CHAPTER 4 — Through the Frozen Streets of Darve
A wooden signboard creaked in the wind, its letters carved deep in dark oak:
"Harthwood Timber & Supply"
Snow clung to its edges, but the name still stood proud — known across Darve City for its quality wood and reliable trade.
Inside, the warmth of a large furnace filled the workshop. Workers moved planks, sorted bundles, and checked ledgers while the owner, Garron Harthwood, a broad-shouldered man with streaks of grey in his beard, stood with arms folded, overseeing everything.
"Did the shipment reach the chairmaker's district?" Garron asked, his voice rumbling like gravel.
One of his workers replied, "Yes, sir. Delivered this morning."
"And what about the consignment for the construction site near the eastern wall? Payments should've arrived by yesterday."
"We've sent another message, sir. Might get delayed because of the storm."
Garron clicked his tongue. "Figures. No sense of punctuality…"
He was mid-complaint when a sudden commotion erupted outside.
Thudding footsteps.
Shouts.
A few surprised gasps.
Garron frowned.
"What's going on out there now?"
Before anyone could answer—
the shop's door slammed open.
Cold wind blasted inside, carrying snowflakes with it.
Standing at the entrance was a boy, almost entirely covered in snow. His clothes were drenched, his breath came out in heavy white puffs, and his hair was frozen stiff.
He took a few staggering steps forward and dropped a massive bundle of wood onto the table with a heavy thaaam.
Everyone inside stared.
Rowan swallowed hard.
"Here… the woods."
Garron's brows rose high.
He looked from the boy to the bundle.
These logs were high-quality deep-forest timber — the kind not easy to gather, especially in a raging snowstorm.
He picked up one piece, examining its texture.
Then his eyes narrowed.
"…Who are you?"
"I— I'm… I—" Rowan stammered, mind racing. Should he give his real name? What if word reached the panchayat?
His lips moved on instinct.
"I'm from Melvin's shop."
Garron paused.
"Melvin…?"
Rowan nodded quickly.
But the owner's stare remained puzzled, almost suspicious, as though this freezing boy had dropped out of the sky.
"…Alright," Garron finally said, extending a hand. "Then show me the trade marker."
Rowan blinked in confusion.
"The… what?"
"The trade marker," Garron repeated, tapping his palm impatiently. "The document or symbol Melvin should've given you to bring here. Don't tell me you came without it."
Rowan froze.
The only "symbol" he had was the small wooden emblem he removed from Melvin's carriage.
So he pulled it out and placed it in Garron's palm.
Garron stared at it for two seconds.
"—What the hell?"
Then he tossed it aside.
"I wasn't asking for that, you idiot," he said bluntly, rubbing his forehead. "This is just the shop emblem."
Rowan's face flushed with embarrassment.
Garron sighed heavily. "Didn't Melvin give you anything else? A note? A token? A letter?"
Rowan tried to remember — Melvin's worried face, the drawer opening, the folded paper—
His eyes widened.
"Oh—! That!"
He dug into his pocket with trembling hands and finally pulled out the folded piece of paper Melvin had given him.
He handed it over.
Garron unfolded it, reading Melvin's scribbled writing. His eyes softened slightly.
He turned to one of his workers.
"Count the wood. Check the weight. Properly."
"Yes, sir!"
As the worker got to it, Garron opened a drawer beneath his counter and retrieved a small pouch of coins. He placed it gently on the table.
"Here. Fair price."
Rowan grabbed it quickly, bowing his head.
"T-Thank you! Is there a medicine shop nearby?"
Garron pointed toward the east street.
"Walk straight, turn right at the old well. Three buildings down — There is a shop named 'Herbal Nest.' They'll have what you need."
Rowan nodded frantically.
Then, without another word, he ran out of the shop, footsteps splashing in melted snow.
Garron stared after him, baffled.
"…What on earth is that boy in such a rush for?"
He tossed Melvin's note into his drawer before shutting it with a soft clack.
Outside, the storm howled wildly.
---
Back at the Hut —
The snowstorm deepened, turning the world into a blur of white.
Inside the little hut, warmth flickered from the chimney fire.
Steam rose from a pot of heated water.
Rowan's father lay on the bed, face pale, breathing uneven. A warm, folded cloth — a wet rumal — rested on his forehead, slowly cooling as it absorbed the heat of his fever.
Rowan's mother wrung another cloth in the warm water and placed it on his forehead again, her hands trembling.
She rubbed his cold hands, whispering,
"Stay with me… please…"
Suddenly—
Knock! Knock!
She hurried to the door and opened it.
Rowan stood there.
Her eyes widened.
His cheeks were bright red from the cold, snow melting down his hair, and his breath came in short, sharp bursts. His clothes were damp, his fingers stiff.
He lifted a small package of medicine and a bundle of vegetables toward her.
"Ma…" he whispered, exhausted.
Then his knees gave way—but she caught him in her arms just in time.
"Oh gods— Rowan!"
She embraced him tightly, her voice breaking. "Come inside, quick!"
She guided him toward the chimney. Rowan sank down beside the fire, shivering as heat finally reached his frozen skin.
She handed him a wooden cup filled with warm water.
"Drink. Slowly."
Rowan sipped, hands trembling.
He looked toward the bed.
"Papa…?"
His mother ran her hand through his hair gently.
"Papa is going to be fine, dear," she whispered. "You did well."
She squeezed his shoulder before rushing back to treat her husband — checking his pulse, changing the rumal, carefully giving him the medicine Rowan had brought.
The warmth of the fire blurred in Rowan's vision.
His eyelids grew heavy.
His legs felt numb.
His heart finally allowed itself to relax.
The last thing he saw was his mother tending to his father with trembling, hopeful hands.
Then—
His eyes closed.
Not in despair.
Not in pain.
But in pure exhaustion.
Sleep finally claimed him.
---
Chapter ends.