The scent of woodsmoke clung to the walls—though there weren't many walls to cling to.
A thin haze lingered in the air, carrying the faint tang of pine‑tar and yesterday's ash, settling into every crack of the warped timber.
Radomir stirred beneath the blanket, eyes cracking open to the dull gray light bleeding through crooked shutters. A draft nipped at the tip of his nose. The hearth sat just a few feet from the bed, barely holding a glow—a timid ember‑red eye in the gloom. Their boots, cloaks, and packs were all stacked near the door. A washbasin and two chipped bowls rested on the shelf above a battered wooden table that listed slightly to one side. That was all the room had. One bed. One fire. One roof that creaked whenever the valley wind breathed hard enough.
Milena still slept beside him, wrapped in an oversized cloak with her knees tucked to her chest, her breath soft and even. She always curled like that when it was cold, chasing warmth the way a flower turns toward the sun.
Radomir moved carefully, pulling on his boots and crossing the few steps to the hearth. The coals were nearly dead. He coaxed them back to life with pine kindling and a few shavings from the stump they used as a stool. Sparks fluttered up the flue like fireflies fleeing dawn. He set a small iron pot on a hook to warm—just water for now, a promise of breakfast to come.
Behind him, the blanket rustled.
"You're up early," Milena mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. "Didn't even jab me in the ribs this time."
"Maybe I did," Radomir said over his shoulder, smirking. "But you're such a deep sleeper, I swear—you could sleep through a church bell crashing through the roof and still ask for five more minutes."
Milena let out a sleepy snort. "Heh… you say that like it's a bad thing."
"Hey now, I never said that," he answered, nudging a stubborn log into place. A thin flame licked along the bark. "Listen—I'm running to the bathhouse. Get a real scrub, knock the smoke out of my hair before the day starts."
Milena pushed herself up, hair a tangle around her face. The morning chill painted her cheeks rose‑red. Her voice turned quieter. "Why hurry? Something planned?"
"Nothing immediate," he said, rolling his shoulders. "But Darian said he'd swing by mid‑morning—pound on the door till the hinges rattle. We'll sort through the commission slips after I'm back and breakfast is in our stomachs."
Her expression softened, though worry lingered. "You only registered yesterday… promise me you're not jumping straight into anything reckless."
Radomir knelt by the bed, resting a reassuring hand on her ankle. "Promise. First commission won't even leave town if I can help it—herb run, supply escort, whatever's low risk. Today's goal is coin, not glory."
Milena nodded, pulling the cloak tighter. "Fine—just don't overcook the oats. And warm enough water for tea; my throat feels like gravel."
He tapped the pot; the water inside was beginning to steam. "Oats will be velvet, tea will be hot, and if the stall's open I'll trade for a slice of honeycomb to sweeten both."
A reluctant smile crept onto her lips. "Now you're dreaming big."
Radomir straightened, shrugged into his battered cloak, and reached for the latch. "Stay buried till the fire really catches. I'll be back before the pot bubbles." He paused, softening his voice as the wind rattled the shingles overhead. "And if Darian shows up while I'm gone, stall him with that death‑glare you use on street peddlers."
Milena huffed a quiet laugh. "He won't survive five minutes."
"Perfect." Radomir winked, then slipped outside into the cold.
The door thudded shut behind him. Inside, the tiny flame brightened, casting gold across rough walls and two chipped bowls waiting—for breakfast first, adventure later.
The cold met him like a slap, a sudden sting that set his teeth on edge.
Radomir pulled his cloak tighter as he stepped onto the frost‑hardened path, boots crunching over last night's snow in sharp, deliberate rhythms. The sky overhead was a dull smear of gray, heavy with clouds pregnant with more flurries, and the wind funneled razor‑sharp through the narrow lanes of Velgrad, howling between shuttered eaves like some restless spirit.
Most shutters were still closed, rattling softly from the gusts. Chimneys puffed faint ribbons of smoke into the air—thin, almost reluctant—and the occasional early riser shuffled through the square, bundled in wool and half‑asleep, faces drawn tight against the dawn chill. His breath curled in front of him in steady bursts, vapor dissipating just as quickly as resolve formed, as he made his way past the crooked hero statue—its shoulders dusted white, sword arm forever raised against an invisible foe—and turned down the narrow side street that led to the bathhouse.
The warmth of the hearth already felt like a memory, a distant ember shrinking behind him with every step.
He ducked his head as a spiteful gust caught him full‑on, snowflakes stinging the edge of his ears and slipping down the seam of his collar like icy needles. A merchant's sign above the cooper's shop creaked on its iron bracket, and somewhere farther off a dog barked once, then fell silent.
By the time he reached the lintel of the bathhouse door—planks dark with age, iron hardware etched by decades of steam—his fingers had gone numb at the tips, the leather of his gloves stiff and uncooperative. He flexed them, willed warmth back into the joints, and inhaled the promise of cedar‑scented water drifting from the cracks around the frame.
A hot soak, a quick scrub, and then back to Milena before the pot boils over, he reminded himself, pressing a shoulder to the door and letting the smell of damp stone, soaproot, and rising steam swallow the last bite of winter from his skin.
The bathhouse was warm—blessedly so. Steam draped the rafters in slow‑drifting clouds, scented faintly of soaproot, cedar, and damp stone. Radomir scrubbed quick and rough—hair, hands, face, done—letting hot water bite at the cracks along his knuckles. The sting felt good; it chased out the ache of morning chill and woke the blood in his arms. No lingering. A brisk rinse, a coarse towel pulled down his spine, cloak swung over still‑damp shoulders. Heat followed him in wavering ribbons as he pushed through the door and stepped back into gray daylight, steam ghosting off his breath while the chill closed in behind him.
Radomir made a quick detour through the market on his way back—just a small hope tucked behind the promise he'd tossed at Milena. Most stalls weren't fully open yet, their canvas awnings still tied down like folded wings, but a handful of early vendors were staking claims on cobblestones, breath fogging in the brittle chill.
He spotted the one he wanted immediately.
"Morning, Nadja!" he called, trotting up to a narrow table where jars of preserves glowed amber in the dawn light and stacks of neatly folded cloths lined the edge. The old woman glanced up from lining dark rye loaves in a crooked row, her ruddy face creasing into a familiar smile.
"Well, if it isn't young Vetranov," she rasped, voice gritty but kind. She ducked beneath the wobbling table and surfaced with a palm‑sized bundle wrapped in waxed paper. "Lucky day for you—last honeycomb of yesterday's harvest."
Radomir's hand went to his coin pouch, but Nadja waved him off with a brusque flap. "Bah. Save it. You're forever fussing over that sister of yours. Take it before I change my mind."
"You're too kind, Nadja," he replied, slipping the parcel into his cloak's inner pocket where his body heat would keep it supple.
"Don't get used to it," she muttered, though her eyes twinkled.
He had just turned away when a barked voice boomed behind him.
"Oi! You there—filching from goodwife Nadja, are you?"
Radomir spun, cloak snapping. "What?! No, I—"
A city guard strode closer, visor down, steel‑shod boots clanging on the cobbles. For one heartbeat Radomir's stomach tightened—then the cadence of that shout clicked.
He squinted. "Hold on… Korin?"
The guard halted. A chuckle echoed beneath the helm. With a metallic scrape he lifted it free, revealing a grin Radomir recognized from childhood tree‑climbs and creek races. "Should've guessed you'd sniff me out. Yep—barracks finally issued fresh kit. My old armor rattled like pans in a wagon."
Relief loosened Radomir's shoulders; he laughed and clapped Korin's pauldron. "Fresh kit? Fancy. Guess if they're making you freeze on patrol, they want you to look official while you do it."
"Official enough?" Korin twirled the helmet, mock‑posing. "You'd be amazed what brass polish can hide."
Radomir smirked. "I'm impressed, but not enough to stay and chat—I've oats to sweeten and a sister expecting me back."
Korin stepped aside with theatrical flourish. "Off with you, then. Pass Milena my greetings—and tell her if she feeds every stray kitten in the alley again, the watch will be forced to deputize the lot of them."
Radomir's grin widened. "She can't help it. Animals follow her like pilgrims to a shrine."
"Lucky gift," Korin said, settling the helmet under one arm. "Makes the city seem gentler."
"Somebody's got to." Radomir offered a quick salute—half sincere, half jest—and turned toward the cottage, honeycomb secure and the morning somehow brighter despite the cold.
Radomir kept a brisk pace through the quiet lanes of Velgrad, cloak drawn tight as the cold nipped at his cheeks. The wind hadn't let up, but it felt less biting now—dulled by motion, steam, and a promise wrapped in waxed paper near his chest. A faint sweetness lingered from the honeycomb, tugging at the corner of his mouth each time he breathed through his scarf.
He rounded the final corner and caught sight of the crooked roofline that marked home, its chimney puffing faint curls of smoke into the gray sky. The sight brought a small, tired smile to his lips, as if the house itself exhaled welcome.
The door creaked open on half‑frozen hinges, letting in a rush of chill and the scent of damp wool. For a heartbeat he stood poised on the threshold, feeling the outside cold peel away.
Inside, the warmth hit him immediately. The fire had caught fully in his absence—small, steady flames dancing beneath the pot, which now bubbled gently with oats and a pinch of spice. The aroma—nutmeg and browned grain—filled the one‑room cottage like a blanket.
Milena was seated cross‑legged on the bed, brushing out her hair with a carved wooden comb, strands of it falling in waves over her shoulders. A half‑melted hard candy clicked against her teeth as she sucked on it, one cheek puffed slightly.
"You're back!" she chirped, bright eyes flicking up. "And hey—congrats! I can't smell you across the room anymore~"
Radomir snorted, pulling off his cloak and tossing it over the stool near the hearth. "Thanks for the warm welcome," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a grin.
She grinned back, twirling the comb like a wand, copper strands catching the firelight. "Any longer and I was gonna assume you drowned in the tub."
He shook his head, steam still threading from his hair, and reached into his cloak to tap the waxed parcel with two fingers. "Drown? Not a chance. I had a mission: breakfast deluxe."
Milena's comb paused mid‑turn, curiosity sparking. "Deluxe?"
"Just wait," he said, moving to the hearth and giving the oats a decisive stir. The spoon clinked reassuringly, and the cottage settled into the comfortable hush of a shared winter morning.
Radomir crouched by the hearth, giving the pot one last stir before reaching into the folded bundle he'd set beside the stool. He unwrapped the waxed paper with care, the golden honeycomb inside catching the firelight like amber glass, tiny prisms of sugar glinting in each cell.
Milena's eyes lit up. "Is that—?!"
He grinned. "Told you. Breakfast deluxe."
Sweet steam curled from the oat pot, wrapping them both in a fragile warmth that smelled of grain and promise.
She leaned forward, eyes wide with delight. "How much did this cost you? Don't tell me you gave up your bath token for sugar again."
Radomir laughed. "Nah. Nadja gave it to me."
Milena blinked, lashes fluttering in surprise. "Gave?"
"She said I've 'fussed over you long enough to earn it,' or something like that. Swatted my hand when I tried to pay."
Milena bit down on a smile, clearly touched. "She always acts so grumpy, but she's a total marshmallow."
"She's got a sharp bark," Radomir said, dividing the honey with the side of a spoon, "but she's soft on the inside."
Amber syrup glistened as he worked the spoon through the comb, thin threads of gold stretching before snapping and pooling into the oats.
He paused, then added, "Ran into someone else, too."
Milena looked up, brow arched in curiosity.
"Korin," he said, spooning a chunk of honeycomb into a bowl. "Nearly gave me a heart attack. Shouted like I was stealing from Nadja. Took me a second to recognize his voice under the helmet."
Milena blinked, then lit up. "Wait—our Korin? From creek races and the summer firefly dare?"
"That's the one. Got himself a full set of new armor. Looks like an actual soldier now—well, if you squint."
She grinned and leaned back against the wall, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Oh! He helped me nurse those kittens last week."
Radomir paused mid‑stir. The spoon hung motionless, dripping honey into the pot. "Seriously?"
"Mhm." She plucked the comb from her lap and tapped it against her chin, cheeks faintly flushed. "Brought me an old blanket from the barracks and everything. Said it was 'unofficial patrol business.'"
Radomir chuckled, shaking his head. "That's funny. He told me if you kept feeding strays, the watch would have to deputize them."
Milena's smile widened, but she looked down at the comb in her hands. "See? He's already halfway there."
A comfortable silence slipped in—only the crackle of the hearth and the gentle plop of thickened oats. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, but inside, warmth wrapped the siblings like a quilt stitched from laughter, old memories, and the quiet promise of a sweeter morning.
A sharp knock rattled the door—three quick raps, then one slow one. The sound echoed like a drum in the little cottage, shaking a bit of soot loose from the mantel.
Milena perked up immediately. "Heh. There's our resident dumbass."
Radomir groaned, already rising to his feet. "Hey! Language," he said, tossing her a mock‑scolding look.
She quickly looked away, lips pressed tight as a giggle escaped. "Sorry," she murmured through the smile. "I meant resident idiot."
The door creaked open before he could reply, and a gust of cold air swept in along with a familiar voice.
"How's our newly minted Ashen‑rank adventurer doing?" Darian called out as he stepped inside, grinning like he owned the morning. His cloak was half‑unbuttoned, dusted with cold, and his usual easy confidence followed him like a second shadow.
His eyes flicked to Milena. "And good morning to you, Milena~"
Milena gave a sweet, practiced smile and twirled her comb once like a lazy wand. "Careful, Darian. Flattery's free, but sugar costs extra."
Darian rolled his eyes and waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."
The cold slammed Radomir square in the chest as Darian pushed the door wider, loose snow scattering across the threshold like salt. Darian kicked it shut with a careless heel, then stomped each boot in turn, shaking off frost that spattered the floorboards.
"Don't mind the mess," Radomir muttered, hurrying forward to bar the way before more cold seeped in. "We only just got the place warm."
"Mess?" Darian sniffed theatrically. "You haven't seen my flat above the tannery. This place looks like a royal suite by comparison." He rubbed gloved palms together, breathing on them for good measure. "Besides, you promised me breakfast yesterday .I nearly froze my ears off trekking from the south ward."
Milena raised a brow, still twirling her comb. "He's making breakfast deluxe, skull‑for‑brains. Show some gratitude."
Darian grinned, shrugging off his cloak and draping it over the door peg. "Skull‑for‑brains? Harsh. But I'll forgive the slander if those oats taste half as good as they smell."
Radomir snorted. "Forgiveness? Please. You barge in like you pay the rent here."
"Perks of friendship," Darian said, moving to the fire and basking in its glow. "Figured we'd talk commissions while the oats thicken. Board posts a fresh batch by noon, and I want first pick."
"Patience," Radomir answered, ladling honey‑slick oats into a third chipped bowl. "Eat first, scheme later."
Darian leaned closer, eyeing the molten gold streaking through the grain. "Is that real honey? Fancy."
Milena elbowed him lightly, but a smile tugged at her lips. "You're welcome. Nadja's kindness—on the house."
"Ha! The old spitfire?" Darian shot Radomir a sidelong glance. "Tell her I'll pay double next time if she saves me a piece."
Radomir handed him the bowl, steam fogging the tips of Darian's hair. "Bring coin, and she'll save you the bees along with it."
Darian barked a laugh around his first spoonful. "Deal. Though my landlord might protest if bees take over the rafters."
Milena rolled her eyes, but amusement lingered at the edges of her grin. "Eat, chatterbox. One crisis at a time."
For a moment the cottage felt almost too small for the warmth filling it—three voices, one hearth, and the soft crackle of kindling stitching them into something like family, even if one of them had to trek back across town when the bowls ran empty.
They ate together, bowls in hand, sitting shoulder to shoulder near the hearth. The fire crackled softly, resin popping in tiny sparks, and for a time only the clink of spoons and quiet sips filled the room. The honeycomb had melted into the oats, sweetening the grain with ribbons of gold, and for a moment, the world outside the shutters didn't seem so cold—a lull where winter pressed its nose to the window but stayed politely outside.
Darian leaned back with a content sigh, leaning his head against the timber wall. "Alright—fine. That was deluxe."
"Don't thank me," Radomir said, licking a bit of honey from his thumb. "Thank Milena for scaring Nadja into charity."
Milena shot him a flat look, then smirked as she scooped another bite. "Please. I don't scare Nadja. I guilt her. It's different."
Darian chuckled and set his empty bowl down with a soft clack. "Well, however it happened, we're starting the day right. And speaking of starts—" He glanced at Radomir, lifting an eyebrow beneath mussed bangs. "I put in a word with Drazek last night. Said you were registering."
Radomir blinked, spoon hovering mid‑air. "You went all the way to the forge?"
"Yep. Caught him while he was still hammering out horseshoes. Told him you were finally growing out of that twig‑with‑a‑knife phase. He's got a spare blade set aside for you—nothing fancy, but it'll hold an edge—and an old gambeson I used to wear."
"Wait, seriously?" Radomir straightened, surprise warming his voice. "He's giving that to me?"
Darian shrugged, tracing the rim of his bowl. "You're guild now. And Drazek's got a soft spot for rookies—sometimes. I told him you weren't completely hopeless."
Milena glanced up from her bowl, spoon stem tapping her lower lip. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said about my brother."
"Don't get used to it," Darian said, grinning—then turned to her with exaggerated offense, clutching invisible pearls. "But he gets freebies, and I can't even get my pauldrons patched! Milenaaaa, why won't you sweet‑talk Drazek for me? You outright refused me yesterday!"
Milena rolled her eyes, smile already forming. "Because you don't need sweet‑talking. You need manners."
Darian opened his mouth, closed it, then conceded with a helpless laugh that fogged in the hearthlight. Outside, a gust rattled the shutters, but inside the cottage the warmth held firm—three bowls scraped clean, a plan taking shape, and just enough honey‑gold lingering on the spoon's edge to promise the day might keep its sweetness a little longer.
Milena suddenly popped up from the bed, her bowl still in hand. "I want to come with you to the forge!"
Radomir raised an eyebrow. "To see Drazek?"
She nodded quickly, cheeks flushed with excitement. "I've been meaning to thank him properly. He made that brace for the stray's leg—the one with the busted knee, remember? I wanted to give him something for it."
Darian snorted softly, rocking his empty bowl on one knee. "He's not exactly the sentimental type, Milena."
"That doesn't mean he won't appreciate it," she said, already crossing the room. She set her bowl down with a soft clink and knelt by the little cedar chest near the wall, lifting the lid. A faint whiff of lavender sachets drifted out as she rummaged through neatly folded odds‑and‑ends.
Radomir exchanged a glance with Darian, who gave a slight shrug and a crooked grin. "She's not wrong."
Milena's fingers found what she wanted: two narrow lengths of crimson ribbon, edges whip‑stitched with silver thread, and a small cloth‑wrapped bundle tied with twine. She laid the ribbons across her palm—delicate charms she had woven herself, tiny bone beads catching the firelight—then unknotted the bundle and checked the contents: a thumb‑sized jar of beeswax‑and‑herb salve she'd rendered the night before, perfect for cracked knuckles and burn scars.
Satisfied, she tucked the jar deep into an inner cloak pocket, then folded the ribbons twice and slid them in beside it before either of the boys could see more than a flash of red silk.
Radomir narrowed his eyes. "What are those?"
Milena just smiled and stood, brushing dust from her knees. "Nothing. Just something I've been working on."
Darian raised a brow, mouth quirking. "Should we be worried?"
"Only if you're mean to Drazek," she said sweetly, already reaching for her boots. The ribbons peeped once at the cloak's edge—then disappeared, safe with the salve meant for a gruff blacksmith who quietly fixed broken things.