♦ ♦ ♦

Robin found a thick cluster of pine trees near the river. Their low-hanging branches created a natural alcove. Not perfect. But it would block some wind.

He gathered armfuls of dead branches. Smaller sticks. Anything he could find. Leaned the larger branches against tree trunks. Stuffed gaps with pine needles and leaves.

It looked humble. Like something a child would build playing in the woods.

♦ ♦ ♦

He crawled inside his little lean-to. It was small but sufficient—tight enough to block wind, angled enough to stop rain getting in. It wasn't amazing, but it was something. His own creation. Protection built from nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦

The light was fading fast. Robin crawled back outside and looked around at the darkening forest.

For the next twenty minutes, Robin worked frantically. Collecting every piece of dry wood he could find before darkness swallowed everything. Dead branches. Fallen logs. Anything that would burn.

He built a pile beside his shelter. Working against the dying light. Racing the sunset.

By the time he finished, he had a stack as tall as himself. The forest was nearly dark.

♦ ♦ ♦

♦ ♦ ♦

He'd seen it in movies. Rubbing sticks together. Creating friction. Making sparks.

Very hard, as it turned out.

♦ ♦ ♦

Robin found the driest wood he could—a flat piece for a base, a straight stick to spin between his palms. He gathered dry leaves, pine needles, bits of bark. Tinder. Positioned everything carefully, just like he'd seen on survival shows.

Then he started rubbing.

And rubbing.

And rubbing.

♦ ♦ ♦

His palms burned. His shoulders ached. The stick slipped repeatedly, sending his tinder scattering everywhere. The wood seemed to mock him—refusing to smoke, refusing to spark, refusing to acknowledge his desperate effort.

♦ ♦ ♦

Somewhere in the trees, something moved. Just like before. A shadow, barely visible in fading light, but closer this time.

Robin's head snapped up, heart racing.

Nothing. Just darkness gathering between trunks.

But his hands trembled as he returned to the fire.

♦ ♦ ♦

An hour passed. Maybe two.

His muscles screamed. His skin was on fire. Sweat ran down his face despite the cold.

And then—

So faint he almost missed it. Robin's breath caught. He adjusted his grip. Rubbed faster. More carefully.

The smoke thickened. He could smell it—that beautiful smell of wood heating, friction succeeding.

He added the gentlest breath to the smoking wood. The ember glowed. Tiny. Precious. About to die any second.

Robin transferred it to his tinder with shaking fingers. More gentle breaths. The leaves caught—

And died.

♦ ♦ ♦

The ember went out.

Robin just stared at it.

He'd been at this for three hours. Each attempt taking fifteen, twenty minutes of solid rubbing. Each time thinking THIS was it. Each time wrong.

The first try, the wood was too green. Second try, not enough pressure. Third try, smoke appeared but no ember. Fourth try, ember formed but died during transfer.

And this one—number five—he'd gotten the ember INTO the tinder. Seen it glow. Felt his hope surge.

Then watched it die anyway.

"NO!"

Robin shouted, throwing the useless tinder away, fingers throbbing.

The darkness pressed closer. The cold bit deeper. Robin wanted to quit. Just curl up and wait for morning. Accept defeat.

♦ ♦ ♦

♦ ♦ ♦

And then the voices came—clear and distinct in that moment of desperation:

You're pathetic. Look at you. Three hours and you can't even make a fire. You'll freeze to death out here. Give up. You always give up. That's why you're a failure.

The voice was harsh. Condemning. Driving him toward hopelessness.

But underneath it, quieter, came another voice:

Keep going. This is how real growth happens. You're learning. You're trying. That matters.

Robin sat against the tree, feeling both voices pull at him.

The first felt like shame. Like condemnation. Like it wanted him to die out here, to prove he was worthless.

The second felt like... encouragement. Peace, even through pain. Like someone who believed in him even when he didn't believe in himself.

♦ ♦ ♦

In that sacred quiet space, Robin's spirit reached toward God's Spirit:

The Lord is the light of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid? Psalm 27

The verse settled in his chest like an anchor. Not answering with words. Just... steadying him. Making him less alone.

He picked up the stick again.

Because what choice did he have? Give up? Die here because making fire was too hard?

♦ ♦ ♦

Twenty minutes later—twenty minutes that felt like hours—smoke appeared again.

This time, Robin was more careful. Slower breaths. More gentle transfer. He cupped his hands around the ember like it was made of glass.

The tinder smoked. He breathed again. So softly. Barely any air at all.

Robin held his breath. Afraid even breathing would kill it.

The flame caught. Grew. Spread to other leaves.

Robin almost wept with relief.

He fed the infant flame carefully—small twigs first, then larger sticks, building it slowly until real fire crackled before him.

♦ ♦ ♦

In that sacred quiet space, Robin's spirit lifted toward God's Spirit:

Robin held his damaged hands near the flames.

The heat was... indescribable.

Not just warmth. LIFE flowing back into frozen fingers. He could feel it spreading—into his hands first, then his arms, his chest, his face. The fire's warmth pushed back the killing cold, creating this sphere of safety in the vast, dark wilderness.

Robin closed his eyes and just felt it.

♦ ♦ ♦

♦ ♦ ♦

His thoughts drifted to Elena.

He missed her.

Her pretty eyes—hazel with flecks of gold that caught the light when she laughed. Her honey-blonde hair that always smelled like vanilla and sunshine.

The way she'd touch his arm when she talked. Those soft, gentle touches that said I'm here, I'm with you, we're in this together.

He missed their late-night conversations at the kitchen table. Her listening as he shared his fears about money, about providing, about failing again. She never made him feel small for those fears. She'd just squeeze his hand and say something encouraging. Something that made him believe he could figure it out.

A life built together one day at a time, even when money was tight and the future felt uncertain.

♦ ♦ ♦

Robin wondered, staring into the flames.

The thought twisted in his chest.

Elena had believed in him through forty failed businesses. She'd watched him invest hope and money and time into ventures that didn't work. And over and over again she'd never said I told you so. Never made him feel like a failure. Just held him and said, We'll figure it out. We always do.

♦ ♦ ♦

Time Freedom wasn't just about beaches and laptops. Sure, he longed for that.

But MORE than that, it was about mornings with Elena. Taking the kids on adventures. Not being so exhausted and stressed that he was present in body but absent in spirit.

The fire crackled. Robin imagined her sitting beside him. Her head on his shoulder. Both of them watching flames together. The way they used to before desperation drove him to those countless late nights at the computer.

The warmth from the fire couldn't fill the Elena-shaped emptiness in his heart.

But it was something. A small comfort. A reminder that warmth existed, that connection was possible, that he wasn't truly alone even when he felt lost.

♦ ♦ ♦

The night was long. Brutally long.

Robin fed the fire constantly. Watched flames dance. Felt blessed heat.

But exhaustion pulled at him. His eyes grew heavy. His body screamed for rest.

He let himself drift.

The warmth surrounded him like a blanket. His muscles relaxed. His breathing deepened.

Sleep came—

Sharp, biting cold on his face jolted Robin awake. His eyes flew open. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, barely giving off heat. The cold was rushing back in.

Robin's hand reached automatically for the woodpile beside him. His fingers found a log—thick, dry, perfect. He tossed it onto the embers without even sitting up fully.

The flames caught again. Built. Spread warmth back into his frozen limbs.

He sat there shivering, waiting for heat to return. Slowly, gradually, warmth seeped back. His muscles relaxed again.

He dozed.

♦ ♦ ♦

And woke again to cold. Fire dying. Darkness pressing close.

Over and over. All night long. A cycle of survival measured in firewood and frozen minutes.

But in those moments when fire blazed and warmth surrounded him, Robin felt... happy. Happy in just the simple, profound comfort of heat after cold. Rest after exhaustion. Success after failure.

♦ ♦ ♦

Once, between sleep and waking, Robin dreamed.

Elena was there. Sitting beside him. Her hand in his. Both of them watching flames together.

"I'm waiting for you," she said softly. "Come home."

"I'm trying," Robin whispered. "I'm learning. I promise I'm trying."

She smiled. Squeezed his hand.

"I know you are. That's why I'm not worried."

The dream faded. Robin woke to cold again. Added wood. But the warmth in his chest from that dream lasted longer than the fire's heat.

♦ ♦ ♦

♦ ♦ ♦

Somewhere around midnight, Robin woke to add wood and heard something.

A sound in the darkness. Not wind. Not animals.

A branch snapping. Close. Too close.

Robin's eyes flew open. His heart hammered. The fire crackled beside him, suddenly feeling very small against the vast wilderness.

"Hello?" Robin called, his voice shakier than he'd like.

Silence.

♦ ♦ ♦

Then—everything happened at once.

Heavy boots RUSHING through undergrowth. Multiple sets. Fast. Coming straight for him.

Robin grabbed a burning stick from the fire, holding it like a weapon, his whole body shaking.

A sharp HISS cut through air—so close he felt the wind of it pass his ear.

THUNK.

An arrow buried itself in the tree behind him.

The arrow shot right past him, into his shelter, and out of sight.

Then another. And another.

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

Robin's heart stopped.

♦ ♦ ♦

Then—different arrows. Lighter. Faster. Coming from ABOVE.

HISS. HISS. HISS.

THUNK—

an arrow struck a tree trunk to his left.

THUNK—

another hit wood somewhere in the darkness.

THUNK—

and this time, a man's voice cried out in pain. Raw and furious.

Yelling in a language Robin didn't recognize. Then in English:

"Fall back! FALL BACK!"

More running. But this time AWAY from him. Boots crashing through underbrush, men cursing, branches snapping as they retreated.

♦ ♦ ♦

Then a different sound. Quieter. Lighter. Someone moving through trees ABOVE him. Footsteps on branches. Barely audible. Professional. A single person, not a group.

Robin spun, searching the darkness, the burning stick trembling in his grip.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice cracking.

No answer. Just the whisper of leaves. A branch shifting slightly.

Then nothing.

Absolute silence.

Robin waited, heart pounding, for long minutes. But whoever had been out there—both the men attacking AND the person protecting—were gone.

He stared into the darkness that revealed nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦

Men had come for him. Armed. Multiple. That was real. He'd heard them. Their voices. Their boots. Running toward his fire.

And someone else had... stopped them. Arrows in the dark. Perfect shots. Drove them away.

Robin sat back down slowly, feeding the fire with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking, eyes scanning darkness constantly, ears straining for any sound.

His mind raced, trying to make sense of it.

The men—those had to be the hunters Grayson warned him about. The Dark Lord's men. Paid to make travelers turn back. Warning them first. But if that didn't work...

Robin's throat tightened.

Someone out there had saved his life. Someone watching from the darkness. Protecting him.

♦ ♦ ♦

Robin thought about that hunter's arrow—the one that had nearly taken his head off, burying itself in his shelter behind him. So close he'd felt the wind of it pass his ear.

But it HAD missed.

A skilled hunter wouldn't miss at that range. Not with a clear target lit by firelight. Robin had been completely exposed. Vulnerable. An easy shot.

And it was working.

His hands wouldn't stop shaking. His heart still hammered against his ribs. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every sound made him jump.

His mind kept screaming at him to run. To get away from this mountain. To go back to Haven's Rest, to the Iron Gate Inn, to safety and warmth and food and no one trying to kill him in the darkness.

♦ ♦ ♦

But then he thought about whoever had shot those arrows. Fighting for him when he couldn't fight for himself.

This hope was almost overwhelming.

Robin fed the fire and stayed very, very alert.

Every snap of a branch made him jump. Every rustle of leaves sent his heart racing.

Being dead wouldn't help Elena. Wouldn't help the kids. Wouldn't accomplish anything—even if he'd tried.

But in his heart—underneath all the fear and doubt and terror—he could feel what he needed to do.

He didn't understand it. Couldn't explain it. But he knew.

He wouldn't stop now.

The fear didn't disappear. But alongside it, something steadier settled.

Someone was fighting for him in the darkness. God was watching. The path was real.

That was enough.

Robin fed the fire and waited for dawn, wondering what sunrise would bring.

♦ ♦ ♦

An hour later, exhaustion finally pulled Robin under. His last thought before sleep claimed him was simple:

The fire crackled. The darkness pressed close.

But Robin slept.

♦ ♦ ♦

And the sun, that glorious blessed sun, rose over mountains and touched Robin's frozen face with warmth. He woke up with a snap, remembering everything.

The woodpile was gone. Every single piece burned. Robin had used it all.

Robin stumbled to the river. Splashed icy water on his face. Drank deeply.

His hands throbbed with every movement. His body ached everywhere.

But he was alive.

♦ ♦ ♦

As morning light strengthened, Robin explored near his camp and found wild berries growing in a sunlit patch—small, tart, but edible. He ate them gratefully, feeling strength return.

Then, as he walked back toward his shelter, he saw them.

Arrows.

Stuck in trees. Embedded in trunks. Some on the ground where they'd fallen.

Robin's heart raced. Evidence. Real, physical evidence that last night actually happened.

He approached carefully. Pulled one from a tree trunk—it came out with effort, the point buried deep.

♦ ♦ ♦

The arrow was crude. Dark wood, roughly fletched with what looked like black feathers. Heavy. Meant to kill. And there was a mark carved into the shaft—a symbol Robin didn't recognize. Sharp angles. Aggressive.

He found two more like it. All the same. All crude. All marked.

Robin's hands throbbed as he searched. He'd torn strips from his tunic during the night—wrapped them around his palms where the skin had blistered and bled from the fire-making. The makeshift bandages were already stained dark.

Every time he gripped a tree trunk to steady himself, pain shot through his palms. But he kept searching.

♦ ♦ ♦

Then Robin found a different arrow.

This one was completely different. Light wood, pale as birch. The fletching was perfect—gray and white feathers, precisely cut and attached. The craftsmanship was... professional. Beautiful, even.

And no marking. Just clean, smooth wood.

Robin held both types. Stared at them.

♦ ♦ ♦

Robin put the dark arrows in his pack—evidence, proof this wasn't just his imagination.

But the light arrow? He held onto that one. Studied it as he walked back to his shelter.

Robin sat in the perfect morning light. Sunlight streaming through trees, turning everything gold. The river flowing nearby with its constant, peaceful sound. Birds singing. A light breeze carrying the scent of pine and flowers.

Robin watched light play on water.

Time Freedom wasn't necessarily about beaches and laptops. It was about having time to NOTICE moments like this. Time to share them with the people you love.

♦ ♦ ♦

In that sacred quiet space, Robin's spirit lifted:

And he understood now—really understood—what he was climbing toward. Not just making money online. Not just automated income. But freedom to be PRESENT. To sit in beauty. To think. To pray. To notice sunlight on water without checking his phone. To have conversations with Elena that lasted hours because he wasn't rushing to the next task.

♦ ♦ ♦

Fire-making took four hours. Four hours of stubborn determination to create something as simple as a flame.

♦ ♦ ♦

Robin stood and began gathering his things, preparing to continue his climb.

He glanced back once at the forest where he'd heard those sounds. Where arrows had flown through darkness. Where someone had protected him from someone else.

And then he saw it.

Smoke.

A thin column rising from the forest maybe a quarter-mile away. Not from his campfire—that was behind him, smoldering out. This was different. Fresh smoke. Active fire.

Robin stared at the smoke column, his heart pounding.

♦ ♦ ♦

Robin stood there, torn. Should he go investigate? Try to find whoever protected him?

Or keep climbing toward the distant golden light?

The smoke rose steadily into the morning sky. Whoever was there knew he could see it now. They weren't hiding anymore. Or maybe they just didn't care.

Robin didn't know if that was wisdom or fear talking.

But he had the arrow. He had evidence. And he had... a strange feeling that whoever was out there would reveal themselves when the time was right.

"Thank you," Robin said quietly to the empty forest. "Whoever you are. Whatever you are. Thank you for last night."

The forest gave no answer. Just morning birdsong.

But the smoke continued rising. Steady. Visible.

Robin looked at the pale arrow in his hand one more time, then carefully placed it in his pack with the dark ones.

He turned away from the smoke and kept walking.

Following the stream upward. One step at a time.

♦ ♦ ♦

A quarter-mile away, Robin's protector crouched beside her fire in a rocky alcove—deep enough that firelight couldn't escape, but with cracks in the stone above where smoke could vent. She'd stayed up all night. Cold. Exhausted. Protecting someone who didn't even know she existed.

But she'd seen him make that fire. Four hours. Bleeding hands. Trying again after failure.

And she'd made her choice.

She kicked dirt over her fire and gathered her bow.

She had work to do.

♦ ♦ ♦

Creating Connection Is Like Starting Fire Without Matches:

Robin's hands bled. His muscles screamed. He failed repeatedly for THREE HOURS before the first real ember appeared.

Most people quit after ten minutes.

Robin spent four hours with hands that screamed in pain creating a spark that finally ignited into flame. That's exactly what Skill #4—Effective Communication—requires: stubborn, painful, persistent effort to create connection with cold prospects who don't know you.

You're trying to spark interest through words alone. Reaching across the void of email to touch someone's heart. Crack open the ice of distrust. Build enough warmth that they respond favorably.

Most people quit after ten minutes of rubbing sticks together. In other words, they send three emails, get no response, and declare "email marketing doesn't work."

In calling, they make five calls, hear five rejections, and quit.

In content creation, they post three times, get no engagement, and give up.

Real communicators—like Robin with his fire—keep adjusting. Keep trying different approaches. Keep rubbing until smoke appears.

They develop attractive mindsets that draw people naturally instead of repelling them. They learn to write messages that resonate emotionally, not just sell logically.

And just like Robin's fire that required constant feeding to keep warmth alive, your communication with your list requires consistency. You can't send one great email, then disappear for three weeks. The fire dies. The cold returns.

You have to show up regularly—feeding the relationship, maintaining the warmth, keeping the connection alive.

This skill isn't about tricks or templates. It's about genuine persistence, self-improvement, and refusal to quit when your hands hurt and success seems impossible.

The spark is possible. The warmth is achievable. But only if you persist past the pain.

And sometimes—when you're fighting battles you can't even see—help comes from unexpected places. Protection you didn't know you needed. Guidance working behind the scenes.

You don't always see the arrows that drive your enemies away.

Keep building your fire. Keep feeding it. Keep going.

You're not as alone as you think.

~Albie

♦ ♦ ♦

In Chapter 6, everything changes — the danger, the journey, and everything Robin thought he understood about why he's here. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.

♦ Continue to Chapter 7 ♦

♦ ♦ ♦

SILVER & SCROLLS

Written by Albie Derbyshire

© 2026 Albie Derbyshire. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.