When they returned home, the sun hung low, casting a golden warmth over the hills. Martha spotted them from the porch and rushed over, her apron flapping in the breeze. Her eyes widened with delight when she saw the two boars tied to the horses.
"Well done, my boy!" she said proudly, giving Axel a quick hug. "That's a fine prize!"
Then she turned her sharp gaze to Malcolm, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Malcolm, why is it always Axel who brings home the kill? I remember you wandering these woods for a whole week once and coming back with nothing but a cold."
Malcolm scoffed. "I let the boy take the shot."
"Oh, of course you did," she teased, patting his shoulder. "Without Axel, you'd be chasing squirrels by now."
Axel laughed as Malcolm grumbled under his breath. That night, the household celebrated with a feast—roasted boar with root vegetables, thick stew, and warm bread fresh from the oven. The laughter around the table echoed long into the night.
The next morning, Axel rose early. His limbs ached from the hunt, but he was energized. He quickly finished his chores—milking cows, tending livestock, and sweeping the stable yard. By the time Malcolm appeared, Axel had already saddled the cart horse and loaded their goods.
They headed down the dirt road toward Catler's village square, the cart filled with wheels of cheese, blocks of butter, clay bottles of milk, and a few jars of Martha's famous herbal cream.
As they entered the market, the town was already alive with energy. Merchants were shouting over each other, hawking everything from fresh produce to handmade tools. Colorful cloths flapped above wooden stalls, and children darted between carts carrying loaves or errands.
"Ah, Malcolm!" called Old Heren, the village baker, waving a flour-covered hand. "You brought the golden butter today, I hope?"
"Would I dare show my face without it?" Malcolm called back with a grin.
They pulled up to their usual spot near the well. Axel quickly set up the stall—wooden crates, a cloth cover, and a small chalkboard that read: Fresh Dairy – Fair Prices.
Before long, customers gathered.
A stout woman with sharp eyes held up a block of cheese. "Three silvers for this? Are you joking, Malcolm?"
"It's aged goat cheese from free-grazed herds," Malcolm replied calmly. "Two weeks in Martha's cellar. Tell me you've had better."
She huffed but dropped the coins anyway.
Nearby, Axel was showing a jar of butter to a younger woman. "Spread it on warm bread, and it melts like sunshine," he said with a grin.
She laughed and bought two jars.
A local blacksmith wandered over, eyeing the milk jugs. "Don't suppose you'd trade milk for a sharpening job?"
"Depends," Axel said. "You make my old hunting knife cut like it's new, I'll throw in a bottle and a smile."
They shook hands, deal made.
The market buzzed with smells of spices, baked bread, and roasting meats. Axel soaked it all in—the conversations, the bartering, the sense of rhythm and routine. He loved this part of the week. Not just the work, but the people, the voices, the color of life.
By noon, most of their goods were sold. Malcolm leaned back on a crate, wiping sweat from his brow. "You've got the gift," he said. "People like you."
Axel shrugged. "I just smile and talk."
"That's more than most can manage."
As they packed up, Axel glanced around the square. For now, this was his world—simple, honest, full of purpose. But beyond the edges of Catler, beyond the mountains and forests, something stirred. And soon, this world would be nothing more than a memory.