Morning came the same way it always did in Harrowden—without asking if you were ready.

  Vane’s eyes opened before the room fully warmed. The hearth was mostly gray, the kind of gray that promised the day would stay cold if you didn’t feed it. Orion was curled on the blanket, face turned toward the last coals, breathing steadily.

  For a few seconds, Vane allowed himself to just watch.

  A child sleeping should have been nothing.

  But it never felt like nothing anymore.

  He sat up quietly, moved to the hearth, and broke the coal bed apart with the poker. He added a thin split of wood. The fire caught slowly, reluctant, like it had to be convinced.

  Orion stirred at the crackle.

  Not crying. Not startled. Just waking—eyes blinking open, then fixing on Vane with that strange, steady focus.

  Orion pushed himself up. He didn’t rush to stand this time. He sat there and watched Vane’s hands as if memorizing the motions.

  Vane turned away first.

  He didn’t like being studied.

  He didn’t like that Orion studied him like he was the only constant in the world.

  Orion made a small sound—impatient, hungry, familiar.

  Vane grabbed the bowl and whatever grain was left, boiled it thin, added the last pinch of salt he could justify. He hated how often he caught himself thinking in those terms now.

  Everything had become a calculation.

  Orion ate messily, as always. He smeared porridge across his cheek, then looked up like daring Vane to say something.

  Vane wiped his face with a cloth.

  Orion slapped the cloth once, offended, then immediately leaned into Vane’s hand anyway.

  Vane’s jaw tightened.

  He finished cleaning Orion, wrapped him up, and stared at the belt pouch on the table.

  It sat there like an accusation.

  He picked it up and weighed it in his palm.

  Too light.

  He didn’t even need to count to know what it meant.

  A year of hiding didn’t come free. Food didn’t come free. Cloth didn’t come free.

  And Orion—Orion kept growing, like the world didn’t care about Vane’s limits.

  Vane closed the pouch and tucked it away.

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  Then he lifted Orion and went downstairs.

  Hearth-Hollow’s lower floor smelled like yesterday’s stew and damp wood. A few wolves were already up, eating quietly. No one stared when Vane passed.

  He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want questions. He didn’t want anyone looking at Orion long enough to decide he was interesting.

  He stepped outside into the village air.

  Vane walked with Orion on his hip, scanning for anything broken enough to justify knocking on a door.

  He decided to do it this way now.

  Not soldier work. Not missions.

  Small work. Shallow pride.

  He stopped at the first house where the gate sagged and the hinge screamed every time it moved.

  He walked up and knocked.

  A tired-looking wolf opened the door, eyes narrowing until he saw the bundle on Vane’s chest.

  The wolf’s gaze softened a fraction—just enough to make Vane’s throat tighten with irritation.

  “What?” the wolf asked.

  Vane kept his voice flat. “Your hinge is slipping. I can fix it. You pay me for it?”

  The wolf blinked, then snorted. “Since when do strangers sell repairs in Harrowden?”

  Vane’s jaw clenched. “Since strangers have cubs to feed.”

  Silence for a beat.

  Then the wolf stepped aside. “Fine. Do it.”

  Vane worked quickly—pin reset, wood wedge replaced, nail hammered. Five minutes of clean, practiced motion.

  When it was done, the gate closed without noise.

  The wolf reached into his pocket and placed 4 bronze coins into Vane’s palm.

  Not much.

  Barely anything.

  But metal was metal.

  Vane closed his fingers around it hard enough to hurt.

  “Good work,” the wolf muttered, almost grudgingly. “Come back again. I have a lot more broken things around here that need fixing.”

  Vane nodded once and left.

  Orion wriggled against his chest, curious about the sound the coins made.

  Vane tightened the wrap and kept walking.

  The next door he knocked on belonged to an older couple. Their roof edge leaked; the wood was dark where water had been sitting too long.

  They didn’t haggle.

  They didn’t smile.

  They watched him work with the hard eyes of wolves who didn’t trust help because help always came with a hook.

  When Vane finished, the old male handed him a 5 bronze coin for the repair, and after a pause that looked like swallowing pride, his wife stepped forward, adding an extra 1 silver coin.

  "For the cub," she said, roughly, like the words embarrassed her.

  Vane almost refused.

  He didn’t.

  He tucked it away without speaking, because speaking would make it feel like begging.

  By late morning, Vane had knocked on five doors.

  He fixed a cracked latch.

  He split and stacked wood for a widow whose hands shook too much to swing an axe safely.

  He repaired a bucket handle and re-tied an old fence line.

  Every job was small. Every payment was smaller.

  Two coin here. One coin there. Sometimes not coin at all—milk, salt, a sack of grain, a chunk of smoked fat wrapped in cloth.

  Vane took everything.

  Not greedily.

  Desperately.

  Because every time Orion shifted and made that small hungry sound against his chest, Vane felt the same quiet panic squeeze his ribs.

  If he didn’t find enough today, Orion would eat less tonight.

  And Vane could survive hunger.

  A child couldn’t.

  By afternoon, his shoulders burned and his fingers were split in two places from rough wood and cold air.

  Orion had fallen asleep once against his chest, then woke again, fussing. Vane tried to soothe him by walking, by shifting him higher, by humming without realizing he was doing it.

  The hum stopped the moment he noticed.

  He hated himself for it.

  He hated that it worked.

  At the last house, the door opened and a young wolf stared at Vane like he was an inconvenience.

  “What’s broken?” Vane asked before the wolf could speak.

  The young wolf’s eyes flicked to Orion and he scoffed. “Nothing. We’re fine.”

  Vane turned to leave.

  Then the young wolf’s mother appeared behind him, cuffed the young wolf on the back of the head, and stepped forward with a sharp, tired expression.

  “The stove flue sticks,” she said. “Smoke backs into the room when the wind turns. My husband kept saying he’d fix it.”

  Her mouth tightened like she didn’t want to admit the husband part.

  Vane nodded. “I can fix it.”

  He spent nearly an hour on the roof, hands numb, scraping soot and realigning the flue.

  When he climbed down, the woman pressed three silver coins into his palm.

  More than any other job today.

  Vane stared at them, startled despite himself.

  The woman noticed.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “If my cubs choke on smoke, that’s on me. You fixed it. You get paid.”

  Then, after a pause, she added—quieter, like it slipped out by mistake:

  “You’re doing fine. For someone alone.”

  Vane’s throat locked.

  He nodded once and left before he could say something stupid.

  Orion reached up and touched Vane’s jaw with warm fingers.

  Vane didn’t flinch.

  Back in Hearth-Hollow, Vane set Orion down near the hearth and poured a little milk into a cup.

  Orion grabbed it with both hands and drank like it was treasure.

  Vane sat at the table and counted the coins.

  Not proudly.

  Like a man counting bandages after a battle.

  Not enough to relax.

  Enough to breathe.

  His hands were trembling slightly from exhaustion.

  He looked down at the splits in his knuckles, the dirt under his nails, the ache in his shoulders.

  He had been a soldier.

  A feared one.

  Now he was a man knocking on doors, asking for broken things to fix.

  For coins small enough to disappear in a palm.

  Vane should have felt humiliation.

  He did.

  But it was buried under something heavier.

  Orion waddled over and pressed his forehead into Vane’s knee, then leaned there like it belonged.

  Vane’s arm moved before he could stop it, wrapping around Orion’s back.

  Orion made a quiet, satisfied sound and stayed.

  Vane stared at the fire.

  Tomorrow, he would knock again.

  Ask again.

  Work again.

  Not for honor.

  Not for revenge.

  For a bowl.

  For milk.

  For a child who trusted him enough to sleep.

  And that was the cruel truth Harrowden had taught him:

  A day wasn’t something you lived through.

  It was something you earned.