"WAKE UUUUP!"
I barely opened my eyes before getting slammed into the floorboards. A giggling weight clung to my back like some tiny, overly affectionate bear cub.
"Rurik…" I groaned, face down in the fur rug. "You're gonna break my spine before I even reach the mountain."
My little brother just tightened his grip. "Are you excited for your birthday tomorrow?! You'll finally be fifteen!"
Oh yeah. Fifteen. The age of glory, blood, and possibly death. "Thrilled," I muttered, giving his head a tired pat. "Can't wait."
Rurik didn't catch the sarcasm. Or maybe he did and just didn't care. His big grin said it all. He's always been like that—warm, loud, and annoyingly good at sneaking past guards to come mess with me.
I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as he flopped over beside me.
As the heir to Blothfjoll, my rite of passage begins at fifteen. A trial set by the gods themselves. Climb the Blood Mountains, survive its monsters, and offer the strongest one I slay to the Allfather, Odin. Only then do I earn the right to rule beside my father.
Well… rule beneath him.
The same mountain trial made him a legend. But he conquered it in three weeks and left behind a trail of corpses and awe. I doubt I'll match that, but I'll die trying.
"Are you scared of the King of the Mountain?" Rurik asked, clearly trying to sound ominous. "The Vetrbjorn's still up there, right?"
My eyebrow twitched. "You mean the ice-breathing murder bear that freezes everything it looks at?"
He nodded enthusiastically.
"Nope. Not scared. I'm terrified," I deadpanned, standing up. "Now go tell Mother I'm awake before she sends the maids to drown me in perfume again."
He laughed and bolted, yelling something about breakfast for his ugly brother. I smiled faintly before glancing in the mirror. "Ugly," . Rude little rat. I looked fine. Handsome, even. If I do say so myself.
After dressing, I walked through the halls of our castle, Gisladir, nodding to the guards and servants. Portraits of ancestors lined the walls—kings, warriors, monsters in human skin. All of them had climbed the mountain. All of them had returned.
Almost all of them.
The dining hall smelled like honeyed oats and fresh bread. At the center sat my mother, a warm smile already on her face as Rurik chattered beside her. She wasn't like most queens. No towering headdresses or distant grace. She was just… Mom. Sweet, gentle, and terrifying when angry. She pulled me into a hug the second I walked in.
"Good morning, sleepyhead. Your last long sleep for a while, hmm?"
"Something like that," I mumbled into her shoulder.
She pulled back and cupped my cheek. "Your father had your gear packed already. And he's given permission for you to choose one weapon from the family vault."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
She smiled knowingly. "You can thank me later."
I knew it. No way he offered that on his own. But I wasn't about to argue.
After devouring breakfast—Rurik stole half of mine, as usual—I rushed toward the vault. That place was legendary, a sealed chamber filled with gifts from the Aesir themselves. Only those approved by the ruling bloodline could enter.
The door hissed open under my palm, its ancient runes lighting with Æther as I stepped through.
Inside… was smaller than I imagined. But the pressure? Suffocating. Every weapon hummed with divine weight, whispering stories of past wars, blood spilled, and glory earned. There were blades with runes that danced, axes crackling with flame, and even a spear that seemed to breathe.
But none of them called to me.
I headed to the sword section, hoping something would leap out. All of them looked like royal ornaments—jewel-encrusted, gold-lined, screaming for attention. Not my style.
Just as I was about to give up, I spotted something tucked behind a rack—two sleek daggers, hidden like a secret. Their hilts looked like blackened branches twisted together, and the blades… a dark gray metal that almost seemed to absorb the light.
They weren't flashy. They were perfect.
I picked them up and gave them a few swings. Light, deadly, and comfortable. They felt like they belonged in my hands.
There were tables of daggers on the far wall. Why weren't these over there?
Didn't matter. My gut told me these were mine. I followed it.
As I left the vault, I heard faint murmurs behind me—the other weapons reacting, maybe. Or warning me.
the daggers strapped to my belt, practically humming with excitement. Not that I'd ever admit that out loud.
There was still time before noon. Time to see what these beauties could really do.
The training yard behind the castle was empty, save for the cool breeze sweeping through the mountain air. I pulled the daggers free and gave them a few experimental spins. They sliced the wind with a sharp, satisfying hiss.
"You look like you're about to marry them," Rurik's voice called out.
I turned. There he was, standing with a wooden practice sword slung over his shoulder and that same smug little grin on his face.
"Don't get jealous," I said, motioning for him to come down. "You wanna go a round?"
He lit up like a torch. "Really?!"
"Yeah, why not?" I smirked. "Come prove you're not all bark."
He charged before I could finish speaking, swinging with all the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old with something to prove. I parried easily, one dagger catching his swing while the other tapped his side.
"Dead," I said flatly.
"Ugh, not fair," he groaned, bouncing back into position.
"And you ambushed me in my sleep this morning. Consider this justice."
We danced around the yard—him moving with quick, eager strikes, me testing the flow of my new weapons. Rurik was raw but full of promise. His stance was tight, his balance sharp for his age. He wasn't going to beat me anytime soon, but the kid had fire.
He lunged again, going for a feint and sweeping low. I hopped back, dodging the swing, then stepped in close and gently knocked the sword from his hand with a spin of my left blade. It clattered to the stone.
"You've been practicing," I said, genuinely impressed.
He panted, grinning up at me. "I want to be strong like you."
I ruffled his hair. "Then don't train like me. Sleep more, eat more, and don't ever join a war before your voice cracks."
Rurik snorted. "No promises."
Clack.
A soft footstep echoed from above. We both looked up.
Walking the balcony that overlooked the training yard were three men, cloaked in dark furs. The one in front stood out like a wolf among pups—towering, broad-shouldered, and scarred like a man carved from stone and war. His long red hair was tied back, and the twin axes strapped to his back looked heavy enough to snap trees.
Erik Tyrson. Our father. The king of Blothfjoll. The man who carved this kingdom with his bare hands and iron will.
He paused, eyes landing on me, then the daggers.
For a heartbeat, the stoic mask cracked—just slightly. A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Interesting," he murmured, voice low but carrying. Then, without another word, he turned and walked on.
Rurik looked up at me. "He smiled."
"Did he?" I muttered, heart thumping in a way it hadn't all morning.
"Yeah. That's, like… the closest thing to praise he's ever said."
I didn't answer. I just looked down at the daggers in my hands.
Whatever they were, whatever they meant—they'd caught my father's eye.
And that was more terrifying than the Vetrbjorn.