Perrault dismissed me with a smile and a nod at the Asgard boys. I turned and made my way to the other end of the table, his mockery still ringing in my ears.

Skop fit in well among Anya’s freshly scrubbed, sturdily built brothers, already well into huge plates of porridge and eggs and brown cheese when I reached them. I flopped down beside Skop, and he pushed me a cup of coffee—or something like it—and exchanged a knowing smile with Anya over my rounded shoulders.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, dumping cream in the mug. There was no sugar anywhere on the table. I rubbed at my eyes, weary and unsettled from my conversation with Perrault.

Aleksei smirked. “Only children drink milk in their coffee.”

I took a long slurp and half glared, half squinted at him. “You let children drink coffee?”

“Leave her alone. She can have whatever she wants.” Anya slid me a plate of food and turned to Hermódr. “How were your times this morning?”

“Fine.” Fredrik rolled a shoulder forward. “Today’s route felt longer.”

Torden laughed. “You always say that. It’s never longer.”

“Well, it felt that way,” Fredrik grumbled.

“Enough groaning, squeaky door.” Anya smiled and ruffled her brother’s hair. “It is always twelve kilometers. No more, no less.”

I choked on my coffee. “Every day?”

Bragi speared a piece of scrambled egg and nodded. “Týr leads the drengs; Pappa leads the thegns—the older warriors. Twelve for us, eight for them, every morning at sunrise.”

I stifled a whimper.

“You might wake up faster if you opened your eyes all the way,” said Torden, leaning across the table. My heart stuttered at the teasing shape of his grin, and I felt a sudden stab of guilt. Predictable.

“Yes, but then she’d have to see your whole face,” said Aleksei.

Fredrik jostled him. “Nicer view than yours.”

“Boys,” chided Anya. “Leave her alone.”

They didn’t. I poured another cup of coffee.

“Now.” Torden passed me a practice sword. “How should you hold this?”

It was a mercy the Norden summer was cool. Already I was sweating beneath the mail shirt Anya had draped over my shoulders, though whether from anxiety or exertion I wasn’t sure.

I’d gawked when the five Asgard prinsene and Anya first led us into Konge Alfödr’s armory, a long, low stone building designed to evade notice. Past a maze of weapons and equipment smelling strongly of oil and polish were rows of lockers; a bow and a half-dozen daggers and swords hung in Torden’s, with a shield, two helmets, and other armor heaped on the floor. An enormous hammer was propped in the back corner, its impossibly short handle engraved in elaborate knots.