Gunnar asked Johan to follow him up the hill, where the house they’d been building together stood nearly finished. The scent of fresh timber mingled with the clean country wind. The silence there was a good one, broken only by birdsong and the soft rhythm of footsteps along the path.

  Johan walked with his head down. Since the lottery, he’d spoken little.

  Gunnar seemed unchanged — same easy smile, same quick wit — but behind his eyes lingered a weight that didn’t match the lightness in his voice.

  When they reached the top, he spread his arms, quietly proud.

  “Here it is. Almost done. Just need to finish the windows and fix the shed roof… but I’ll leave that to you, kid.”

  Johan gave him a serious look.

  “Stop it, Gunnar. You talk like you’re not coming back.”

  Gunnar let out a short laugh and tapped his cousin’s shoulder.

  “I’ll be back. I’m just being practical. Who knows, maybe you’ll get married before I do, huh?” He winked. “Consider it a gift.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I know,” Gunnar said, leaning on the porch rail. “But picture this — when I come back, maybe I’ll have a few scars, a tale or two of valor, maybe even be a ranker. That’ll impress even the pickiest girls in the village.”

  Johan sighed, arms crossed.

  “And what if you don’t come back?”

  Gunnar looked off into the distance for a moment. Then he tapped the wooden frame beside him.

  “Then you finish this house, fill it with people… and remember me with a beer in your hand.”

  Johan clenched his jaw.

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  “I don’t want the house. I want you here.”

  Gunnar smiled, ruffling his cousin’s hair.

  “Hey… don’t kill me off just yet, kid.”

  Johan shoved his hand away, but said nothing more.

  “Come on,” Gunnar said, stepping away from the porch. “Still need to convince Olaf to give me a decent sword. And you… well, you might just beat me to the altar.”

  “Only if you vanish and leave me no choice,” Johan muttered with a tired smile.

  Back at the farm, the smell of fresh bread hung in the air. Brígia was stirring something inside the house. Brann sat in the rocking chair, eyes fixed on the orange horizon.

  Gunnar paused before climbing the porch steps.

  “Aunt, Uncle…” he said, removing his hat. “Just wanted to say thank you. For everything.”

  Brígia came out with a cloth still in her hands, face worn and quiet. Brann huffed, not moving from his seat.

  “No speeches, boy,” he muttered. “You sound like you’re heading to the gallows.”

  Gunnar laughed softly.

  “Nothing like that. I’m just off to live a few stories. Should be enough material for a whole book.”

  Brígia stepped close and took his hands gently.

  “When do you leave?”

  “In four days. Alek said we’ll meet with other recruits from nearby villages. Forty, maybe sixty of us. Then we march to Trowell. Probably more people there. Maybe even some training… before, well… everything else.”

  He tried to smile, opening his arms wide.

  “Always wanted to travel, right?”

  Brann shook his head.

  “You take after your mother. She used to laugh before stepping into every mess she found.”

  Gunnar’s smile softened.

  “And she always came back, didn’t she?”

  Brann looked away.

  “Sometimes.”

  Brígia let out a long sigh, pulled his face close, and kissed his forehead.

  “Take care of yourself. And take care of the others, too. Not everyone’s heart is as big as yours.”

  “Don’t worry, Aunt. I’ll keep the whole lot breathing,” Gunnar replied, glancing at Johan, who flushed and turned away.

  Brann stood slowly and placed a firm hand on Gunnar’s shoulder.

  “And if you get the choice… don’t be a hero. Heroes don’t come back. Do what you must — and come home. Understood?”

  Gunnar nodded, throat tight.

  “I understand, Uncle.”

  Brann just sat back down.

  “Johan, help your aunt with the firewood. Gunnar… go talk to Olaf. If he doesn’t hand you a decent sword, I’ll go knock that forge of his down myself.”

  Gunnar laughed and hugged Brígia tightly.

  “I’ll come back.”

  “You better,” she said softly.

  As they walked off, Johan was already by his side.

  “Tomorrow we visit Olaf,” Gunnar said. “Maybe he’ll forge me a blade so good, even Prince Bragol would want one.”

  “If not,” Johan grumbled, “at least he might give you a frying pan for a helmet.”

  “A frying pan’s better than nothing,” Gunnar replied with a grin.