The gates of Ironholt loomed tall where the forest gave way to civilization—a towering blend of blackened iron and heavy timber, carved with the crest of House Wintermane. Raven, Mary, and Aira sat bundled in the sleigh as it coasted to a halt just before the threshold. The sleigh wolves gave a final soft growl, their breath curling in clouds beneath their harnesses.

  Aira hopped down first, landing with a soft crunch in the snow. She gave the wolves one last affectionate pat, murmuring something under her breath. They chuffed in response, tails swaying lightly, before turning and being led into large open pens, where feed awaited them.

  The gates creaked open with a slow groan, revealing two wardens clad in thick furs and chainmail. They stood watch with spears crossed, then offered a salute to Aira with respectful nods. From beyond, the warm glow of civilization spilled outward like a promise—an earned warmth that stood in stark contrast to the wild cold behind them.

  Inside, Ironholt breathed a quiet resilience. The first neighborhood they passed was built for survival more than show—rows of stone-and-wood homes lined the road, some built into the hills to shield against wind. Thick walls, shuttered windows, and curling chimney smoke spoke of endurance and care. Snow clung stubbornly to rooftops, but warmth radiated from within, the scent of burning pine lingering in the crisp air.

  Each home had its own character. Sturdy single-family dwellings with chimney stacks and pelts hanging from drying racks stood beside communal lodges—larger, multi-family buildings constructed of timber and stone. These housed knights, officers, tradesfolk, and their families who braved Ironholt’s year-round cold in service of the city’s beating heart.

  Inns rose on the corners—broad and welcoming, with wool curtains drawn tight against the frost. One bore a carved wolf’s pawprint above the door; another breathed visible steam from a vent in the roof. Travelers moved slowly through the snowy streets, lured toward warm beds and hearth-lit meals.

  Aira led the way through the winding lanes with quiet confidence. Her steps were sure, her pace familiar. The sleigh was left behind at the gate, and the three moved on foot into Ironholt’s market district.

  The stone-paved lanes narrowed, weaving between close-pressed shops and storefronts. The sun, low in the sky despite the hour, threw long shadows across rooftops crusted in frost. Chimneys hissed and spat plumes of steam into the air, curling like spirits against the pale sky. Despite the chill, the market stirred with a subdued rhythm—one of need, not indulgence.

  Shops huddled close like neighbors whispering secrets. Thick timber, stone, and wool-draped awnings protected the storefronts and those who passed by. Runes etched in soft amber glowed faintly around doors and windows, casting halos of warmth into the silvery light.

  Raven slowed as a scent caught his attention—rich, buttery heat that curled like a memory through the air. A nearby bakery had its door propped open just a crack. The warmth spilled out like a welcome, bringing with it the smell of fresh rye, berry tarts, and savory hand pies.

  Above the door, a wooden sign creaked gently in the breeze—a round loaf split open, a carving knife tucked beside it.

  Inside, the bakery was humble but inviting. Wooden counters, rubbed smooth by time and hands, framed the space. Racks behind the counter held loaves still steaming from the oven, while the air itself carried a light dusting of flour. A small bell jingled faintly with every customer, though it was almost drowned out by the low, steady humming of the baker.

  The man behind the counter was broad-shouldered and bearded—his hair white not just from age, but from years of flour dust. His cheeks were ruddy, his hands thick and steady. He moved with a kind of deliberate grace, speaking in a gravelly murmur, more to himself than anyone else.

  Two children helped him—a lanky teenage boy sneaking rolls between tasks, and a small girl barely taller than the counter, already a master at tying boxes with twine.

  As Aira stepped through the door, the old baker turned and beamed. “Ah, Lady Aira,” he said, his voice rough but warm. “I’m glad to see you again. How can I help?”

  Raven blinked. Was Wolfking translating again? He shot a glance at Aira, suspecting Shadebinder had pestered the old spirit into helping once more.

  Aira leaned against the counter with a cheerful grin. “Good afternoon, Harthen. I know it’s getting late, but is it still possible to get fresh takeaway for some Curdlecake?”

  The old baker’s face lit up. “For a great patron such as yourself? Always.”

  “Perfect,” Aira said sweetly. “Fifteen trays, please.”

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  Harthen paused, brow furrowing. “You mean… slices?”

  Aira giggled. “Nope. Trays. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  Mary nearly choked. “What?!”

  Without missing a beat, Aira pulled a folded slip of parchment from her pocket. “This should more than cover the cost—and the inconvenience,” she said calmly. “We still have some errands to run, but we’ll come back later to pick them up.”

  Harthen stared at the parchment, then at her, looking somewhere between bewildered and resigned. “Thank you. Have a nice day.”

  “No,” Aira replied with a wink. “Thank you. Have a wonderful day!”

  They stepped back out into the cold, the bakery door jingling shut behind them.

  Raven gave her a sidelong glance. “Is... fifteen a lot?”

  Mary groaned. “One tray could feed all three of us.”

  As they walked, Raven frowned. “So… what are we going to do with that many?”

  Aira turned, her smile wicked. “What fun is it if I tell you now? Don’t worry—it’s for a good cause.”

  Then, without warning, she grabbed both of their hands and tugged them down the next street.

  “Come on,” she said brightly. “We’ve got more stops to make.”

  Nestled at the corner of the market square, the tailor’s shop stood stoic against the creeping cold. Its thick wooden door was framed by layered furs and woolen strips that hung like practical curtains—part insulation, part welcome. Above the frame, a simple hand-carved wooden sign swayed gently in the breeze, etched with the symbol of crossed scissors. The edges were chipped with age, but still sharp enough to carve through even the toughest cloth.

  Inside, warmth wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, a stark and immediate contrast to the chill outside. The gentle clink of metal shears and the whisper of needle through cloth filled the room with a soothing rhythm. The shop was modest in size, cozy without feeling cramped. A thick wooden counter stood near the entrance, piled high with bolts of cloth—muted reds, mossy greens, deep browns—all bound with leather straps. There was nothing delicate here. No silk, no lace. Just practical fabric: heavy wool, weatherworn leather, and fur-lined linings built to endure snow, wind, and time.

  Garments lined the walls like silent stories—cloaks embroidered with symbols of local history, thick coats with pelts stitched into the seams, and mittens so fine in detail they seemed too delicate for Ironholt’s punishing weather. A splash of brightness came from a few scarves and hats, their colors vibrant—a quiet rebellion against the endless white of winter.

  At the back of the shop, beside a crackling hearth, sat the tailor herself—an older woman with strong hands and a presence that commanded both comfort and respect. Her hair, black streaked with silver, was pulled back into a no-nonsense braid. Her fingers moved deftly as she patched a soldier’s worn cloak, each stitch a mark of care and practiced precision.

  Her head lifted as the trio stepped inside.

  “Aira! Mary! Darlings, it’s been too long!” Greta called, setting down her work. She rose with surprising energy, sweeping them both into a warm, firm embrace. “You should come by more often. This shop’s been far too quiet without you two.”

  Mary laughed softly, and Aira smiled with a touch of guilt as she returned the hug. “Thank you for having us, Greta.”

  Then Greta’s gaze shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly as she noticed Raven standing quietly just behind them.

  “And who is this young knight?” she asked, tilting her head and raising one judgmental eyebrow. There was no malice in her tone—just the sharpness of someone who had seen too many things left unexplained.

  Raven stiffened slightly under her stare.

  Greta stepped closer, hands on her hips. “What is this, Aira? Don’t tell me the Wintermanes have forgotten how to dress their knights properly?”

  Aira’s smile faltered. “It’s a long story…” she began, her tone clipped with patience. “And he’s not a knight, Greta. We just need him properly fitted.”

  “Hm,” Greta replied, unconvinced but already moving into her rhythm. “Is that so?” She motioned with a flick of her wrist. “Come along, boy.”

  Raven blinked but obeyed, stepping forward as she swapped her regular glasses for a second, thicker pair that made her eyes look enormous and hawk-like.

  She pulled a worn measuring tape from her apron pocket, the cloth flicking out with a snap.

  “Let’s get this done quickly,” she muttered, already circling Raven with professional efficiency. The tape looped and twitched between her fingers as she took his height, shoulders, arms, chest—moving with such speed and focus it felt like she’d done this in her sleep.

  “And what’s your name, dear?” she asked, not pausing in her work. “And how did you end up in such a sorry state?”

  Before Raven could open his mouth—or try to—Aira stepped in, her voice soft but firm.

  “His name is Raven. He can’t speak right now. We found him out in the wilds—abandoned. He’s been through a lot.”

  Greta paused mid-measurement, a flicker of something crossing her weathered face. Surprise, maybe. Or quiet concern.

  “Really?” she murmured, eyes flicking back to Raven. “And how did he survive out there?”

  “Barely,” Aira said quietly, glancing at Raven with something like pride. “But valiantly.”

  Greta muttered something under her breath—something not quite decipherable, though it sounded like begrudging admiration wrapped in frustration. With a last firm tug of the tape, she stepped back and gave a satisfied nod.

  “Well. He’ll need something durable. No offense, my boy, but you look like you’ve been chased by bears.”

  She turned and gestured toward the display of fabrics and garments on the side wall. “So, what’ll it be? Color? Style?”

  Raven moved closer, inspecting the options with a careful eye. Eventually, he pointed toward a deep forest green wool, accented with soft fur and reinforced seams—simple, practical, unassuming.

  Aira gave a small approving nod. “Good choice.”

  Greta chuckled, already pulling down the fabric bolts and sketching something on a nearby scrap of parchment. “I can have it ready in a week, maybe sooner if you’re in a rush.”

  “We’re not,” Aira said, handing over a small pouch of coins. “Take your time. I’ll send someone to pick it up once it’s done.”

  “Always a pleasure, my lady,” Greta said, already moving back toward her hearth with cloth in hand. “Take care now. And don’t be strangers.”

  As they stepped out into the cold once more, the door shut behind them with a soft thunk, muffling the warm sounds of the tailor’s shop and the beginning hum of thread and needle starting its work.