The snow lay thick and unbroken over Frostholm, a fresh blanket of powder that muffled the village in a quiet, almost sacred hush. Every step Roger Blanche took made a soft crunch, the sound sharp against the muted world. His boots sank slightly into the cold, white crust, leaving footprints that would soon be lost in the morning's shimmer. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, thin spirals curling upward into the pale light of dawn. Frost clung to the wooden shutters of the houses, glittering faintly like scattered gems. The air was crisp enough to sting exposed cheeks, biting through layers of wool and leather, and Roger welcomed it—the cold felt alive, awake, like it could sharpen the mind and steady the heart.
His satchel thumped lightly against his side as he moved. Inside were small errands for the day: notes from his mother, reminders from the workshop, and a few tools he had convinced himself might someday be useful. But more than that, it held something heavier—a longing to be needed. Since the goblin attack, since the chaos that had erupted just beyond the village borders, Roger had felt adrift. The adults and older apprentices knew what they were doing; they had skills and experience. He had hands and determination, and that had to be enough. He wanted to contribute, to do something concrete, something that mattered.
Almost reaching the edge of the porch, he paused at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Roger… are you leaving already?"
His chest tightened. His mother stood on the porch, scarf wound snugly around her neck, hands gripping the railing, eyes narrowed in that quiet, piercing way she had when she was trying to read him. Not anger, not exactly—but careful, attentive, weighing.
"Uh… yeah, I thought I'd get a head start," he replied, forcing casualness into his tone, though the words felt hollow even to him.
"You thought…" she echoed slowly, tilting her head, her gaze lingering in that way that made him want to look anywhere else but her eyes. "Or… you just don't want to stay inside?"
Roger's jaw tightened. He shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at the frozen wood beneath his boots. "…I just… I want to help," he admitted finally, voice quiet, almost swallowed by the wind. "With the workshop. With everything. I… I can't just sit around while everyone else is doing something."
She stepped forward, the snow crunching under her boots. "I know," she said softly, almost to herself. "You're carrying a lot right now… more than you probably realize."
The weight of her words made him flinch. "…I… I just feel like I have to do something," he said, his throat tight.
She exhaled, the breath clouding the frosty air between them. "Roger… you're carrying guilt, aren't you?" Her voice was gentle, probing, yet careful not to push. "The attack… what happened… it's been on your mind. You want to make it right, to fix something, but it's not all on you."
He froze, stunned that she saw through the layers he tried to hide even from himself. He shuffled uneasily, kicking at a patch of ice. "I… I don't know. Maybe. I just… I can't stop thinking about it. About the others… about what could've happened if I didn't help."
She reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from his face. Her touch was warm despite the cold, a brief tether to the world outside his swirling thoughts. "You've always wanted to help, yes. That's who you are. But running headfirst without thinking won't save anything. It might even hurt you—or someone else."
Roger swallowed, a lump forming in his throat. "…I just… I feel useless if I don't do anything."
She smiled faintly, her eyes softening, full of quiet understanding. "You're not useless, Roger. You just have a big heart, and it carries more than most. That… that's a gift. But even gifts need care. Even courage needs rest."
He nodded slowly, letting her words settle. The wind whistled around them, carrying the scent of pine and smoke. "…I'll… try," he murmured.
Her smile widened, a small crescent of warmth. "Good. Now… come inside. Eat something before you run off to save the world. You can't help anyone if you collapse from hunger."
He hesitated, then followed her through the cabin door. Warmth and the scent of bread, stew, and winter smoke enveloped him. His father looked up from carving a small ornament, a faint smile touching his weathered face.
"Morning, Roger," he said. "Eat first. Then, once you're done, head to the market. We're low on herbs for the stew."
His little sister giggled from her chair, clutching a wooden toy. Roger felt a flicker of something like peace—a rare comfort after nights haunted by worry. They ate slowly, exchanging small talk. His mother asked about repairs around the cabin, her fingers moving deftly even as she spoke. His father gave measured instructions, every word precise but warm. His sister's laughter echoed in the small room, a light thread weaving through the tension he carried.
By the time Roger stood, breakfast finished, he felt steadier. He adjusted his satchel and pushed open the door, stepping back into the crisp, sparkling morning. The village was alive now—elves moving through the streets, carrying bundles, raising beams for repairs, the sound of hammers echoing off snow-covered rooftops. Roger moved through it all, small and purposeful, trying to anchor himself in the rhythm of life continuing despite yesterday's shadows.
He rounded a corner near the marketplace and nearly collided with someone. A girl about his age knelt to pick up a bundle of herbs, chestnut hair loose from its braid, catching the pale morning light. Freckles dusted the bridge of her nose, and her green eyes were wide and alert.
"Oh! Sorry!" she exclaimed, startled.
"Uh… yeah, sorry," Roger muttered, bending to retrieve the fallen sprigs from his satchel.
She crouched beside him to help, brushing snow from a few leaves. "Careful with these—they're delicate," she said. For a moment, the world narrowed to just her. Her voice, soft yet confident, carried an ease that made his chest tighten, a strange fluttering that made it impossible to look away.
"Thanks," he said, tucking the sprigs back into his bag. He started to step away, but her voice stopped him.
"Wait… I'm Liora Vale," she said, holding out her hand lightly, her green eyes meeting his. "I work the market stall near the bakery."
Roger blinked, caught off guard by the formality but the casual ease of it. "…I'm Roger Blanche," he replied, shaking her hand. "I… uh, I help where I can."
She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Good to know. You're… committed, I guess. I've seen you around. You're… someone who doesn't just stand back."
He laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, someone's got to help keep things moving. I… uh, I just try."
"Try," she repeated, her smile growing faintly warmer. "I like that. Keep at it, Roger Blanche. But… don't carry it all alone, okay?"
He nodded, feeling the warmth of her words linger longer than the winter chill. "I… I'll try, Liora Vale."
"Good," she said lightly, brushing snow from her sleeve. "See you around, maybe. And… hey—don't overdo it."
Roger gave a small wave before turning toward the market proper, carrying both the weight of his duties and the curious spark of something new, unfamiliar, yet comforting.