“That is impossible,” said Hermódr, ever practical.

“You will see how impossible it is when I do it,” Fredrik fired back. I wasn’t certain exactly how long a kilometer was—I’d only ever measured distance in miles—but twelve seemed like a lot in thirty minutes. Torden returned my blank stare with the tiniest shake of his head: Fredrik was bluffing.

“What’s your best time?” I asked Torden offhandedly.

He shot me a sideways smile. “I always finish last.”

I squinted; this didn’t agree with his reputation. “Well, you’d still have me beat,” I finally said. “I could probably handle twelve kilometers, if I were allowed to crawl the last eleven.”

Torden shook his head, apparently considering my comment seriously. “You could do more than that, with training. You have very long legs.”

Bragi and Aleksei glanced at one another wordlessly, stifling laughs. Only when Fredrik snorted over his stew did Torden seem to realize what he’d said. Torden rolled his eyes at them, elbowing Bragi as his brother clapped him on one broad shoulder in a silent, sarcastic compliment.

My heart swelled, watching them, trading glances and the barest gestures for whole meanings as if they all spoke a secret language.

For the first time, I wondered how on earth I could ask Torden to leave them behind. The mere thought made me press my lips together, afraid the question would blurt itself out of its own volition.

When Torden’s brain finally caught up with his mouth, he didn’t bother trying to backpedal.

“Well, you do.” He shrugged and scratched at his beard, brown eyes impenitent, his crooked smile rebellious, as though challenging me to ask why he’d been looking at all.

Hermódr reentered our conversation two steps behind, as if from a dream. “Torden isn’t a slow runner,” he said matter-of-factly. “He keeps pace with Týr at the front. But he is the only dreng who runs to the rear of the pack when he is done and finishes again with the runners who have fallen behind.”

Fredrik made a disgusted noise under his breath, half-hearted envy on his face; Aleksei cocked an eyebrow at him, silently agreeing.

“You liar.” I nudged Torden gently in the ribs. “You said twelve kilometers every morning.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he murmured, avoiding my eyes as he sawed at his food. I could’ve counted the freckles on his cheeks at this distance, could see each of his red-gold lashes.

I bit my lip. It does, I wanted to reply. It does to me.

Finally, the meal came to an end, and a hush fell over Valaskjálf. As knives and forks and cups and voices fell silent, Bragi and a white-bearded man rose to stand between two of the roaring fireplaces along the far wall.