Page 12

HENRIK

T he uneasy feeling that he was being watched never left Henrik.

Not at his cottage.

The market.

At the Old Pub while he listened to soldats swill around with the usual grumbles, complaints, queries about the upcoming grappling tournament.

Outside the Archives.

Although they had no prearranged agreement to meet up, he waited for Britt in the shelter of a market stall across from the Archives. The owner, a man named Gustav, had helped him outfit a ship at the last minute a few years ago. They'd been lukewarm acquaintances ever since, which was as friendly as most soldats managed.

The hot sun drove Henrik into the shadows as he waited. More importantly, he kept an ear tuned to the street chatter. It kept his mind off the annoying fact that he couldn't follow Britt inside.

Bells tolled overhead, near the Temple in the Compendium. The clang-clang-clang was comforting and anxiety inducing. He suppressed a sigh, which turned to raised hackles when a familiar entourage of soldats appeared at the far side of the Archives, near an exit door inaccessible to patrons.

His Glory’s soldats.

They lined the street in a chain, leading to a walled garden just outside the Archives. Behind them marched His Glory’s four Captains. Behind Captain Ingemar, Captain Arvid’s glaring absence couldn’t be understated. His Glory would be inside, but the Captains couldn’t go within and maintain the power of the cleansing. They waited in the garden for the supposed power of sacrifice.

Norr’s breath, this couldn’t be worse.

His Glory in the Archives while Britt scoured records for his mother and who-knew-what-else. Had one of these soldats taken his jord? Ossian described a gruff, broad-shouldered man with a whipped neck, which described all of them. Henrik settled his prickling nerves by sheer force of training. His Glory’s presence in the Archives didn't mean danger for Britt.

Necessarily.

"Another meeting." Gustav scoffed. "So many meetings. For months now, we see this. Another meeting, another cleansing, threats from the mainland.” He dropped his fuzzy eyebrows into an animalistic scowl. “They meet, but nothing changes. You see? Nothing will happen. Another couple of weeks pass and—” he spread his fingers in mimicry of an explosion, “—poof! Another cleansing. His Glory cleanses anything. Blood runs in the streets. The crippled run away. Sailors jeer in the roads. He’ll cleanse us to madness."

Britt appeared. She swapped slippers for sandals and headed down the walking path, her veil nowhere in sight.

Gustav whistled. “A beauty,” he sang. “Have you seen her before? I haven’t, and this island isn’t that big.”

Acid built in the back of Henrik’s throat. He didn’t like the lusty sing-song of Gustav’s voice. Not at all. Just like the merchant that tossed her an apple. He had to do something about it. Though reluctant to commit to it, there was one option that would protect her more than most. These mostly-harmless comments would only grow as her presence became more well known.

Bastids.

Henrik tilted his head, popping his neck until the bones cracked in a line. He rolled his gaze to the sweaty little merchant, one hand tucked into the palm of the other, knuckles crackling. “She’s here with me, Gustav.”

Gustav’s eyes widened. He held up two hands in capitulation and slunk back to the recesses of his stall. Five minutes, Henrik thought. Five minutes until he disappears into the alley and tells everyone that Henrik the soldat escorted a woman and claimed her.

Shite, but this would complicate everything.

He had no recourse.

Before Henrik stepped out of the shadows, Gustav had already disappeared into the filthy back alleys. Britt noticed Henrik right away, sweeping his thoughts in a different direction. Her quick smile reminded him of smoke in a bottle. Something unreadable lined it, making it thick and tempestuous. The power of her bright grin hit like a kick to the stomach. That eternal annoyance with her arose, but tapered into relief that she emerged at all.

“Ta!” Tension lined her eyes despite the bright greeting. Or was it a farewell? She used it indiscriminately, and wasn’t that a Kapurnickkian? Unpredictable. Perplexion followed her warm words. “Why are you here?”

He grasped her elbow, spun on his heel, and steered them to a different route.

"I'd ask you how your day was,” she muttered, trotting to keep up, “but I can already tell you’re in a foul mood.”

He steered down an alley away from the wharf. Seedy types congregated here, but he'd take the risk. They wouldn't bother him in daylight.

"Can you slow down?" she gasped. "I can't . . . keep up if you're sprinting like . . . hellhounds are . . . at your heels."

Embarrassed by his own force of emotion, Henrik slowed to match her stride. After several minutes, she asked, "Something wrong?”

"No."

“This is you at your most charming?"

Her drollness hid a streak of irritation. "It gets better.”

To his surprise, she broke the tension with a laugh. It eased him ever-so-slightly. They wound through Stenberg and to the Quarters without another word. She seemed to understand the need for prudence and didn't jabber his ear off, like yesterday.

The feeling of being followed crept over him again. With a gentle squeeze of her elbow, he said under his breath, "Act like something is wrong with your sandal, then stop to fix it."

Without missing a beat, she looked down. "Hold on, please. I need to fix something."

Like a queen, she lowered, fiddled with her sandal, and pretended frustration. How she understood the need to buy time, he’d guess later. Henrik turned his position, as if to help, but surveyed halfway behind his back. Nothing abnormal caught his eye. Another casual glance revealed no greater suspicion.

She straightened with a smile.

"Thank you."

They resumed. He didn't take her elbow, but placed his arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. Her breath hitched, but she didn't withdraw. They completed the rest of their walk in utter silence. At his cottage, he planted a hand on her back and motioned her inside first. Her half-smile remained firmly in place until she stepped within.

Concern replaced it.

After securing the door, he strode to the window and studied the neighborhood. She waited while he stood there, breathing, senses attuned for unnatural movement. After ten minutes, he gave up and peeled away.

Britt sat at the table. Her pouch had disappeared, but Denerfen stood near a loaf of bread, peering through slotted, distrustful eyes. A wisp of smoke steamed into the air. The tiny winged devil still didn't like him.

“Something wrong?"

"Everything is wrong," he muttered.

Her lack of immediate demand calmed his rankled nerves. Was it possible that he imagined his paranoia? Unlikely. Soldats didn't imagine anything, but that didn't mean he needed to tell her about it, either.

"Stay here, and don’t leave."

He ducked outside.

* * *

He spent an hour observing the neighborhood, spoke to Timmer who lived next door, and ascertained nothing out of place. Henrik returned to find Britt sitting in the midst of a multitude of leaflets. A flutter of wings below the table settled, and the cottage felt too quiet. The dragul had been flying around again, no doubt.

“What do you think?” She beamed, drawing his attention higher. “I found these census records today. They closed early, so I brought them with me to study.”

Her wobbly finish meant she hid something, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to ask what. His entire focus turned to the records that she’d taken from the Archives. His Glory had killed people for less.

Misreading what must be a surly frown, she said, “There are more leaflets, of course. I thought you could help me skim through them. If they get to close early and without warning, then we have to make up for lost time,” she added with a testy little sniff.

As she extracted the leaflets she'd taken from the Archives from her bodice, he couldn’t stop the cold thought from spinning through his mind.

She's broken the cleansing.

Any Stenberg islander who found out she'd taken records out of the Archives would lose their brains over the insult. As a Kapurnickkian, she wouldn't understand the cultural importance of the holy policy. Whether by unwillingness or sheer ignorance, didn't matter. They’d strap her to the whipping block and splay her skin open.

If their next still-undefined confrontation against the mainland went awry, His Glory would blame it all on her and the ill luck she brought. She’d be whipped, executed. He shouldn’t care what happened to her or that dragul. Her mistakes, her business.

But he did.

He wouldn’t find Selma without her and . . . it wasn’t right. His irate temper worsened. Britt’s bold elation died a swift death when she caught sight of his expression. Her smile lowered.

"What's wrong, Henrik?”

He licked his lips, locked in an internal debate. First of all, how dare she say his name? The lyrical note sent a pit into his stomach. Second of all, did he risk revealing the weight of what she'd brought upon them? It might distract her, and she was the only path to Selma. Not to mention his abject curiosity.

One of those leaflets might reveal his lifelong desire.

"Nothing," he said more gruffly than he meant. "Just . . . don't get caught. Taking records out of the Archives is . . ."

". . . punishable by death?"

He blinked, stunned by her lighthearted approach. “You already know?"

She drummed her fingertips on top of the files. "No, but I assumed so based on how much color drained out of your face when I produced them.” She shoved a pile toward him. “I’ll take the risk. And, at any rate, it’s too late to worry about that. I have a question, if you don't mind?"

"That's a reasonable request."

"Don't sound so surprised.” She smiled with coy amusement. "I'm a rather reasonable person, if you got to know me. Anyway, these are written in old Stenberg, which I only know a little. Can you translate?”

She tapped on several columns, which he translated. She wrote down his translations on a scrap of paper produced from who-knew-where. From what he saw, she already had them correct, but had written them off to the side in a slanted, uncertain script. She didn't dally over questions or small talk, but waved a hand.

"That's all."

“That's it?”

"Of my questions,” she clarified. “You can help me look through them, if you like. It would help the process go faster."

He carefully opened one of the leaflets, aware that she’d produced obvious proof of working toward their mutual goal. He shouldn’t have been surprised. While he didn’t know her well, she didn’t seem like the type to lack integrity.

"This is what's inside the Archives?” he asked. “These leaflets?"

" Infiniti langi. "

"Which means?"

"Forever in old Kapurnickkian." She gave a little smile. "I’ve never seen so many of them. Why doesn’t Stenberg bind them into books?”

“I don’t know.” He stood. "I stopped for a few more supplies and bought a . . . treat . . . for lack of a better word." He waved to the frukit on the table. She reached for it, avoiding the prickly edges that could slice open fingers, and tipped it onto its side. Self consciously, he added, “You liked the apple so much . . .”

Her eyes illuminated. “You like frukit?"

"I have a bit of a sweet tooth."

“Well, frukit is very sweet.”

“I know.”

"Ah ha!” She wagged a playful finger in his direction. “I knew there must be a weak spot in you somewhere, soldat. You’re a young boy that loves his mother and a strapping man that loves sweet treats. It's frukit, is it?”

He didn’t bother correcting her on many points.

“Stenberg special.”

“I'll take it, thank you!”

“You haven’t tried an apple, but you’ve had frukit? Lots of islands produce apples, but only Stenberg produces frukit.”

She grinned from behind the pale, lumpy glob, inhaling deeply through her nose. “Told you already. This isn’t my first time here. Mmm . . . smells like a sweet lemon. And, no. General Helsing isn’t amenable to the exports from Stenberg when we have,” her voice dropped to a militaristic mimicry, “so robust a system ourselves and from other, more willing, islands .”

He cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together in a poor attempt to alleviate a sudden flow of curiosity. Did she often use mockery for her leadership? He couldn’t comprehend the idea.

“There’s something else I need to mention,” he said.

Britt stretched her arms above her head in unabashed languor, using one hand to tug on another wrist.

“Hmm?”

He cleared his throat. “I realized outside the Archives today that we need to take another step to ensure your safety.”

“Such as?”

He squinted as she held up a glass and poured water from the pitcher into it. She didn’t look right at him, which bought him time to think.

“You’ve been spotted with me a couple of times.”

“Naturally.”

“Entering my cottage, too.”

“Yes?”

“Well . . . it . . . means something in Stenberg.”

She sipped the water, then spun to face him. Demmed lustrous eyes. She mocked him. Her amusement bled into her smile again.

“Do tell.”

“On Stenberg, it means you’re either my wife or my mistress. Soldats only legalize their relationships if the union is approved by the two soldat Captains, and done with the intent to breed future soldats.”

Britt studied him so boldly, and frankly, that it took a moment for him to realize he’d surprised her.

“You don’t want that?” she asked.

“I’d never ask my child to endure this life,” he immediately replied, and the intensity revealed too much.

Her previous amusement faded. “I see that.”

“I’d think you’d be safer if I outright stated that you were . . . under my protection. I did as much,” he hedged, thinking of nasty Gustav, “but I believe it would be wise to introduce you to the soldats. Before rumors spread. If we control the gossip, so to speak, it would be easier.”

That wry grin returned.

“Let me guess. You don’t want a wife?”

“I don’t want to dishonor you as a mistress,” he added. “I know how they feel about that sort of thing in Kapurnick.”

“True,” she cooed. “The old-timers are quite modest about relationships on my islands. You,” she said quietly “are a bundle of surprises, soldat. I never knew the lot of you had feelings. I thought they beat them out of you with a whip?”

“Surprise, surprise.”

She tilted her chin. “If you want to claim me as your mistress, feel free. Once I’ve finished my own . . . mission . . . and helped you find Selma, then I’ll leave Stenberg. I don’t plan to return in any bold fashion.”

In any bold fashion hung on an invisible coat peg.

“Your islanders can think whatever they want of me,” she continued. “My only concern is whether it will be harmful to your reputation.”

“It won’t.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “How very kind of Stenberg to shame the female and not the male. I accept the challenge. I am your declared mistress, Henrik.” She winked. “Don’t get too excited. You haven’t earned the benefits yet.”

Before she could turn him inside out with her gentle insinuation, he plowed into the rest. Like battle, sparring with Britt was easier when he could get it over with.

“So about meeting the other soldats, then?”

He fought not to cringe. Shite, but he never thought he’d have a reason to say these words. If she had any sense of self-preservation, she'd race from the room right now. Britt's neck straightened with renewed and growing interest. Of course, the dangerous circumstances excited her.

His old friend, irritation, swelled.

She shrugged. "Sounds like fun."

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

"You're okay to meet other soldats?"

“Do I have a reason not to be?”

“They can be real bastids,” he admitted, “but most aren’t harmful. Not when you’re with me.”

Her courage gathered like a candle drawing power. “Could be an adventure. Won't be any more frightening than meeting you the first time. I won’t have to hide as much."

But she still hid something and her eyes made that clear. No matter how much he pictured her in his head, or worried over how things went in the Archives, he couldn't forget that she had a goal, too. None of this was personal.

He'd be a fool to make it so.

“Tomorrow, after Captain Arvid’s honor ceremony, the soldats are gathering for a grappling tournament. We'll meet at the Old Pub, and some of the other women will be there. That’s the best possible place and time."

If possible, the vein of interest in her eyes deepened. “I look forward to it.” She jabbed a finger at the pile of leaflets on the table. “Now, get to work, Henrik. We have your mother to find.”

With a sparkle in her eye, she added, “I mean, my sister .”

* * *

The next day, clouds blocked the sun as thirty soldats lined the wharf, brilliant azure bands tied around their upper left arms. Their shirts cut low in the back, revealing proud scar marks. A soldat honor. A calm sea stretched from the wharf to the horizon, interrupted by ripples of silver waves.

At the end of a stony pier, long dashed by crashing seas, two sailors released a raft. Coal and driftwood piled high, tugged by a small canoe steered by a soldat named Fritz. Silence was their only companion as Fritz rowed through the breakers, cleared the raft, and released it to the sea.

A soldat shouted in old Stenbergian from the pier.

“ Arae !”

From land, an arrow magnified with a blaze of flames. As fire consumed the burning tip, it sprang free with a twang. The flaming arrow coursed over the sea, arced low, and embedded into the nest.

Henrik held his breath and counted.

Ten . . .

Eleven . . .

Boom.

An explosion of flames roared to life. Captain Oliver wouldn’t know, nor approve, but Fritz, in charge of soldat honor ceremonies, used a Kapurnickkian potion to aid the blaze on the water-logged fire raft. Usually, a body would burn beneath the flames.

The rush of heat whispered across the beach as the soldats, one at a time, held a clenched fist high in the air. Captain Oliver, stolid and unrelenting at the end of the wharf, watched with a muted gaze. His hands hung at his sides, fingers slightly curled. Sapphire smoke billowed from the center of the raft, breezing out to sea.

In absence of Captain Arvid’s body, the soldats initiated the same honor ceremony with smoke and the sea. Blue for mourning. Fire for ferocity. The conflagration would chew through the wooden raft and deposit the bones into the sea, returning the soldat to Norr’s arms with honor and respect.

As the raft drifted into a current, Oliver did not raise his arm. The other soldats lowered theirs, one at a time, starting at the front. The quiet ripple effect made no sound, only the crackling fire snapped in the distance amid the hushed waves.

Before the last soldat lowered his arm and the ritual five minutes of silence could be observed, Oliver spun on his heel. He thudded down the wharf, stepped up the beach, and headed toward a mass of people waiting in the distance.

Collective, shocked silence followed the bold disrespect.

No soldat uttered a word as Captain Oliver strode up the cobblestone wharf street and vanished into the silent onlookers. Uncertainly, a couple of soldats peeled away, a few steps at a time with lurching hesitation. Finding no one to stop them, they drifted toward the Old Pub in uncaring silence.

Only ten remained, counting down the minutes-long tribute as the firestorm drifted away from the pier. When the time passed, Henrik let out a long breath. A black plume of smoke drifted in swirls.

On his right, Einar stood like a statue. His assessing eyes studied the spot from which Oliver had disappeared. They tapered, jaw tightening. The flare of his nostrils and taut neck spoke to a savage energy. Deep fury lay manifest.

Einar’s words from earlier resurfaced, skimming Henrik’s thoughts like oil on water. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Einar had said. Oliver, the bastid.

The sense that something stirred beneath the surface became a reality as Henrik glimpsed the ten remaining soldats. Those still here to honor Arvid, and those not.

On Henrik’s left, Harald quietly said, “You and I are contenders for a Captain’s position, Henrik.” He had a rolling, firm voice, with concrete words and a certainty that would prove any leader. As one of the most nondescript men Henrik had ever met, Harald had a habit of disappearing everywhere. He had fairness down to an art, as he contemplated the relationship between justice and mercy with ruthless fervor. Harald would be a good Captain.

“So I hear,” Henrik replied.

Harald’s gaze flickered to the street where Oliver departed. The swilling crowd didn’t move any closer. They knew better than to intrude on a soldat’s moment of honor, but noise rose from them in a whispering hum.

A moment of reflection preceded Harald’s scornful reply.

“You can have the position of Captain. I don’t want it.”

Einar called so all ten could hear, “Oliver is playing a dangerous game, Henrik. We,” he tilted his head toward the others, “won’t be part of it. You’re going to have to decide where you stand, and you’ll have to do it soon.”

* * *

Henrik had fought dervishes off of Krackalack island, sailed through the heart of a sea typhoon, and survived seven days without food, and four without water. Soldat leaders packed his life with an abundance of frightening prospects to control his fear response and lock into the moment. He’d glared most terrors into submission.

Then he met Britt.

A whole new host of monsters manifested, namely taking Britt to meet Einar and the other soldats. Equally as harrowing as wild dervishes en masse, though not quite as physically dangerous.

The problem was Britt’s wide, curious smile and bright energy. She drew attention just by entering a space, and no situation cowed her natural inquisitiveness. Shite, but the woman made staying low-key a problem.

Apart from her insistence that the dragul accompany her to the grappling event, Henrik had no reason to believe they wouldn't slide through this evening with relative ease, though it would upset his profoundly controlled routine.

They still had to hide his ugly anxiety around keeping Selma their shared secret, and Britt safe, of course. Britt’s ferocity in pursuit of Selma gave him relief and confusion. After spending hours in the Archives earlier today, Britt produced more obvious proof of her search for leaflets that winnowed the search by geographical area. Stenberg wasn’t that big, so she’d land on something—or nothing—soon. She must have done something else in the Archives, but gave no clue as to what.

He could tell a liar by their eyes.

Britt was no liar.

His fears almost convinced him that this whole idea was a phenomenal mistake. If Captain Oliver found out he chased Selma through Britt, removal from the soldats would be the response. If they didn't kill him, they'd demote him to sailor. Horrifying, either way. Most soldats in that situation would take their own lives from the burden of shame.

He swam from the dark depths and glanced over when Britt tugged on his elbow.

"Are you with me, lover?” she chirped.

He shook his head, blithely ignoring her joking endearment.

“Lost in thought."

"You often are. I'm ready to go. You can't see Denerfen, can you?"

Beyond her lovely neck and into the sandy blonde tresses of hair that tumbled around her shoulders, Denerfen peered out with slotted eyes. After a quick shopping trip to the market, Britt wore a dress that appeared soft, and light. The bold sapphire reminded him of the sea, mingling with her complexion and full eyelashes in a lovely way. A hint of wild lingered in her free tresses.

Denerfen withdrew behind her neck.

"No,” Henrik said.

"Good. Anything I should know about your friends?"

A landslide of things would provide ample warning. Never joke about sailors being better than soldats on the sea, nor challenge a soldat to an arm fight. If she smiled too long at one of them, he might think her interested, and some soldats would go out of their way to prove a woman unfaithful, just in case. He couldn't bring himself to say those.

“You'll be fine."

The lame response brought little more than a tilt of her head.

"Okay. What about affection?”

He stiffened. “What about it?”

“Do soldats display affection with their mistresses?”

“Ah . . . I’m not . . . that is . . .”

“Got it. We’ll figure that out as we go,” she said with a dismissive wave. “But don’t swim for the horizon if I grab your hand, all right? I’m as invested as you, so I’ll do what we need to do to convince them that I’m your mistress.”

“Not many soldats show affection. Einar, perhaps, but he’s a rare case. In most things,” he added drily.

“Have you seen a woman before, Henrik?”

He glared.

She didn’t back down.

He didn’t deign that with a response.

“Let’s start with something less frightening,” she said. “Are you grappling tonight?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“After the trainees and baby soldats.”

At baby soldats, her nose wrinkled, but she didn’t ask. Her grappling question sent a thrill through him. He yearned for the comfort of a predictable, hard challenge based on physical strength, and grappling provided that in spades.

Yet, he didn’t want to grapple.

Captain Arvid’s honor ceremony had driven to light a clear, though unstated divide into the soldats. Those ten who stayed, and the twelve who left. Ten other soldats served His Glory directly and didn’t count in this equation. Einar’s charge to choose sides had followed Henrik all day, winnowing each thought to the same question.

What happened over the last year?

Thanks to Britt’s presence and the search for Selma, he hadn’t dallied at the wharf for more details, and most soldats scattered with the pressure of islanders watching from the cobblestone road.

Oliver’s pressure to win the grappling and convince His Glory of Henrik’s ability to lead certainly didn’t help.

Pressure from within.

Pressure from without.

At some point, breakage must occur. For soldats, the simmering something switched to a low boil. He had a feeling that tonight had meaning that eluded him.

Britt eyed him, oblivious to his internal meandering.

“You’re grappling in that outfit?” she asked.

“No.”

Heightened expectations appeared in her eyes. She lifted her brow.

“I only need short pants.” He gestured to his thigh. “They’re beneath these.”

“Undressing in public.” She grinned wickedly. “Can’t wait.”

Henrik tugged her out of the cottage and into the street. Across the way, two soldats wound down the cobblestones. As they steered under the open portcullis and toward the Old Pub, his stomach twisted in a knot. He didn't realize how tight he held onto her arm until she wriggled.

“I can’t feel my fingers, Henrik,” she hissed.

"Sorry.”

She smiled with a fixed sentiment. After only a few days with her, he understood her brightness for what it was. A ruse. She hid, like he did, but differently. Henrik made no secret of his isolationist tendencies and willingness to avoid social situations. He had a feeling she longed for the same removal, but earned it through an alternate presentation.

They approached the brightly lit building minutes later. Voices shouted within, and laughter rolled without. The baby soldats grappling, a precursor to the soldats diving in, must have already started. Voices screamed like wildfire, rising and falling in the chorus. Suddenly, he couldn't tell her everything that she needed to know fast enough.

"Most soldats don't legalize their relationship," he blurted out under his breath, “because they don't want the responsibility, but they do want the companionship. The mistress is sometimes referred to as a secusos, but they’re different things entirely, in case it comes up. ”

“Secusos,” she murmured. “Does it mean second heart ?"

"Yes. It’s from old Stenbergian. A secusos is not a wife, but they're more than a mistress. The title protects the women, at least from society.”

"How?"

"If a soldat shames himself or fails an assignment, she won't bear his shame by being legally tied to him. If their relationship is legalized, their children will also bear the shame. It’s . . . ostracizing.”

"I forget how seriously Stenberg takes itself. All right, the women aren't wives but aren't mistresses. I am the mistress, but not the secusos.”

“Correct.”

The assignment didn’t seem to bother her. She took it in stride, her focus wide and roaming. They only had a few steps left before he couldn't speak without the risk of being overheard.

"What's our story?" she asked.

"Story?"

"You know, how did we meet?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

"The women are going to ask."

He scoffed. "They're Stenbergian. They don't care about romantic drivel. They care about safety, Stenberg, and shelter, in that order.”

She didn't hide her eye roll, which amused him. "Women are women, Henrik. Doesn't matter what island they come from."

"I don't care. Make something up.”

"Fine. I'll tell them that we were on a ship together and we met there. We've . . . joined together, for lack of a better term, since. It’ll work because it’s true."

He shrugged.

As they crossed the cobblestone street, the interior warmth illuminated their path. Distant roars of the ocean, and sparkling stars, cut a familiar scene. Laughter and elevated conversation covered the noise of the sea spray as they closed in on the front door.

"Good luck," he said.

She scoffed. “I make my own luck.”

A familiar body popped out of the building. Einar spread his arms, smiled wide, and said, "Henrik, my brother! It’s about time you showed your ugly face. Get inside. Soldats and glory await."