My heart was a mallet inside my rib cage. I was so sick of its abuse.

Torden caught up to me easily. “Shhh.” He folded me against his chest, beard catching at my hair. I breathed him in, letting my mind grow quiet with the smell of his skin and the feel of his nearness.

When I finally calmed down, I wiped my eyes, glancing around at the four bunk beds lining one wall and the four desks opposite.

I needed to talk about something—anything—else. I didn’t want to cry anymore.

Anya had mentioned the boys bunked together in the brakker. I cleared my throat. “Who do you share this room with?”

“Aleksei, Fredrik, and Bragi. Týr, Vidarr, Váli, and Hermódr have the one next door.”

I nodded, thinking of Torden’s gentle brother, pushing up his glasses as he worked uncomplainingly beside his father. How different he was from his roommates. “Poor Hermódr.”

Torden blew out a long breath. “All the drengs bunk four to a room. Pappa can’t make exceptions for us.”

In time, you will understand how things must be at Asgard.

I swallowed and looked away. Opposite the beds—two of them tidy, two complete disasters—their four desks were stacked with books and papers. One, probably Fredrik’s, was piled with notes in various brands of pretty female handwriting; another held a stack of letters signed Anya. I pretended not to notice them, a bit stunned Bragi would risk leaving them out—unless, of course, he wanted to establish among the drengs that she was off-limits. A third desk was nearly bare, with a map of Europe taped to the wall above.

“Aleksei’s.” Torden tipped his head at the almost-empty desk. He cleared his throat, gesturing to the fourth desk and the bunk I’d been sitting on. “And these are mine, of course.”

Torden had made his bed—not with hospital corners, but neatly enough. His sheets and blankets still hugged the spot where I’d been sitting. On his desk were a few books, an open notebook covered in neat handwriting, and several stacks of memos. I couldn’t read the Norsk reports or the notes he’d scrawled in their margins, but he’d clearly labored over them; his writing, so square in the little notebook, grew uneven and heavily punctuated between the lines of the official documents.

“Plans to renovate the old forge, training strategy updates from the valkyrja.” His scruffy chin grazed the hollow of my neck as he leaned over my shoulder, planting one palm on the desktop and spreading a few of the papers out for me.

“Who are the valkyrja?”

“My father’s top twelve generals. All women, by tradition. Don’t give away our secrets.” He gave my waist a squeeze.