One kind of bird calls another of the same feather. The keep blacksmith's mouth became a hard line. “Put more fire inside, will you?!”. The morning had passed with clear dawn, with a crispness that of summer. The keep blacksmith's mouth is set forth at teaching the younguns to make the steel sings, to make them, and make them into armour and arms. And some of the swords that were made here eventually became named-swords. It's just silly to think that every knight can ask a sword from their keep and name them. But it's a tradition of old, and worthy of respect. Seeing Konrad and Brynden hammering their successors is another sight to see inside their workshop.

But there was another voice that surprised Lyle.

"Lyle William, you bastard~!!" someone shouted from behind and smacked his back. When Lyle turned his face, he saw an old acquaintance of his. A squire who went by the name of Edmund Evenwell. "You bastard~!!" the young lieutenant laughed and pardoned the pain. It was his turn now to return the favour as he was eager to hold his brother-in-oath. He embraced him.

"Five years, and now you're lieutenant to Old Commander of Northwind," he reminded him. "Seems I'm not wrong when back then I said you will serve in a big keep."

"I think you should still learn from Lady Emilia," Lyle retorted without holding back. His old friend, if he remembered right, is quite hapless in his swordsmanship. His hands need works, Lyle always thought. But he covered his weakness with obedience.

Remembering the name of Lady Emilia, almost all knights know that of her deeds and achievement. Starting as a tomboy young heiress of a long-standing house, her parent was nurturing her under a monastery of the Holy Order under the temporary vow. Ten years ago, when she was eighteen-years-old, she succeeded her father as Countess of Els in the west. The story is not of a highborn girl raised in a rose garden but of war and tumult. A girl who proved her worthiness and courage by displaying the will to do her duty. The events were recorded in kingdom's annals as the Siege and Retaking of Fort Mottdeep. Now, she was known as a great dame aside being a marchioness. And in all words, it is the last thing that everyone wants to know that the two may have formed relationship more than it's supposed to be.

"What are you doing here?" Lyle inquired. It's not just out of curiosity, but it's not usual for someone of Els, a knight, to wander this far to the north. And a knight will always follow his liege.

"Some matters we didn't need to know," his colleague shrugged. Or some matters we may not want to know, Lyle continued inside his head. But of course, the thought passed as he remembered his tasks.

And those tasks need to be done quickly. Just in a minute, both arrived inside the inner sanctum of the keep's workshop.

"Sir Lyle," Konrad greeted him first, then followed by Brynden. Both of them are reeks of sweat, like a slab of meat singed by the fire of the flaming furnaces. Their appearance is of blue eyes, auburn hair with fair high and fair complexion if not for the ash and smoke. Their arms reminded Lyle of a certain dwarven blacksmith. It's bulky, with visible veins chasing each other. Quite the difference from a lady's frame. Even more, serfs, slaves and prisoners in the dark cells.

"Promising recruit?" Konrad threw a guess. But a moment later he flung a sharp stare at Edmund. "No. Not a face of ours. A guest?"

Lyle simply answered, "From Els."

"A knight under the Dame," Brynden said in awe. "Thanks to that, my daughter brazenly asked me to make her a sword right before the day of her coming of age."

"What's your name, sir?" Konrad questioned the smiling knight. "Edmund. Edmund Evenwell."

"An honour, sir. But what business you have in the north?"

"Paying a visit to Marqu---"

"Inspecting the armoury," Lyle interrupted the three.

There were questions asked. And there were answers given there in the morning. But afterwards, it's not common for both Konrad and Brynden to forgot much of what had been said. How is the quality of the steel? How much is the number of everything? Are the final works of weapons and armours sate the standard of the two? Even though the lord commander had given the command, the two had some difficulties to give the expected answers.

By taking a single glance inside the armoury, there are no doubts that the workshop did a good share of the demands. Oft they boasted if there are time and materials, they will not refuse the request. Lyle knows how hard these smiths worked. Dozens of swords, pikes, daggers, and hundreds of arrows made every week, every day. Their counts easily reached hundreds, lumped together in a corner just like the high-stacked chain-mails. But there is still a lot of work to do. And a request of making intricate equipment like a crossbow will take days, even more, a giant-sized one.

"Anything else, sires?" Konrad wiped off his mouth of sweat.

"Nothing," Lyle concluded. "I'll tell you both if Old Jack needs something."

The smiths gave a simple "My lord," and sauntered back to the workshop. Soon they lost inside the mingle of shouts and singing steel.

"Hey. You want to have a drink?" Edmund suddenly asked him. A trip to the furnaces burned his throat. Lyle too is beyond parched. A suggestion of drinking is well-accepted, although the man who said that was a little hopeless in handling a sword. "The hall is just across the storeroom." "Right," Edmund grumbled as he had learned that the hall is on the opposite direction of the workshop. And Lyle did not miss this.

"You're in for a treat," he said as they entered the storeroom together.

"We're never been ready for the winter," Sir Tyler complained to the commander's aide. "And order for another long patrol, you say?"

Lyle can't bear to hear the wail of women. But a complaint from the storerooms is never a good thing.

No one wanted to freeze over the cold, or starved due to the shortage of food due to almost-half-a-year-of-winter. He had heard of ancient tales of people that smothered their babies to let them die before the long winter. People died in their sleep when some die stumbled when they walked due to the cold. It seeps deep inside the bones and soul, burning like fire. The stories might be true as he already felt the freezing wind of winter in Northwind and the streets of Northfrey.

But the real threats came from the mountain range. Five years ago, Lord Sieg had to deal personally with the mountain tribes who came to pillage Northfrey. The mountain tribes had no means to store their food for winter. It was the cold. What they sought was warm hearth and food. This was for their survival. The battle lasts two full days on the icy plains. And crows were cawing atop bodies of both sides. Right above the frozen red puddle of blood.

"But even if there are late supply arrivals, I think we'll still manage without butchering the horses," Tyler reconsidered his verdict after a deep thought. "And there is nothing we can do about it."

"Why not?" Edmund asked with oblivious tone. A question which the answers was sought by everyone.

"Gold," the storerooms keeper said in a solemn voice. "And time." No good news came from the Great Forest on the western borders for a long time. The old king faced threats from principalities there and the Alnese Kingdom. They waged open war for fertile soil and the forest. By the dawn of the year, it was rumoured that Alnesians will have an army in front of Ilmaris's gates, fifty thousand footmen and more in numbers. "If those nobles in the palace really do their job, the whole town will be feasting even in winter."

Well fed soldiers will fight well. But a desperate one will fight desperately for their own sake regardless of other's the well being. If they know by what idiocy they ruled with, they will eventually revolt.

"True," Edmund concluded. And Lyle could only look at the hanged vegetables, spices, and herbs, the vastness of the storerooms, and passing people. So the three lost in thought.