The snow had crusted overnight, thin and brittle on top, so each step gave a soft crunch as Jacob walked. The wind sliced across the fields hard enough to sting his cheeks, yet the rest of him felt like it belonged to another season entirely.
The clothes worked better than he had expected.
Heat wrapped around him in a gentle shell, not smothering, but comforting.
His hands stayed warm even without gloves, his fingers loose and easy instead of curling against the cold. His ears and the back of his neck should have been freezing, but the air that reached his skin felt closer to a mild spring morning than the heart of winter. Snowflakes that landed on his sleeves lingered for a breath, then melted without soaking through.
He tugged his collar out of habit and realized he did not actually need to. The enchantment sat around him like a cocoon, catching the worst of the wind before it could bite.
For a moment, he let himself enjoy the simple absurdity of it. Everyone else in the village walked with shoulders hunched and noses buried in scarves, while he trudged through knee-deep drifts feeling like he could have taken a nap on top of them.
The blacksmith's smoke rose ahead, a dark line against the bright sky. Jacob angled toward it, boots crunching along the packed path that led to the forge. He had gold in his satchel now and new ideas burning in his head, and both of those things pointed in the same direction.
Steel, heat, and someone willing to sell him blank blades and fresh armor. At least something that would fit someone of his size.
The forge was already awake when Jacob arrived. Heat rolled out of the open doorway, carrying the smell of coal, hot iron, and old sweat. The sound of a hammer on metal rang in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat that belonged to the entire village.
The blacksmith glanced up as Jacob stepped inside, then set the hammer aside and quenched the glowing piece he had been shaping. "Back again," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes flicked over Jacob's clothes, taking in the lack of gloves or hat, then moved on without comment. "What are you looking for this time. More tools?"
"Armor," Jacob said. "And a few bare blades. For myself."
The smith's brows rose a hair, but he did not ask why. Adventurers had been flowing through the village for days. Strange requests were part of the season. "If it is for you, you are not going to drag full plate around," he said. "You want the light stock."
He jerked his chin toward the side of the shop that had been cleaned and rearranged since Jacob's last visit. Racks lined the wall, holding cuirasses with trimmed plates, leather vests laced with narrow bands of metal, bracers and greaves cut slimmer than a farmer's gear. The kind of armor worn by scouts and quick footed fighters who cared more about moving than shrugging off a direct hit.
"Picked that lot up for the dungeon crowd," the blacksmith said. "Some of it is near your size already. Some will need the straps taken in. You pick what you like, and I will make it sit right."
Jacob walked along the racks, running his fingers over cool metal and toughened leather. He chose a short brigandine coat with overlapping plates sewn under dark fabric, a pair of greaves that would cover his shins without biting his knees, and bracers that left his fingers free. On another stand, he found a narrow sword and a slightly broader blade, both unfinished, both waiting for whoever wanted to give them purpose.
He carried the pieces back to the front and set them carefully on the bench. The blacksmith eyed the pile, then Jacob. "Ambitious," he said. "We will get it fitted. Try the coat first. If the straps fight you, I will cut new holes."
The blacksmith worked in quick, practiced motions, tightening straps, shifting buckles, and having Jacob lift his arms or bend his knees when needed. The brigandine settled over Jacob's shoulders better than he expected, a little roomy through the chest, snug at the waist once the straps were pulled in.
"Grow into it," the smith grunted. "Better than growing out of it in a season."
While the man adjusted the greaves, Jacob's attention kept wandering. He circled the shop, checking hooks and shelves, scanning for something that could cover his head. There were helmets, plenty of them, but every single one he tried came down over his eyes or rattled so badly it would have flown off the first time he ducked.
He returned to the bench and rested the last oversized helmet back on it. "You do not have anything smaller," Jacob said. "Nothing close to my size."
The blacksmith eyed him for a moment. "Not on the rack," he said. "Most boys your age are more worried about keeping their toes dry than their skulls uncracked. I could make you a helm, proper sized and lined. Question is whether you have coin for a commission instead of castoffs."
That made Jacob pause. He touched the brigandine at his chest, then the bracers and greaves. "How much for all of this?" he asked. "Armor and the two blades. No helm yet."
The blacksmith did a quick tally in his head, numbers written across his face as he ticked off cost, time, and the way the dungeon crowd had fattened his purse recently. "For that set," he said, "call it seventy silver. Another twenty-eight for the blades. Under one gold, all told."
Jacob nodded slowly, feeling the comforting weight of his satchel. "In that case, there will be no problems with a commission," he said. "And I can manage a nice tip for my favorite blacksmith on top of it."