Gunnar sat on the barn’s doorstep for a while, staring out across the fields. The unease in his chest was growing by the minute.

  He stood, took a deep breath, and called out:

  “Johan! Come with me. Can’t leave you locked up all day. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  Johan appeared, reluctant but without protest. They climbed onto the cart and followed the worn trail toward the village.

  “What are we doing there?” Johan finally asked, breaking the silence.

  “I need to talk to Olaf. And… ask a favor.”

  Johan raised an eyebrow, skeptical.

  At the forge, the heat and the tang of molten metal hit them like a wall. The old blacksmith was already at work, sweat running down his soot-streaked face as he hammered steel on the anvil.

  “Olaf!” Gunnar called, his usual smile in place, though more subdued than normal.

  The blacksmith looked up, wiping his brow with a thick forearm, and sighed.

  “Thought you only came by when you broke something. Not for a chat.”

  “Bit of both today,” Gunnar replied, giving Johan a light nudge.

  Olaf set the hammer down and motioned toward a workbench, where swords, spears, and axes sat unfinished.

  “We’re making weapons like we haven’t in years. Trowell’s sent word — every village needs to be ready. We won’t just be sending men. We’re sending steel.”

  Gunnar ran his fingers along one of the blades. Still cool, but heavy. Real.

  “What about the material?” he asked, trying to sound practical.

  Olaf snorted.

  “Not as good as it should be. The mines are overworked. The iron we get now’s not what it used to be. I’m doing what I can, but I’m no miracle worker.”

  Johan watched everything wide-eyed, soaking it all in.

  “Come on, boy. Can’t keep you locked up in the barn all day,” Gunnar teased with a smile.

  Johan grumbled, but followed. Truth was, he welcomed the distraction.

  “So…” Gunnar scratched the back of his neck, laughing lightly. “Doesn’t have to be new. An old sword will do.”

  “An old sword?” Olaf acted offended. “You think this is a junk shop?”

  Gunnar held up his hands, grinning.

  “Hey, no harm in asking, right?”

  Olaf let out a gruff huff.

  “You really think I’d send you to war with a bent iron bar?”

  He turned, picked up a wrapped bundle from the bench, and carefully unrolled it. Inside was a sword — simple, but well-forged. The blade was clean and balanced. The hilt was wrapped in firm leather.

  “Not noble’s steel, but the best I could make with what I’ve got.”

  Gunnar was quiet for a moment. He took the sword carefully, testing its weight, swinging it once through the air.

  “Olaf… this is more than I could have asked for.”

  He drew a slow breath, adjusted the sword into the sheath Olaf handed him, and met the blacksmith’s eyes.

  “You don’t know how much this means to me, old friend.”

  “I do,” Olaf said, gaze filled with equal parts pride and sorrow. “I watched you grow. Watched your mother grow too. She used to come here asking for things she couldn’t pay for. Stubborn as you are.”

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  Gunnar chuckled, emotion tugging at his expression.

  “I always heard I take after her.”

  “You do. Especially when you start talking nonsense just to hide the nerves.”

  Olaf pulled a bottle of mead from a cupboard and poured two small wooden cups.

  “Not for drinking. Just to mark the moment.”

  They toasted.

  “Four days, right?” Olaf asked.

  “Yeah…” Gunnar nodded. “We leave in four. We’ll join the other recruits from nearby villages.”

  He ran his fingers along the blade again, admiring its honest, solid craftsmanship.

  “Olaf… truly, you saved me.”

  The blacksmith gave a low laugh.

  “It’s not over yet. Actually, I could use some help at the forge. Got orders for spears and horseshoes due tomorrow. Normally I’d call on the village lads, but with recruitment, they’re all tied up.”

  Gunnar glanced over to see Johan absentmindedly kicking stones.

  A mischievous grin crossed his face.

  “Then take Johan.”

  The boy turned instantly.

  “Me?!”

  “Well, what else are you doing?” Gunnar teased. “We’ve finished the fields. Harvest’s done. This time of year, things slow down.”

  Johan folded his arms, suspicious.

  “I don’t know…”

  Gunnar leaned in, whispering:

  “Besides, you’ll get to be around Lene more often.”

  Johan’s face went bright red.

  “S-shut up, Gunnar!” he muttered, looking away. Before more teasing could come, he rushed off toward the cart.

  Gunnar burst out laughing.

  “Works every time!”

  “Brats…” Olaf shook his head with a smile. “Go look after him. But don’t forget to come back and say goodbye.”

  Gunnar nodded.

  “I will.”

  He took the sword and walked slowly… but stopped when he saw Johan standing frozen, staring toward the nearby square.

  Gunnar followed his gaze — and his stomach turned.

  There, just meters away, stood Ada.

  And beside her… Ove.

  Ove was talking, hands moving with his usual overdone flair, wearing that smug grin. Ada listened in silence, gaze downcast, clearly unamused.

  Gunnar stood still for a second, blood boiling. He began walking toward them, stride hard and fast.

  “Gunnar…” Olaf called, noting the tension in the boy’s eyes.

  The blacksmith quickly grabbed the sword and caught Gunnar’s arm.

  “Easy.”

  Johan ran in front of him, raising both hands.

  “Gunnar! Not now!”

  But Gunnar only growled, trying to break free.

  “Rat-faced bastard… sewer-fed coward…”

  Johan pushed against him, but Gunnar was a wall. Olaf held his other arm, but he kept straining forward.

  “Gunnar, calm down!” Johan shouted.

  “If you make a scene now, it’ll only make things worse,” Olaf muttered between clenched teeth.

  Meanwhile, a small group was approaching the forge — Tolvad, the old veteran from the last war, flanked by a few young volunteers heading to battle. The three were too caught up in their tension to notice.

  But Ada did.

  Her eyes met Gunnar’s — for just a second — and her expression hardened. She turned away and disappeared into her mother’s fabric shop without a word.

  Seconds later, Astrid, Ada’s mother, stormed out.

  “Don’t you have better things to do than stand here like a scarecrow?” she snapped at Ove, her voice sharp.

  Ove opened his mouth, but she was already gone. He huffed, glanced around — and, noticing a few villagers watching with quiet amusement, slinked away.

  Gunnar stopped. Took a deep breath.

  “Son of a…”

  “Enough,” Olaf said quietly, releasing his arm. “She made her choice. Don’t make it worse.”

  Gunnar closed his eyes a moment, forcing himself calm.

  Johan laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “There’ll be plenty worth fighting, cousin. Don’t waste strength on trash.”

  Gunnar exhaled, gave one last glance toward the shop where Ada had vanished, then turned away, trying to steady his mind.

  Just then, Tolvad and the volunteers reached them. The veteran — short, stocky, with graying hair and sharp eyes — greeted them with a respectful nod before turning to Olaf.

  “All ready, Olaf?”

  “Almost,” the blacksmith replied. “Still need to reinforce a few spears in the morning.”

  Tolvad nodded, arms crossed.

  “I’ve been training these lads in my spare time.” He motioned to the group behind him, trying hard to look confident. “Just the basics… but they learn fast.”

  Johan, never missing a beat:

  “With you training them, Tolvad… I just hope they don’t turn out as cranky.”

  The boys laughed, but one — a bit older than Johan, with short brown hair and a cocky grin — stepped forward.

  “How about a demonstration, then?” he said, already moving in.

  Before Johan could react, the young man grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and brought him to his knees.

  “Too easy,” he smirked.

  Gunnar sighed and stepped in, pulling the two apart with one tug.

  “That’s enough,” he said flatly.

  The boy smirked.

  “What about you, big guy? Wanna try?”

  Without waiting, he grabbed for Gunnar’s left arm — but in a blink, found himself flat on the ground, dust rising around him.

  Gunnar looked down at him.

  “Not in the mood.”

  Tolvad let out a surprised laugh.

  “By the gods… you’ve got instinct, boy.” He stepped closer, intrigued. “And strength.” He scratched his chin. “How about a real test?”

  Gunnar raised an eyebrow.

  “A test?”

  “If you accept, I’ll buy you a round at the tavern.”

  Gunnar smiled.

  “Deal. But in return, I want lessons — sword basics.”

  Tolvad grinned wide.

  “Done.”

  The veteran rolled his shoulders and lunged without warning, using an old soldier’s trick — shift the balance, unground the stance, force a fall.

  But when he touched Gunnar’s arm, he met solid resistance. The boy’s footing adjusted instinctively — low, stable, eyes steady.

  Tolvad pushed — and staggered back a step.

  He blinked.

  “Hmph. You’ve got more in you than you think, boy.”

  Gunnar relaxed and smiled.

  “I just try not to end up on the ground, sir.”

  Tolvad laughed and clapped him on the back.

  “You’re going to survive this war. I’d bet a bottle of wine on it.”

  “I’d prefer a beer, if that’s all right,” Gunnar chuckled.

  Johan, still rubbing his wrist, grumbled:

  “Great. Everyone’s using me as a practice dummy today…”

  The whole group burst into laughter.