Page 94 of The Midnight Death Match

“Then maybe you should be listening instead of talking.” Harek settles back into his stance. “Again.”

Torvi leans on her training staff with an exhausted groan, her hair escaping its braid in wisps. There’s a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Speak for yourself. I’m dying.”

“Dead girls don’t get cocoa,” Runa chirps from the edge of the ring, legs swinging where she sits beside Helga on a stone bench. She’s still young enough to find everything about this new life an adventure.

“That’s barbaric,” Torvi groans louder, but she’s fighting a smile.

Helga looks up from the book she’s been reading—something about fae history that she liberated from Einar’s library. “Actually, in some cultures, the dead are given food offerings to sustain them in the afterlife. The ancient Valdris used to?—”

“Helga,” Brynja interrupts, “not now.”

“Right. Sorry.” But Helga’s eyes are bright with the joy of having access to more books than she’s ever seen in her life. The fae libraries have been a revelation to her, and she can hardly contain herself. It warms my heart to see her flourishing. Gunnar never thought girls should bother with reading.

I lean against the courtyard wall, watching my sisters adapt to their new reality. Brynja throws herself into training with the same intensity she brought to everything back home—whether it was helping with the harvest or arguing politics with our brothers. Torvi approaches it like a dance, all grace and flowing movement, though she complains constantly about the physical demands. Runa treats it like a game, laughing even when she falls. And Helga absorbs every instruction like she’s memorizing it for a test.

The moment is warm. Real.

And yet, emptiness still clings inside my chest.

It’s not their fault. They’re adjusting better than I dared hope, finding their place in this strange new world with the resilience of youth. But watching them laugh and learn and grow, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m still somehow separate from it all. The weight of the secrets, the responsibilities, the knowledge of what’s coming sits between me and the simple joy they’ve found.

“Eira?” Harek’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “You’re brooding again.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You absolutely do.” Brynja lowers her practice sword. “You get this look, like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

Because I am, and I almost say it, but catch myself. Instead, I push off from the wall. “Come on. Let’s work on your footwork. You’re still telegraphing your attacks.”

We spend another hour in the courtyard as the sun sinks toward the mountains. Mirendel spreads below us, its crystal spires catching the light and throwing rainbows across the terraced gardens. It’s beautiful in a way that takes my breath away every time, but I can see my sisters beginning to take it for granted—the way one does when something extraordinary becomes every day.

That’s good, I tell myself. It means they’re settling in. They’re safe.

But that night, when the others are tucked in their beds or reading by the hearth, I slip away to my room. The shield waits in its usual place—propped against the wall beside my bed, quiet and patient. I’ve been avoiding it since we arrived, not ready to face whatever secrets it might hold.

After a brief hesitation, I search for my sisters, finding them gathered in the main room. Brynja is mending a tear in her training tunic while Torvi sketches in a journal she’s started keeping. Helga reads, head still so Runa can braid her hair.

“I want to show you something,” I say.

They look up with interest, setting aside their activities to follow me back to my room. The space feels crowded with all of us in it, but there’s something intimate about the moment—sisters sharing secrets in the lamplight.

“This was our mother’s,” I begin, lifting the shield from its place. The metal is warm beneath my fingers, humming with the same energy that permeates the mountain house. “She left it behind here, in this very room.”

That captures their attention.

I set the shield on the small table beside my bed, angling it so they can all see. The torchlight dances across its surface, highlighting the intricate carvings that cover every inch.

They reach out—touch the cool metal with reverent fingers. Helga whispers something to Runa about the craftsmanship, and Runa hushes her with an elbow to the ribs.

“See anything?” I ask, watching their faces carefully.

Torvi frowns, tracing the central design with her fingertip. “It’s beautiful. But it’s just decoration, isn’t it?”

“Is it magic?” Runa’s eyes light up.

Brynja squints, leaning closer. “Just a carving. Wolf and flame.”

“No words?” I press.

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