A thin coat of grey sleet had settled over the valley during the dark hours before dawn, glazing the river stones and coating the lower cedar boughs in brittle shells of ice. By mid-morning, the temperature hovered just above freezing, leaving the yard damp and slick underfoot. The cold did not bite with the sharp edge of a blizzard, but lingered in the damp air as a quiet, steady chill that made every metal surface burn against bare skin and turned every breath into a faint haze.
We had moved our workspace inside the masonry forge, where the heat of the hearth kept the frost from creeping across the floorboards. Today’s work centered on forge-welding the iron hinges and heavy latch bolts for the new oak storm shutters that would protect our hall’s southern windows through the coming wint
