Isaac Grant woke up on a hard wooden cot in a cell, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The back of his head throbbed from the bottles smashed against it, but that dull ache was a trifle compared to the familiar, burning hangover consuming him from within.

He rose unhurriedly, adjusted his worn leather doublet, and rolled his stiff shoulders.

“Hey! Anyone alive out there?!” he rasped loudly, trying to shove his head through the thick oak bars of the grate. “I’m dying of thirst here!”

Surveying the dreary, frost-covered, damp stone walls of the cell, Isaac spat in annoyance. Before long, an approaching guard thrust a clay pitcher through the bars with undisguised contempt.

Grant pressed his mouth greedily to the rim. The water tasted of stale river moss and damp mold, but the knight did not care - he drained the pitcher in seconds, carelessly spilling cold streams down his rumpled, stale clothes. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he ran wet fingers through his tangled hair, slicking it back.

Grant then arched his back sharply to stretch his stiff spine, gritting his teeth as a sharp pinch shot through his lower back.

“Damn it... I’m getting too old for these brawls,” he grunted.

Shortly after, the jailer descended into the damp cellar. Turning the heavy key in the lock with a rasping scrape, he unlocked the gate and jerked his head toward the exit, clearly displeased with how quickly and smoothly the matter had been settled.

“What about my gear?” Isaac inquired, stepping out of the cellar into the corridor.

“Already with your master!” one of the outpost guards snapped, sporting a magnificent black eye - a souvenir from the previous night, when Grant had sent his head directly into a stone wall.

Vogel, standing nearby beside a lavishly dressed merchant, was picking his ear with his index finger with an expression of complete indifference.

“Even if you paid for all the damage and generously put money on top, this does not mean that your mercenary can stay in our village longer than necessary,” Vogel cut off sharply, shutting down any attempt by the merchant to haggle. “Have him clear out to the blazes as soon as he gathers his rubbish!”

The merchant, a portly, short man, glared spitefully at Master Vogel with small, bead-like eyes. But noticing Isaac emerge, he instantly redirected all his fury toward him.

“Do you have any idea how much I spent to get you out this time?! I’m deducting every single copper from your pay!” the fat man squeaked shrilly, shaking a sack containing the mercenary’s swords and harness.

“Right...” Grant drawled, carelessly taking his belongings from the merchant and slinging his sword belt over his shoulder.

He gave his jacket pockets a quick pat and suddenly froze. His pale face darkened, his gaze turning sharp and dangerous.

“The medallion is gone,” the mercenary said in a clipped tone, shifting a heavy stare to the outpost commander.

“How should I know?” Vogel shrugged indifferently. “Probably lost it in the mud yesterday when you were knocking miners' heads together.”

Isaac gritted his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw worked beneath the skin.

Adrian stood by the frosted window of the office, silently watching the figures of the bustling merchant and the sullenly trudging mercenary retreat down the snow-covered street of the outpost.

Suddenly, Grant froze for a second. As if guided by pure instinct, he slowly turned his head and cast a sharp, piercing glance straight at the administrative windows. Adrian instinctively shrank back into the deep shadows of the room, feeling an icy chill run down his spine.

“Father? Is something wrong?” Adelissa asked softly, looking up from the inventory ledger and noticing the uncharacteristic nervousness in her father’s usually calm and measured movements.

Adrian paused for a moment to steady his breathing, then turned to his daughter with a gentle, warm smile, picking up his clay mug of cooling tea from the desk.

“Everything is fine, sweetheart. I was just mesmerized by the snowfall.”

Outside the window, work was underway in the yard. Adrian and Bernard were reinforcing the collapsed stone wall, while little Mira, trying her absolute best to help her father, diligently stirred a bucket of mortar that kept freezing over in the bitter cold.

Inside, the house was warm and cozy. Helen tossed a pair of dry logs into the gaping maw of the stove and clicked the cast-iron door shut.

“If the work ever gets too heavy for you, you can always leave it,” her mother said softly, placing a heavy cast-iron skillet onto the heated stovetop.

“Not at all! It’s much simpler than I thought!” Adelissa replied, nimbly rolling a round ball of fluffy dough. “My duties are mostly writing. A lot of writing, a little reading, and preparing copies of documents to be stamped with the administrative seal. That’s all.”

She generously sprinkled the dough with fragrant seeds and carefully placed it into a greased baking tin.

“Besides, when I get my first pay, we can replace Father’s cloak!” the girl added with genuine joy in her blue eyes. “It’s covered in patches - it’s embarrassing for him to wear it to the outpost. And there will be just enough left over for a new pair of warm boots for Mira.”

Helen looked at her eldest daughter with a tender, hidden pride and smiled warmly.

That evening, the whole family gathered around the dining table for dinner. Exhausted after the heavy repairs, Adrian and Bernard devoured the hot meal with hearty appetites.

Mira, swallowing a spoonful of porridge, immediately began recounting her day with boundless enthusiasm.

“I was the main helper today!” the little girl announced proudly, waving her spoon. “I helped Papa and Bernard stir that mortar! It kept freezing so fast in the cold, but I beat it!”

Adrian ruffled his daughter’s dark hair with a smile, while Helen gave a soft shake of her head and served her husband another portion of meat.

“Well, today certainly was a tough day for everyone,” Helen noted, sitting beside her husband. “I had to spend nearly two hours straight at the healer’s washing wounds and treating bruises on a traveler. We haven't had anything like that in Grünwald for a long time... There wasn't a unbruised spot on him, yet he just kept growling and asking for more ale instead of a painkilling potion.”

At those words, Adrian flinched almost imperceptibly. His hand holding the mug froze in midair, his gaze growing heavy and tight.

Helen caught the sudden shift immediately. She frowned slightly, but refrained from asking questions in front of the children, mentally resolving to save the conversation for when they were alone.

“Papa, will we finish the wall tomorrow?” Bernard spoke up, oblivious to the hanging silence.

“We will, son,” Adrian replied with quiet restraint, regaining his composure and offering a warm smile to his family. “ We need to finish everything tomorrow.”