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Year: 268 AC (Autumn)
Location: Northern Hamlet near the Wolfswood
The trader's cart creaked into the hamlet, its iron-rimmed wheels spitting mud. Arthur watched from the ridge, his oak staff balanced across his knees. Seven winters old, but his eyes tracked the cart's cargo like a hawk sighting prey—especially the sack of nails glinting in the weak autumn sun.
Iron. The key to everything.
He slid down the slope, silent as the falling leaves.
The Well - Noon
"Three coppers a handful," the trader grunted, wiping ale foam from his beard. He eyed Arthur's ragged tunic. "Got coin, boy? Or just staring?"
Arthur upended his pouch. Copper bits clattered onto the well's stone rim—every one earned from pelts traded in secret.
The trader's eyebrows rose. "Well, damn." He scooped the coins and tossed Arthur twelve nails. "Roof repairs, eh?" His smirk said he knew better.
Jem, the trader's gangly apprentice, sidled closer. "You're the one they whisper about. The demon-eyed boy who—"
"Jem!" The trader cuffed his ear. "Load the salt!"
As the man turned back to haggling with Lysa, Jem pressed a chipped whetstone into Arthur's palm. "For your... tools," he whispered.
Arthur studied the stone, then the boy. Why?
Jem's grin was all gaps and nerves. "Da says clever hands deserve good steel."
Hidden Hollow - Dusk
Firelight danced across Arthur's face as he heated the first nail. His makeshift forge—a flat rock, the whetstone, and stolen embers—was crude but effective.
Clink. Clink.
Each hammer stroke shaped the glowing metal. The Dragon's Fang method lived in his muscles, though his child's arms trembled with the effort. By midnight, twelve nails had become:
Six razor-edged darts
Three hooked blades for his staff's ends
One crude but serviceable knife
The last three nails he kept whole—currency for the future.
A twig snapped. Arthur spun, knife flashing—
Jem stood frozen at the hollow's edge, his face pale. "I... brought this." He held out a scrap of oiled leather. "For wrapping grips."
Arthur didn't lower the knife. "You followed me."
"Watched from the ridge." Jem swallowed hard. "You move like the bravos in White Harbor. But... different."
Too observant. Arthur sheathed the blade and snatched the leather. "Tell anyone what you saw, and I'll nail your tongue to a tree."
Jem's laugh was shaky but real. "You'd have to catch me first."
For the first time in this life, Arthur almost smiled.
Lysa's Shack - Dawn
Lysa kicked his pallet. "Up, demon. Meg wants herbs gathered before frost."
Arthur opened his eyes—one hand gripping his new knife beneath the furs. "I'll go after checking the snares."
"You'll go now." Her foot drew back for another kick—then stopped. Her gaze locked on the fresh calluses crisscrossing his palms. "What're you—"
A horn blast shattered the morning.
Bandits.
Arthur was already moving, strapping iron to his body like armor.