Page 171 of The Sun He Buried

The west gallery has tall windows facing the lower practice ground, the glass black except where snow strikes and vanishes.

I stop beside the first window.

There.

A dull knock comes from outside.

Then another.

Not the shutters.

I wipe a clear circle in the fogged glass with the heel of my hand.

A lantern burns beside the practice fence.

Eirik stands beyond it.

Black coat. Silver mask. Long braids dark with snow.

One knife turns through the lantern light and strikes a wooden target.

Another is already in his hand.

A bottle sits upright near his boot.

He throws again.

The blade hits beside the first.

He takes the bottle, drinks, and puts it back in the same hole in the snow.

Another knife.

Another hard knock.

I watch.

His body is leaner than Baldr’s. Less breadth through the shoulders. Less weight in every movement.

His coat barely moves when he throws.

The knife leaves. The target takes it.

He never checks where it lands.

He knows.

I stay at the window until my breath clouds the glass again, then wipe it clear.

The side door is near the end of the gallery.

I know what Baldr said.

I’m not leaving the hall to walk through Myrkviðr.

The practice ground is attached to the lower wall.

That distinction may not survive Asta.