Page 34

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Einar’s mountain house never stops humming.

Magic lingers in the stone, in the dragon-fire-heated walls and winding halls carved straight from rock.

Einar built it to be a fortress, a refuge.

But this week, with laughter echoing down the stairwells and mismatched boots abandoned by the door, it’s become something I’m not used to.

Home.

Runa chases Helga around the courtyard, both of them shrieking with laughter. It’s been a week since we arrived in Mirendel, and already color has returned to their cheeks. The haunted look that shadowed their eyes in Skoro is fading, replaced by something I’d almost forgotten they possessed—joy.

“Brynja, blade up!”

Harek’s voice carries across the training circle outside, firm but not unkind. My sister scowls, sweat matting her dark gold curls, and lunges at him again. Her form is improving, but I can see the frustration in the tight line of her shoulders. She’s always hated being told what to do.

He parries with fluid grace, redirecting her strike rather than blocking it outright. The move sends her stumbling past him, and she spins with a curse that would make a sailor blush.

“Language,” I call out, though I’m smiling.

Harek glances at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “She’s getting better.”

“She’s always been a fighter,” I say, stepping out into the courtyard proper. “Even as a child, she never backed down from anything.”

“I can hear you,” Brynja pants, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “I’m standing right here.”

“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.

They all shake their heads, expressions puzzled.

I look again—and the runes blaze to life under my fingers, golden lines of fire that seem to burn themselves into my vision.

The words pulse with meaning, with power, with the weight of prophecy. But when I look at my sisters, I see only confusion in their eyes. They’re staring at the shield with the polite attention of people humoring a beloved relative’s eccentricity.

“You really don’t see them,” I whisper.

“See what?” Runa asks, her voice small.

I step back, breath shallow. “The words. The message. They’re right there, blazing like fire, and you… you can’t see them.”

“Eira,” Brynja says gently, “there’s nothing there but the carving.”

But the runes burn brighter as I stare at them, as if responding to my attention.

“I’m the only one,” I whisper.

The realization hits like a physical blow. Secret Keeper. Not by choice, but by blood. By purpose. Whatever burden our mother carried, whatever knowledge she possessed, it didn’t pass to all of us equally. It chose me.

Just like everything else.

The weight of that settles on my shoulders all over again—heavier now because I understand how alone I am in carrying it. My sisters can see the shield, can touch it, can appreciate its beauty. But the deeper truth, the hidden meaning, the responsibility is mine alone.

“Eira?” Torvi’s voice is concerned. “You look pale.”

I force a smile, though it feels like cracking glass. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

“Maybe you should rest,” Helga suggests. “We’ve all been through a lot lately.”

They file out one by one, each offering a gentle touch or reassuring word.

But their comfort feels distant, filtered through the gulf of what I can’t share with them.

They see their sister, strange and sometimes distant, but they don’t see the weight I carry.

They don’t see the words that burn like brands across their mother’s shield.

When I’m alone again, I sink onto my bed and stare at the shield. The runes are still there, still blazing, still demanding answers I don’t have.

The Secret Keeper’s Shield.

It protects the bearer of the secrets.

The bearer protects those entrusted to her.

If you can read these words,

You are her.

You have been entrusted with much.

Your blood carries the necessary magic.

Follow it, protect those in your care.

Be brave, be strong.

You have no other choice.

Everyone depends on it.

What if some things are meant to be broken, meant to be borne alone?

I touch the surface of the shield, feeling the warmth pulse beneath my fingers. The metal responds to my touch like a living thing, recognizing something in my blood that it finds in no one else.

“What do you want from me?”

The shield doesn’t answer, but the runes pulse once more before fading to their normal appearance. Just carved lines in metal, beautiful but meaningless to anyone who lacks the ability to read them.

I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling where shadows dance in the lamplight. In nearby rooms, I can hear my sisters settling in for the night. Brynja’s quiet humming, Torvi’s soft footsteps, Runa’s whispered goodnights to Helga. The sounds of a family finding peace.

But I remain apart, keeper of secrets they can’t take part in, guardian of knowledge they can’t access. The unified nature of wolf and hunter I discovered at Courtsview has brought me power and purpose, but it’s also made me something different from than what they are.

More.

Lonelier.

The mountain house hums around me, magic and stone and the breath of dragons. It’s home now, truly home, but also a fortress. And fortresses, by their very nature, are built to keep things out.

Even the people you love most.

I close my eyes and try to find peace in the darkness, but the words from the shield burn behind my eyelids like an afterimage.

The lock remains.

Yes, I think. It does.

And I’m the only one who can see it.