The forge greeted him without warmth.

  Not yet.

  Harbek set his gear down in its usual order and began checking it piece by piece. Knife edges first. No nicks from stone. The hammer face is clean, handle tight. Leather straps flexed and listened to — no cracking, no soft give. Buckles answered cleanly when drawn.

  He sharpened where it was needed, not more.

  Metal sang briefly against stone, then went quiet again. He wiped each blade down and oiled it lightly, more against damp than rust. The cold crept into iron faster now. It showed in the way steel took the touch, how quickly it bit back through gloves.

  He adjusted a strap near the shoulder and cinched it a notch tighter. Let it sit. Pulled once. Held.

  Good enough

  The bow came next.

  It wasn’t new, and it wasn’t remarkable. A serviceable hunting bow, taken down from its peg and restrung with care. The wood had darkened with age, limbs smoothed by hands that hadn’t been his alone. It bent as expected. No protest.

  He ran the string through his fingers, checking for fray, then set it and drew once — not full, just enough to feel tension settle where it belonged.

  Satisfied, he slung it across his back.

  The quiver was plain as well. No carving. No mark. Arrows straight, fletching trimmed close. Tools, not statements.

  He left it on when he moved again.

  Later, he spoke with one of the older hunters near the racks.

  Not an elder — just a man whose hands shook a little when the cold lingered too long.

  Harbek asked about gear freezing. About leather stiffening, strings going slack, metal biting through gloves faster than it should. He kept his questions narrow. Practical.

  The answers came slowly.

  They spoke of keeping close to home. Of driving game inward. Of waiting storms out instead of walking through them. Of taking shots when they came and not ranging farther than needed.

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  No one spoke of long pursuit.

  No one spoke of carrying weight day after day.

  The hunter shrugged once, small. Said it hadn’t ever been done that way. Said it wasn’t how dwarves hunted.

  Harbek nodded and thanked him.

  He took nothing else from the exchange — only noted what had not been said

  By midday the light thinned.

  Not dim — just flat. The kind that swallowed depth and made distance unreliable. Harbek felt it as much as he saw it. Sound carried poorly. Even his own steps seemed smaller than they should have been.

  He followed the herd trail again, bow resting easy across his back. He did not loose an arrow. He nocked once or twice, drew to half, let down. The string felt different than it had inside. Less willing. Not wrong — just changed.

  Leather stiffened where breath touched it.

  When he knelt to check the sign, the cold crept through his gloves faster than expected. Stone leeched heat greedily. Snow that had looked dry collapsed into wet grit beneath pressure, soaking seams before he noticed.

  He stood sooner than he would have a week ago.

  The wind came without warning.

  Not hard — but constant. It slipped past layers, found gaps and worried at them. The bowstring hummed once, faint, then went still. Harbek adjusted his grip and kept moving.

  Weight shifted differently now. The belt tools pulled at his hips as the cold set into them. Metal grew heavy without changing mass. He could feel it when he walked.

  He did not think of it as danger.

  Only as cost.

  The snow began again before the sky changed.

  Small flakes at first, then sleet mixed through — sharp, needling, finding the face and hands. The ground slicked over in patches where stone hid beneath the drift. Each step required attention.

  Harbek slowed.

  He tested the wind once, then turned slightly downslope, choosing a path that kept trees close and footing predictable. The herd trail blurred quickly now, softening under fresh fall.

  He stopped trying to follow it.

  The mountain did not give ground.

  By the time he turned back, his breath had thickened.

  The cold pressed harder now, not violent, just insistent. The bow stayed slung. His hands remained free. He walked steadily, counting distance by feel rather than sight.

  When Emberhollow came into view, it did not feel like retreat.

  Only return.

  Inside, he set the bow down first. Then the rest.

  Harbek stood for a moment, letting warmth come back in layers, slower than it should have. When his fingers finally eased, he flexed them once and nodded to himself.

  Not satisfied.

  But informed.