Lore
The first cold evening arrived before the village expected it. Rowan wanted to be at the practice yard, learning the bright, ringing work of a blade. Instead, she stood beside a leaning stack of damp timber while her grandfather handed her a pair of worn gloves.
They worked until the light thinned. Rowan learned to leave space for air between the logs, to carry a little less when the path grew slippery, and to ask for help before pride turned a manageable load into a dangerous one. None of it looked like the songs.
That night a neighbour arrived with two children and an empty wood basket. Rowan filled it without being asked. Through the open kitchen door she saw their shoulders settle as the room grew warm. Years later, when the guild asked what strength was for, she remembered that basket before she remembered her first sword.