Remus was fourteen years old when his father woke him before sunrise.
The cold had already crept through the cracks of their wooden house, biting into skin like fine needles. Remus pulled his thin blanket tighter around himself, hoping the voice he heard was only part of a half-formed dream. Then came his father's cough—dry, heavy, unmistakably real.
"Get up, Remus," his father said. "We leave for the forest before full light."
Remus exhaled sharply and sat up. His bare feet touched the frozen floor, and he winced.
"It's still dark," he complained. "The forest is worse when the mist hasn't lifted."
"It will be worse if the wagon isn't finished," his father replied, flat and final.
They were going to the northern forest to cut timber for a wagon commissioned by Lord Berrick Thorne, the Duke who ruled their lands. It was to be a heavy transport wagon, strong enough to endure long roads and heavier loads, and it had to be completed before the long winter arrived—two months from now. There would be no extensions, no excuses.
Across the Kingdom of Northern, the same urgency pressed on every household. Farmers, blacksmiths, masons, and carpenters alike were driven to exhaustion. Life in the North had always been this way—harsh, unyielding, and without mercy. The land did not forgive weakness, and winter never waited for the unprepared.
Remus slung his small axe over his shoulder.
"Why us?" he muttered. "There are other carpenters in the duchy."
His father walked ahead, his back bent by years of labor and loss. "Because we are alive," he said. "And as long as we are alive, we work."
They passed neighbors already awake, faces tight and silent as they stepped into the cold. No one spoke. In the North, words were wasted energy.
"Two months isn't much time," Remus said as they crossed the frost-hardened ground. "If the storms come early—"
"Don't think about that," his father cut in.
Remus frowned. "That's all you ever say.
Don't think. Don't complain. Don't hope."
His father stopped and turned. His eyes were tired, hollow, fixed on something far behind Remus.
"Hope doesn't cut wood," he said.
The forest received them in a heavy silence. Tall, ancient trees stood like mute sentinels, their bare branches creaking under the cold wind. Remus looked at his axe, his hands still too small for such work.
"I'm tired," he said after a while. "We've lived like this since I was little. Work, and more work."
His father marked a tree without answering.
"Father," Remus pressed, "do you even remember the last time we rested?"
The axe paused mid-air. Slowly, it lowered.
"This work keeps you alive," his father said. "That is enough."
Remus lowered his gaze. His childhood had been nothing but hardship. His mother had died seven years ago, taken by a winter fever that spared no one. Since that day, the house had grown quieter, and his father had become harder—more distant, as though his will to live had been buried alongside his wife.
"You never smile anymore," Remus said softly. "Mother wouldn't want to see you like this."
His father's jaw tightened. "Do not speak of your mother."
"Why not?" Remus snapped. "I lost her. But you lost everything."
For a moment, only the wind answered.
At last, his father raised the axe again. "If I stop working," he said quietly, "I will start remembering. And if I remember… I will not rise the next morning."
Remus fell silent. He did not fully understand, but he felt the weight of those words settle in his chest.
They began cutting the first tree. The sound of iron striking wood echoed through the forest, again and again. Each blow carried the exhaustion of a people shaped by an unforgiving land—and of a boy beginning to learn that in the Kingdom of Northern, survival had always been earned, never given.
By the time they returned, the light had finally broken through the clouds, pale and weak, offering little warmth.
The felled logs lay heavy on the sled as they dragged them back to the house. Frost clung to the wood, and Remus's arms trembled from the effort. His father said nothing. The moment the logs were set down, he reached for his tools and began measuring, already lost in the work of shaping the wagon frame. There was no pause, no acknowledgment of fatigue.
"Don't you ever rest?" Remus asked, dropping the rope from his shoulder.
"Rest comes after winter," his father replied without looking up.
Remus scowled and stamped his feet to bring feeling back into them.
"So what am I supposed to do now?"
"Draw water," his father said. "Then start the fire."
Remus groaned. "The well is almost frozen. It takes forever."
"And yet," his father said calmly, "we still need water."
Remus grabbed the metal pail and the small tin can filled with stones. He shook the can in frustration.
"I don't understand why we can't just store more water inside."
"Because water runs out," his father answered. "Work does not."
Remus muttered under his breath as he walked toward the well behind the house. The rope was stiff with ice, and the wind cut deeper the farther he went. The well mouth was rimmed with frost, a thin skin of ice sealing the water below. He dropped the stone-filled can down the shaft, listening as it struck and cracked the fragile surface.
Again.
And again.
The ice finally broke with a dull snap. Remus hauled the bucket up slowly, his arms burning as water sloshed inside. He leaned against the well's edge, breathing hard, steam rising from his mouth.
Fourteen, he thought bitterly. And already working like a grown man.
Back inside, he poured the water into an iron pot and stacked wood into the stove. His hands moved with practiced ease as he struck the flint and coaxed the flame to life. Soon, the low crackle of fire filled the room, and warmth began to creep back into the air.
Remus set another pot to heat and began preparing what little they had for breakfast. Chopped roots, dried meat, a pinch of salt. Simple, filling, and familiar. Though he complained often, his body had been shaped early by labor—lean muscle formed from hauling wood, pulling rope, and carrying stone. His hands were rough, but steady. Cooking, at least, was something he could do well.
His father worked nearby, the steady scrape of tools against wood marking time.
"You should let me finish the wagon frame," Remus said as he stirred the pot. "I'm strong enough."
His father shook his head. "Strength is not the same as endurance."
Remus frowned. "I can cook, fetch water, and cut wood. What else is left?"
"Learning when to speak less," his father replied.
Remus rolled his eyes but said nothing more. He ladled the steaming food into two bowls and set them on the table. The smell of hot broth filled the room, brief comfort against the cold pressing in from outside.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire burned steadily, the wagon frame took shape, and winter waited patiently beyond the walls.
.....
Morning in the North did not announce itself with light, but with cold.
Remus woke before the sun for the third day in a row, his muscles sore in ways that no longer surprised him. Routine ruled their lives now—wake, work, endure, repeat.
The wagon for Lord Berrick Thorne loomed half-built beside the house, its frame like a skeleton waiting for flesh. Winter was coming, and every hour mattered.
Halen arrived just after dawn.
He came trudging through the frost with a crooked smile, breath puffing heavily from his chest. He was taller than any man in the village, broad-shouldered and thick-limbed, his hands the size of shovels.
His movements were awkward, his eyes slow to follow conversation, but his strength was undeniable. Where others strained, Halen lifted. Where horses balked, he pulled.
"Morning, Doyce," Halen said, pronouncing the name carefully, as if each sound had weight.
Doyce looked up from the wagon frame and nodded. "Morning, Halen. You're early."
Halen grinned wider, proud of that. "You said… wood waits for no one."
"That's right," Doyce replied. "And neither does winter."
Remus watched from the doorway, arms crossed. "He's going to eat half our food again," he muttered.
Halen heard him and laughed, a deep, simple sound. "I work for it," he said, lifting a beam from the ground with one arm to prove the point.
Remus scowled. "You don't even feel it."
"That's because you're still growing," Doyce said calmly. "Halen finished growing long ago."
The villagers did not see Halen the way Doyce did. To them, he was a burden—slow of mind, clumsy with words, too big to ignore and too different to accept. Children threw stones at him. Adults drove him away from fires and markets. Some called him a pest.
Others used harsher words.
Doyce did neither.
"Take the long beams," Doyce instructed.
"Stack them by the frame."
Halen nodded eagerly and went to work. He lifted the beams three at a time, muscles tightening beneath his worn tunic. Where two men would struggle, Halen walked steadily. When they later yoked the wagon to test its weight, Halen pulled it alone, boots grinding into the frost-hardened earth—his strength equal to two horses, if not more.
Remus could not deny it.
"He's… useful," he admitted grudgingly.
"Useful is not the word," Doyce replied without looking at him. "Necessary is closer."
By midday, Remus was sent back inside to prepare food. He worked quickly, hands practiced despite his age. He heated water, stirred thick soup, and laid out strips of dried meat. When he brought the bowls outside, steam rose eagerly into the cold air.
Halen's eyes lit up. "Soup," he said softly.
"Yes," Doyce said. "Sit."
Halen obeyed at once, cradling the bowl as if it were something precious. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful. When Doyce handed him dried meat, Halen looked up in surprise.
"For me?"
"You worked," Doyce replied. "You eat."
Halen nodded, clearly satisfied with that logic.
Remus watched them from across the yard. "Why do you keep helping him?" he asked quietly. "Everyone says he's trouble."
Doyce wiped his hands on a cloth. "Everyone is wrong often," he said. "Halen listens. He works. He does not lie. That is more than I can say for most men."
Halen finished eating and stood again, ready without being asked. "More wood?" he said.
"Yes," Doyce answered. "Plenty more."
As the day wore on, the wagon took clearer shape. Beams locked into place, wheels set aside, iron fittings measured. The cold never relented, but the work continued. It always did.
Remus felt it in his arms, in his shoulders, in the quiet certainty forming inside him. This was life in the North—repetition, hardship, and endurance. Those who survived did so not by being clever or kind, but by being useful.
And as he watched his father work beside a man the world had discarded, Remus began to understand that survival, like strength, took many forms—and that the North had never cared how it was earned.
Halen did not work in silence for long.
At times, without warning, he would suddenly leap into the air, landing with a heavy thud that sent frost and dust scattering.
Other times, he dragged a beam across the yard louder than necessary or stamped his boots against the wagon wheel, grinning as if daring someone to notice him.
"Hey—look!" Halen called once, lifting a plank above his head and spinning it clumsily.
Remus groaned. "He's going to break something."
"He won't," Doyce said evenly.
As if on cue, Halen lost his balance and nearly toppled into the wagon frame. He laughed, loud and careless, until he caught Doyce watching him.
The laughter stopped at once.
Halen straightened, eyes wide, shoulders stiff. "Sorry," he said quickly. "Didn't mean bad."
Doyce did not raise his voice. He did not scold. He only looked at Halen and spoke quietly.
"Careful," he said. "Wood remembers."
Halen nodded vigorously. "Careful. Yes."
To Halen, Doyce was more than a carpenter. In his mind, Doyce was something greater—steadier. A knight, perhaps, though Halen had never seen one up close. The way Doyce stood, the way he spoke, the way he never struck or shouted—those things mattered to Halen more than titles ever could.
Halen's curiosity often got the better of him. Once, while Doyce measured a joint, Halen reached out and poked the iron tool, testing its weight.
"Sharp," Halen observed.
"Yes," Doyce replied calmly. "That is why you do not touch it."
Halen withdrew his hand at once, chastened, and wandered off without complaint.
Remus watched all of this in silence, something tight forming in his chest.
Later, when Halen went to fetch another load of timber, Remus finally spoke.
"You're too gentle with him," he said. "He acts like a child."
Doyce kept working. "Because he is, in some ways."
"You never talk to me like that," Remus said. "You barely talk to me at all."
Doyce paused, then set his tool aside. He looked at Remus, truly looked at him, the way he rarely did.
"I treat him differently," he said. "He understands the language of the heart. His mind does not reach common understanding."
Remus frowned. "So?"
Doyce's gaze was steady, not unkind.
"Do you want to be treated the same as him?"
Remus opened his mouth, then stopped.
Doyce continued, softer now. "You are capable of more. You think, question, and complain." A brief pause. "That is not a flaw. But it means I cannot speak to you as I do to him."
Remus looked away, embarrassed and unsettled.
When Halen returned, dragging another load of timber with an eager smile, Doyce nodded in approval. Halen beamed, chest swelling with pride.
Remus said nothing, but he watched closely. For the first time, he understood that care did not always look the same—and that his father's restraint, however cold it felt, was its own form of faith in who Remus might become.