Fenrin had been surprised by how well his mother handled the carnage at sea and now in the wilds, seeing how comfortable she was with Bryn, he realized she knew his ways better than anyone. She seemed more at home here in the wilds at Bryn's side than she had ever seemed at the estate and Fenrin understood why she'd left. He almost wished Lyra had been here to see the truth.

Bryn in his wanderings discovered first hand what the rumors circulating through Valhym claimed. The Jarls were upset. They were once again demanding restitution for the war and the capital, no longer the central wealth it had once been, could not comply. Jarl's men, dressed as raiders attacked capital caravans and Bryn fit right in.

Sometimes he worked as a mercenary, protecting a caravan. Sometimes he did as promised, other times when the attack happened he turned on both parties taking the goods for himself.

Fenrin learned the majesty of Valhym's mountains and the intensity of its southlands. He grew more, needing new clothes twice throughout the year. He became skilled with his blade, finally using it in battle.

They had been stalking a caravan for a while and when they struck, a band of 'bandits' attacked as well. The caravan's owners were quickly slaughtered and it became a battle over the kill. Fenrin stood as he usually did, with his mother, on the edge of the combat but in the confusion, they ended up in the thick of it.

A man, face covered in warpaint, lunged at Fenrin and instinct kicked in. He parried and slid the blade into the man's stomach. The man's eyes widened, the white standing out from his dark warpaint and he'd slumped over, the blade pulling from the wound as he fell.

Fenrin barely had time to process his first kill when a second threat appeared, a woman, similarly painted. Her spear grazed his arm and he hissed. Dyla grabbed the spear's pole and Fenrin lunged forward, cutting the woman down.

From then on, Fenrin fought with his father's men, who stopped calling him 'cub'.

He and Lyra fought again on their thirteenth birthday. Lyra wearing her brother's old pants and wielding her dagger, Fenrin with his sword. Fenrin won, tripping his sister with the flat of his blade and nicking her shoulder with his sword tip.

That year they travelled northwest, exploring the warmer areas, where swamps appeared and Fenrin saw his first giants.

On the twin's fourteenth birthday, they fought once more. Lyra used two daggers this time, crossing the blades to catch Fenrin's sword. She was closing in, but he kicked her in the chest and slashed her thigh. She cried out, clutching the wound, but Fenrin walked away unconcerned. He'd seen enough battles to know she would recover.

Before they left, Ulris whispered in Bryn's ear. Lyra had been slipping away again. Disappearing into the woods for days before returning home. Bryn smiled and told Ulris to 'let the girl train'.

They went east, reaching the far coast but staying in the wilds, occasionally taking caravans loaded with exotic goods from the shipyards.

Lyra studied and trained. She paid one of Bryn's men to spar with her. He was a lithe man she had seen beat men twice his size. With him, she improved. She also began a darker study. She’d got a book on poisons and her vast knowledge of plants and herbs, already complete when it came to knowledge of healing, found a new outlet.

She tested her knowledge on animals she caught in the woods. A squirrel died eating poisoned fruit, an unruly badger cut itself on her poisoned blade and fell asleep. When it woke, she prodded it with another and it slept forever. She told herself she would never use poison on her brother, ignoring her own doubt at that determination.

No, the poison was for survival. She heard about the battles Bryn and Fenrin fought in. Even if she beat her brother, she had to be able to survive her reward. Fenrin had trained with Bryn and his men, had seen actual bloodshed, studying it before joining. Lyra, if—no when—she won would be thrown in and she was determined to be prepared.

On their fifteenth birthday, Lyra circled her brother who crouched, his sword held ready. She had not poisoned her blades after all. She surged forward and when his sword fell to meet her, she leapt to the side and back, forcing him to switch positions in quick succession.

She moved closer as she spun around him, his sword changing position in a constant motion. He felt a dagger cut through his loose shirt and his eyebrows furrowed. He lunged for her, but she danced away.

It continued for twenty minutes, her circling, him watching every movement. Finally, he made a mistake, an elbow left too high as he changed stances, she nicked it and blood dribbled to the floor. Her laugh filled the hall and she whirled, curtseying mockingly to her father before leaving with her head high. Fenrin watched in shock as the blood drip, dripped to the floor.

Fenrin watched as his parents and Lyra prepared to leave. He leaned against the wall, trying not to look like the kicked dog he felt like. As his father shouldered his pack he said, "Fenrin, same condition."

When they left, Fenrin slammed his fist into the wall.

He felt trapped in the estate, pacing the halls like a caged animal unable to believe he had been left behind. A small voice reminded him this was what Lyra felt, but he pushed it away angrily. Ulris insisted he study while home but Fenrin often slipped away to spar with the men. He was determined never to be left behind again.