The door creaked softly as Rurik pushed it open, just enough to slip inside. Morning light bled through the frost-covered window panes of his brother's room, catching on the familiar scuffs in the floor and the dented corner of the dresser Kyjell had once kicked during a tantrum. Dust particles drifted lazily in the sunbeams, undisturbed for weeks.
Rurik padded across the wooden floor, barefoot, his breath faintly misting in the cold air. He didn't mind the chill. Kyjell hated mornings. He'd always grumble and groan when Rurik came crashing in to wake him up, sometimes pulling the fur covers over his head while cursing under his breath. But he never stayed mad.
Rurik crawled up onto the bed like he used to and lay on his stomach, cheek pressed into the still-cool pillow.
"I bet you're fine out there," he whispered. "You always are."
He'd said that every day for the past three months.
But it was getting harder to believe.
He stayed like that for a long while, soaking in the silence. Not even the servants came in here anymore. Not since the first few weeks. It had been declared a memorial space, just in case. But no one had dared say it out loud. Not in front of him. Not in front of Mother.
Eventually, he rolled off the bed with a soft grunt and walked back to his own room to get dressed. His clothes felt tighter lately. He was growing—faster than he expected. Maybe that was good. Maybe it meant he could catch up to Kyjell.
If Kyjell ever came back.
—
The halls of the castle were quieter now. Not dead. But strained.
Servants moved briskly with their heads down. Warriors stood guard with grim expressions, some wearing fresh bandages from the front lines. Blóðfjǫll was still alive—thriving, even—but the war had begun to seep into every corner of the kingdom. The absence of their prince hadn't stopped the march of time.
Rurik passed one of the side corridors that led to the lower training hall. He paused. It was empty right now, but in the past, it had echoed with laughter, metal clashing, and his brother's voice calling him a little rat.
He kept walking.
Breakfast with his mother was quiet, as usual. She smiled when she saw him, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good morning, my little wolf," she said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingered there, fingers trembling just slightly. "You're up early."
"I was in Kyjell's room again," Rurik said plainly, biting into a hunk of bread.
She didn't flinch. She just nodded and looked down at her tea. "He hated being woken up."
"I used to tell him the gods would smite him for being lazy."
That earned a quiet laugh from her. Just for a moment. But it faded too fast.
They didn't talk about what they both knew—that he wasn't coming back.
At least, not yet.
—
Later that morning, Rurik found himself in the main courtyard, shadowing Captain Vosk again.
The captain was old—not in years, but in wear. His face was a battlefield of scars, and his one remaining eye held the weight of decades of war. He'd been with their father since the beginning. He'd seen more blood spilled than any man should, and yet he still moved with precision and strength.
"Again," Vosk barked, catching Rurik's sloppy thrust with a wooden sword. "Faster this time, or you're gonna lose your teeth next time I counter."
"Yes, Captain," Rurik muttered, fixing his stance and striking again. This time with more control.
The wooden swords clacked. Vosk sidestepped and swept Rurik's leg with the handle, knocking him to the dirt.
Rurik hit the ground hard and let out a grunt.
"You're getting stronger," Vosk said, offering a hand. "But strength means nothing if your form is trash. Anyone can swing. Real fighters hit what they mean to."
Rurik took the hand and stood, brushing off the dust. "I want to join the war front."
Vosk didn't answer right away. He studied him with that one sharp eye. "Why?"
"Because it's what our people do," Rurik said. "Because Kyjell's not here. Because if he doesn't come back… someone from our bloodline should fight."
Vosk crossed his arms. "You think I don't know what this is? You miss your brother. You think bleeding on the battlefield is gonna fill the hole he left?"
"No," Rurik said. "But it'll make me strong enough to protect what he left behind."
That made Vosk pause.
He turned away, grumbling something under his breath.
"I'll speak to your mother. Don't get your hopes up. If she says no, I'm not the one you argue with."
Rurik nodded. "Thank you."
—
That night, his mother stood at the balcony, staring off toward the mountains.
"You remind me more of him every day," she said without turning around. "Especially when you're being reckless."
"I'm not doing this to be reckless," Rurik said from the doorway. "I'm doing it because I need to. You know he would've—"
"He was forced into it," she said sharply, finally turning around. "And it broke him in ways you never saw."
He looked down. "Then let me be better."
Her eyes shimmered with tears. She stepped forward and held his face in both hands. "You're all I have left. If you go…"
"I'll come back," he said. "I promise."
She kissed his forehead. "That's what your brother said too."
—
Three days later, Rurik stood at the edge of the eastern border, dressed in simple leathers. No noble cloak. No insignia of royalty. Just a sword at his hip and a fire in his chest.
The supply wagon he'd hitched a ride with had dropped him off near one of the forward camps. From here, he'd meet with a scouting party assigned to the eastern forests, where border clashes had been increasing. His request had gone through. Even the king had approved it—though Rurik knew better than to think it was done out of fatherly pride.
It was duty. Nothing more.
That was fine.
He didn't want favoritism. He wanted to earn his place.
As he looked back over the rolling hills behind him, he wondered if Kyjell had ever felt this same mix of dread and resolve when he marched into war.
Then he faced forward and started walking.
It was time to find out.