sharp brown, moved over Kel in one sweep.
They saw the boy's age.
His pale features.
His neat, too-controlled posture.
And the fact that he walked alone.
"You're early," the blacksmith said, voice low and gravelly. "Most like to sleep off drink before buying what might get them killed."
Kel met his gaze directly.
"I'm not most," he replied.
The blacksmith huffed once.
Neither approval nor mockery.
Just acknowledgment.
"What do you need?" he asked.
Kel's eyes drifted to the walls.
Blades glinted.
Edges whispered possibilities.
But he knew the truth.
His body.
His curse.
His limits.
"A bow," Kel said.
The smith's brows rose a fraction.
"A bow," he repeated. "Not many your age ask for that in Ashstone. It's northern sword country."
Kel stepped closer.
He stopped in front of the bow wall, eyes tracing each curve of wood and string.
"Swords demand that I share ground with monsters," he said calmly. "Bows do not."
The smith stared.
Then a slow, grudging respect touched his weathered face.
"Spoken like someone who's actually seen a northern beast," he muttered. "Or had the sense to listen to those who have."
Kel did not answer.
He leaned in slightly, examining the bows.
Most were functional.
Good wood.
Solid string.
But nothing more.
He needed more.
Not extravagance.
Efficiency.
"Never shot before?" the smith asked, watching the motion of his eyes.
Kel's fingers hovered near the nearest bow's grip, not touching.
"Not in the way that matters here," he said.
The old man snorted.
"Meaning?"
Kel's lips moved in something like the ghost of his old life's humor.
"I know the theory," he replied. "Not the weight."
The blacksmith grunted.
"Theory doesn't keep hands from bleeding when string meets skin."
He stepped out from behind the counter, moving closer, following Kel's gaze.
"You want the truth?" he asked.
Kel nodded once.
"Bows aren't forgiving tools," the man said. "They punish weakness."
He gestured to a shorter bow.
"Take that one. Light. Good for beginners. Won't tear your shoulders. You'll still miss more than hit if you don't commit, but at least it won't break you."
Kel studied it.
Solid.
Reasonable.
Predictable.
His gaze moved past it.
To the longer bows.
One in particular.
It hung higher, its limb slight curve elegant, the wood a darker shade than the rest—some northern ironwood, if he was not mistaken. Reinforced at the grip. The string was newer, clearly replaced recently. The tips were capped in horn.
"That one," Kel said.
The smith followed his gaze.
His jaw tightened.
"That one isn't for beginners."
Kel did not look away.
"Neither is the road I'm taking."
Silence crept between them.
The smith watched him for a long moment.
Weighed him.
Not his muscles.
His eyes.
His stillness.
His lack of bravado.
"Draw weight's heavy," the man said at last. "You'll hurt yourself."
Kel's hand rose.
He placed his fingers lightly on the display hook, then looked at the old man.
"Pain," he said quietly, "and I are already acquainted."
For the first time, something like genuine amusement touched the blacksmith's features.
Dry.
Grim.
"You sound too old for your bones, boy," he muttered.
Kel didn't disagree.
The smith sighed.
Then reached up and took the bow down, handing it to him with a kind of resigned acceptance.
The moment Kel's hands closed around it, his fingers registered the weight.
Not overwhelming.
But real.
The bow's length ran almost from the floor to his sternum.
Its wood was smooth under his gloves, the grain running like faint veins along its curve.
He tilted it, testing its balance.
It sat comfortably in his grip.
As if it had been waiting.
"Try drawing," the smith said, crossing his arms. "Slow. Don't play hero."
Kel planted his feet, one slightly ahead of the other.
Turned his body a fraction.
He held the bow in his left hand, raising it slightly.
His right hand went to the string.
The moment he began to pull, the resistance spoke.
It pushed back against him—not cruelly, but with a clear demand.
You will give more than you expect.
His arm muscles protested first, then his shoulder, then a line of tension spread across his back.
He drew it to half.
Three-quarters.
His breath shortened.
The curse in his chest tightened, objecting to the strain.
Kel's jaw clenched.
His eyes did not close.
He drew it nearly to full—
Then released, letting it ease back slowly.
The string hummed faintly.
His arms ached.
His chest burned cold.
But he did not tremble.
The smith watched.
Quiet.
"Too much?" he asked.
Kel shook his head once.
"Just enough," he said.
He meant it.
If it had felt easy, it would not push him where he needed.
If it had been beyond him, it would kill him faster than his curse.
This…
This sat in the space between.
Where progress lived.
With practice, he thought, I can make this an extension of will, like the sword… only further.
A weapon that struck where he was not.
A support that did not require him to stand in the jaws of beasts.
The smith exhaled.
"You'll need a quiver. Arrows. Spare strings," he grumbled. "And salve. Your hands will tear."
Kel nodded.
"I'll take them," he said.
The old man eyed him.
"Coin?"
Kel produced enough to cover the cost—not haggling, not flaunting wealth. The blacksmith's brows lifted at the neat, controlled motion.
"You're either mad," the smith muttered, gathering the coin, "or you have an idea of what you're walking into."
Kel glanced briefly toward the door, where faint daylight seeped through the crack, carrying the chill of the world waiting outside.
"I have both," he replied.
The smith snorted.
"Good. The north rewards a little madness, if it's guided."
He turned, reaching for a bundle of arrows, inspecting each shaft, discarding a few with disapproving clicks of his tongue.
Kel held the bow at his side.
He could already picture it.
Drawing.
Releasing.
Not in target practice ranges.
But on ridges.
Cliffs.
Snowfields.
While monsters rushed toward Landon.
While Reina moved like a shadow ahead.
He would stand where the curse allowed him to stand.
And still make his presence felt.
Even if I cannot tear at fate with my own hands up close, he thought, I can still make sure that those who walk beside me reach the places I cannot.
The smith returned with arrows and a quiver, laying them out in organized lines.
Kel nodded once in approval.
The transaction concluded.
Before Kel turned to leave, the old man spoke again.
"Boy."
Kel paused.
Looked back.
The blacksmith studied him, eyes narrowed slightly.
"When you pull that string in the north," he said, "don't shoot for glory."
Kel's face remained calm.
The smith's gaze hardened.
"Shoot only to kill," he said quietly. "Or to keep someone breathing."
Kel's grip on the bow tightened faintly.
He inclined his head.
"That," he replied, "was always the plan."
He stepped out of the shop and back into Ashstone's cold.
Snow kissed the bow's limb.
The air bit at his lungs.
He adjusted the strap of the new quiver over his shoulder, the weight settling across his back—a new burden, a new promise.
Tomorrow, they would leave these walls.
Today, he had chosen.
Not a star.
But a weapon that reached toward where stars looked down.
A bow for a cursed heir who refused to fight on terms his enemy expected.