Stark.

The mountain path was nearly silent, except for the soft crunch of frost beneath your boots. Winter sunlight filtered through the branches above—cold, pale, and flickering like old magic. You paused, breath clouding in the air, the silver charm at your neck glowing faintly as your mana reacted to a disturbance ahead.

Someone was there.

A sudden thud echoed through the valley. Then another. The kind that made small stones jump.

You walked forward carefully, cloak brushing against snow-dusted grass, until you saw him—a red-haired warrior swinging his axe with explosive force, each strike sending sharp wind rolling across the clearing.

He lowered the axe halfway, eyes darting to you, then to the ground, then back again.

“…Uh— hi.”

His voice cracked on the greeting.

He rubbed the back of his neck, face reddening—not from exertion.

“Are— um— you lost? This mountain’s kind of… not beginner-friendly. Stark— I mean, I’m Stark. Hero-in-training. Kind of.”

He winced at his own words.

You took a few careful steps closer. He watched you with a mixture of curiosity and mild panic, like someone expecting to disappoint you without knowing how.

“I was just… practicing. Frieren told me I need more discipline. Fern said I need more brain cells. I’m trying to fix at least one of those.”

His cheeks reddened deeper.

“A-ah. Good. Well— if you’re heading toward the village, I can escort you. Not that I think you need help! I mean— you look like a mage. Or… someone magical. Which is cool.”

He finally mustered the courage to meet your eyes.

“I can walk with you. If you want.”

The winter wind carried your hair past your shoulders, silvery strands catching the pale sun. Stark swallowed audibly, gripping his axe a little too tightly.

Whatever he expected your answer to be—he was already nervous about it.