Flight of The Harpy's Heart

Chapter xx: Set The Trap

The rhythmic clang of Oliver's whetstone against tempered steel reverberated through the dimly lit armory on the second story of the courthouse. Each rasp of the grinding surface against the knights' blades created a hypnotic cadence amidst the flickering torchlight.

Oliver sat by a small, barred window, its gaps just wide enough to allow him to peek out at the front yard and the western neighborhood beyond. There were few windows on the second floor of the courthouse, and those that existed were barely large enough for a person to squeeze through – not even the harpies would dare attempt such a daring charge.

As he worked, meticulously honing the edge of each blade, Oliver would occasionally glance out the window, taking in the sights of the neighborhood to alleviate the tedium of his task. The boy found himself drawn to the small glimpses of the world beyond the courthouse walls, a fleeting escape from the constant reminders of the conflict that surrounded them.

With painstaking care, the young squire methodically worked his way along the armory racks, His shoes leaving faint prints on the creaking wooden floor as he tended to each weapon in turn. Sharpening swords and knives, scouring away the faintest tarnish from well-used armor - these menial tasks were as much a part of his squirehood as serving at the war councils.

A furrow creased Oliver's brow as his slim hands glided along the edge of a particularly notched longsword. Each nick represented a harrowing deflection in the heat of battle, a hair's-breadth escape from oblivion. He found himself idly wondering whose life had been saved by this very blade, whose heroic stand had borne its battle scars.

"You'll wear a groove through that steel if you've a mind, boy." The gruff voice made Oliver start, the whetstone clattering to the hard-packed earth at his feet. He spun to find Ser Gareth regarding him with an arched eyebrow and arms crossed over his barreled chest.

"A good eye, to be so attentive with your work," the large knight continued in a tone more avuncular this time. "But also know when to pull back before crossing into pure toil for toil's sake, hmm?"

With an adroit sweep of his arm, Gareth retrieved a dented mail haubergeon from its wall-mounted brace and tossed it to Oliver. The young squire scrambled to catch the weighty bundle before it struck the floor.

"Best get that sorted while we've a respite from the skies," Gareth instructed with an economical gesture towards the mail. "Every rivet and link matters when the feathers start flying anew." His words turned Oliver's blood to ice once more as grim reminders of the harsh winter realities reasserted themselves.

As the older man turned to attend to some other duty, Oliver gathered up the battered haubergeon along with his tumbled whetstone and polishing rags. With a resolute set to his young shoulders, he carried his burdens to the corner grindstone and began the meticulous process of straightening and untangling each steel ringed link with dextrous, economical twists and tugs.

The rhythmic crunching and rasp of labored grindstone filled the still air in counterpoint to the sporadic stamp of a warhorse's hoof or the distant call of knights assembling. Though menial, these armory duties anchored Oliver, allowing him to temporarily push the existential dread of their deteriorating circumstances from his mind.

But only temporarily. Far too soon, his diligent squirehood would be put to the fiery test once more alongside the warriors who had already shed so much blood and bone for the village's perseverance.

Oliver glanced once more through the narrow window gap, but this time, the view that greeted him was entirely different. In the distance, he spotted Marcus and Victor working together, carrying something slung across their backs – an exotic creature wrapped in netting, hanging limply like a captured deer.