The first light of dawn crept over the jagged peaks that encircled the village of Frostvale like ancient guardians.The winter lasts longer than any season in these mountains.
The mountains stood tall and imposing, their snow-capped summits catching the early morning sun, casting a golden glow that slowly spread down their rocky faces until it touched the crystalline snow blanketing the valley below.
Wisps of smoke rose from stone chimneys, stretching toward the clear blue sky as the villagers began to stir from their slumber.
Winter had tightened its grip on Frostvale, as it did every year when the northern winds swept down from the Frostspine Mountains.
The river that gave the village its name still flowed, though ice had formed along its edges, creating a delicate border of crystalline white against the dark rushing waters. The sound of the stream provided a constant melody to village life, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a roar, but always present.
Garrick stepped out of his modest wooden house, his breath forming clouds in the crisp morning air.
Though not yet old, his forty-three years had etched lines around his eyes and silvered the edges of his dark beard. He paused on his porch, stretching his broad shoulders before retrieving the axe that leaned against the door frame. The worn wooden handle fit his calloused palm perfectly, the blade recently sharpened and gleaming in the morning light.
He made his way to the small pen behind his house where two cows stood patiently, their brown hides dusted with frost.
"Come on, girls," he murmured, opening the gate.
"Time to earn your keep."
As Garrick guided his cows onto the snow-covered path that wound through the village, he spotted a familiar figure approaching from a neighbouring house.
"Ho there, Garrick!" called out Aldein, his oldest friend. Aldein was a lanky man with a perpetually amused expression, his reddish beard meticulously braided in the style of the eastern valleys. "The gods bless us with another fine day of freezing our backsides off!"
Garrick’s weathered face broke into a grin. "Better than being cooped up indoors with nothing but your own stench for company," he retorted, falling into step beside his childhood friend as they headed toward the eastern fields.
The two men had walked this path together countless times over the decades.
Born in the same winter, they had grown from boys to men side by side—fishing in the river during summer, hunting in the surrounding forests in autumn, and surviving the harsh winters through shared labour and camaraderie.
"I saw Rosa at the market yesterday," Aldein mentioned casually as they passed the village square, where merchants were already setting up their stalls.
Garrick’s face turned sour as he didn’t like to hear praises about his wife yet again. A part of him thrilled to know that he married the women all the women would dream of, but it was becoming tiring to hear, and he has to guard his wife against all of them.
"That new blue dress of hers caused quite a stir at the Winter Feast. Old Hergist nearly walked into the hearth fire while trying to catch a glimpse."
Garrick chuckled, pride evident in his voice. "My wife has that effect on men. Always has." It was no secret in Frostvale that Rosaine was considered the village beauty, even now in her early forties. With her golden hair and striking blue eyes, she had turned heads since she was a girl, and time had done little to diminish her allure.
"You’re a lucky man, Garrick," Aldein said, giving his friend a playful shove.
"How a grouchy woodland bear like you managed to win her hand is still the village’s greatest mystery."
"Not luck," Garrick corrected, his voice growing softer.
"Fate has its ways."
Their conversation shifted as they passed the blacksmith’s forge, already glowing with orange embers as the smith prepared for the day’s work. The rhythmic clanging of hammer on anvil joined the symphony of morning sounds—chickens clucking, children laughing as they raced through the streets, and traders calling out their wares.
"How’s the boy doing?" Aldein asked as they approached the fork in the road where their paths would separate.
"Jaenor turned eighteen this week, didn’t he?"
Garrick nodded, his expression a complex mixture of pride and something less easily defined. "Aye, eighteen winters now. Strong lad. Sharp mind." He hesitated, then added, "He’s more than I ever hoped for."
What Garrick didn’t say—what only he and Rosa knew—was that Jaenor wasn’t born of his blood.
Eighteen years ago, during the harshest winter Frostvale had ever endured, Rosa had found an infant crying weakly beside the frozen body of a woman at the edge of the forest. The woman, clearly not from their village, had succumbed to the cold while trying to reach Frostvale. With no way to identify her and no knowledge of where she had come from, Rosa had brought the child home.
She and Garrick, who had been unable to conceive despite years of trying, had taken it as a sign from the gods. They raised the boy as their own, never speaking of his origins.
As far as the village knew, Jaenor was the son of Garrick and Rosaine, born during that terrible winter when travel between villages had been impossible due to the heavy snows.
"He’s a credit to you both," Aldein said sincerely.
"You’ve raised him well, Garrick."
"We’ve done our best," Garrick replied. "He’s talking about joining the river traders come spring. Says he wants to see beyond the mountains."
"The restlessness of youth," Aldein laughed.
"Remember when we were going to build a raft and float all the way to the Southern Seas?"
"And we made it all of two leagues before capsizing and nearly drowning," Garrick finished with a snort.
"Simpler times."
They reached the fork in the path.
To the left lay Garrick’s fields, where even in winter there was work to be done—clearing snow from the storage cellars, repairing fences damaged by the weight of ice, checking on the winter wheat planted beneath the protective layer of snow.
To the right was Aldein’s orchard, where the apple trees stood like skeletal sentinels awaiting spring’s renewal.
"Same time tomorrow?" Aldein asked, as he did every morning.
"Same time," Garrick confirmed, clapping his friend on the shoulder before guiding his cows down the left-hand path.
As Garrick departed with his livestock, neither man was aware of what was transpiring back at the Garrick’s home.
Within the wooden walls of the house that Garrick had built with his own hands, in the small bedroom at the back where morning light filtered through thin curtains, Jaenor lay upon a bed naked on the fur mattress.
His muscular frame was only partially concealed by the blankets, his chest bare to the warm air maintained by the small hearth in the corner.
A woman straddled his legs as she bent towards his manhood. His manhood stood at an impressive length and was thick enough to make any woman scream with pleasure.