Snow crunched underfoot as we approached the wrought-iron gates of the Lisgrimr Mansion—a sprawling fortress carved from dark stone and ancient magic. Tall spires pierced the sky like fangs, and walls of enchanted ice shimmered with runes older than kingdoms. At its center, the family crest glowed faintly beneath moonlight: a silver wolf devouring a serpent, flanked by twin runes—[Jǫkull] and [Skuggi]. Glacier and shadow.
I slowed as the gates creaked open of their own accord.
Home.
If you could call a place built on silence, frost, and stares "home."
Gerald whistled low under his breath. "Charming. Definitely screams, 'We have tea with swords drawn.'"
My Master said nothing. Her expression unreadable.
"I'm not sure they'll like you," I muttered to Gerald.
"They don't have to like me," he said, straightening his coat. "They just have to not stab me. That's my bar for success."
We stepped inside the courtyard, where the snow was perfectly untouched—except for the faint, fresh trails of servants who had already moved to alert the household.
And then… they came.
Four shadows emerged from the arched doors—three men and one woman. Tall. Pale. Beautiful. Deadly. My siblings.
Freydis Lisgrimr, my eldest sister, led them, cloak trailing like smoke. Her gaze locked onto mine.
"You've returned," she said. Her voice was crisp and cold enough to chip glass.
"Try not to sound too excited," I muttered.
Freydis's eyes then flicked to Gerald.
"And… who is this?"
Gerald stepped forward with all the arrogance of a man who'd uppercut a beast into mist two days ago.
"Gerald Weston," he said, giving a half-bow that was just respectful enough to not be offensive. "Freeloader. Mushroom. Combat tutor. And proud survivor of Eva's cooking."
Freydis blinked. My younger brother behind her stifled a laugh.
Master merely walked past them all, her presence enough to part the air.
"We're not here for games," she said. "Eva has passed her initial trial. She is ready for what comes next."
A murmur passed through the gathering.
Freydis narrowed her eyes. "She's not ready for the Legacy Trial."
"She will be." My Master's voice left no room for argument.
Behind me, Gerald muttered, "What the hell is a Legacy Trial? Sounds like a family heirloom tries to kill you."
"You're not far off," I whispered back.
I stepped forward. "This is my home. I'll prove myself here just like I did in the forest. Just like I will at the Academy."
My voice didn't shake.
And for once, neither did my resolve.
Gerald smiled behind me.
"Now that," he whispered, "sounded like a Rune-bearer."
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The dining hall of House Lisgrimr was less a room and more a stage for political warfare. Vaulted ceilings stretched higher than some towers, banners of runic script hung in symmetrical perfection, and at the heart of it all—an obsidian table long enough to seat thirty nobles comfortably, though tonight only eight chairs were filled.
The hearth blazed with cold fire—white-blue flame that gave off heatless light. It was more for ambiance than warmth. Like everything in this house.
I sat second from the head, my Master on my left. On my right, Gerald.
A mistake, perhaps.
He leaned over as the servants poured wine that shimmered faintly with mana. "Is it poisoned?"
"Only if you say something stupid," I whispered.
"So… definitely poisoned."
Across from us sat my siblings—Freydis, elegant and distant, Sigvar, narrowing his eyes at Gerald, and Lysa, who smiled like she knew something we didn't. Which she usually did.
Gerald, naturally, ruined the silence by clinking his glass a little too enthusiastically. "To the host! Great ceiling, by the way. Very... spiky."
Freydis blink. "May i ask again. Who are you, exactly?"
He smiled. "Gerald Weston. Slayer of Beasts. Wild mushroom enthusiast. And currently under evaluation by this house's most promising daughter."
Everyone stared at me.
I elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.
He simply kept smiling, like he was born immune to awkwardness—or had long stopped caring about it.
Master finally broke the tension.
"Eva has completed her preliminary training," she said, placing her cup down. "She will begin the Legacy Trial tomorrow. At dawn."
Freydis frowned. "She's not ready."
"Neither were you," Master replied, without malice. "But you survived. Barely."
Sigvar leaned forward, fingers steepled. "The Legacy Trial is not designed for… firstborns or favorites. It is meant for heirs. Eva has never shown any desire to inherit—until now."
"I'm not doing this for inheritance," I said, meeting their gazes. "I'm doing it because I want to be more than a shadow of the Lisgrimr name."
"Brave words," Lysa murmured, swirling her wine. "Let's hope your blood agrees."
Gerald looked at me, genuinely curious now. "What is this Legacy Trial anyway?"
I swallowed.
"The Trial is… ancient," I said. "A test written in blood. Each heir to Lisgrimr must enter the Cavern of Echoing Frost and walk through the legacy of our line. They say it's different for everyone. Illusions. Trials of will. Spirit beasts that remember our ancestors."
"Also monsters," Sigvar added helpfully. "Don't forget the monsters."
"Thanks," I muttered.
Gerald, surprisingly, said nothing. He just watched me with that unreadable expression of his—somewhere between a tactician and a wolf sniffing for a weak point.
"…Don't die," he said finally. "It'll ruin your entire noble comeback arc."
"Touching," I deadpanned. "You're a poet."
"I try."
Master rose from her seat. "Rest well, Eva. Tomorrow, your blood will be weighed."
As she left, so did the tension—like her presence held back the cold itself.
Gerald leaned in again, resting one elbow lazily on the table, his voice lowered in mock seriousness.
"So… if you fail the trial—"
"They disown me," I muttered, stabbing my fork into a roasted root vegetable. "Erase my name from the family archives, and I get to spend the rest of my life in exile, forgotten and disgraced. Fun, right?"
There was a pause.
Then Gerald's expression shifted—still casual, but with that infuriating glint in his eye that meant trouble.
"Well," he said, with a shrug that was far too relaxed for the moment, "you won't be alone."
I blinked. "What?"
"You've still got me," he continued, completely unbothered. "And if things go south, we can always disappear. Just the two of us. A little cottage far from here. You hunt, I cook. Maybe even raise a family together. I think I'd make a good father, don't you?"
The dining room fell quiet for a beat too long.
My face turned bright red.
Lysa my second eldest sister covered her mouth with a hand, but a giggle escaped anyway. "Oh my Freya," she whispered, eyes twinkling.
I tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. "Wha—You—!!" I sputtered, completely betrayed by my own blush.
Gerald just sipped from his water like he'd said something about the weather. "I'm just saying, it's good to have a backup plan."
"If you keep talking," I hissed under my breath, "I will stab you with this fork."
Lysa laughed openly now, the elegant composure she was known for slipping into bright, genuine amusement. She leaned back in her chair, golden eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Oh, Mother would love him," she said between chuckles, dabbing at her eye with the corner of a silk napkin. "She always did like the unhinged ones."
Gerald smirked, resting one arm casually along the back of his chair. "Ah, so this is a meet-the-family dinner. Good. I was worried I'd have to schedule that."
I groaned and smacked my forehead against the table.
"Why do I speak to you," I muttered into the polished wood. "Why do I feed you?"
CRACK!
The entire table shook violently as Sigvar, my eldest brother, slammed his massive hand down hard enough to split the carved edge. Plates clattered. Goblets tipped. The meat platter launched into the air and landed perfectly in Gerald's lap.
The room fell into frozen silence.
His towering form rose slowly from his chair. Eyes narrowed. The [Jötunheimr Rune] etched into his back surged to life, casting a pale-blue glow like moonlight over ice. Cold vapor steamed off his shoulders. The room temperature dropped instantly.
Gerald blinked, a piece of roast duck sliding off his lap.
"YOU SON OF A—"
"Brother!" I shouted, launching to my feet.
But Sigvar wasn't even looking at me.
His gaze was locked on Gerald—pure, glacial fury.
"You think this is a joke? Flirting with my sister in front of me? In front of our bloodline?" His voice was thunder wrapped in gravel, trembling with rage. "Filthy mongrel. You're not worthy of her shadow."
Gerald, to his credit or idiocy seemed thrilled.
"Oh Thors," I muttered. "He's enjoying this."
Gerald calmly rose from his seat, brushing crumbs from his coat. "Big brother mode unlocked, I see."
"Sigvar," Lysa said sharply, her laughter gone, voice tight with warning. "Sit. Down."
But Sigvar didn't move.
Gerald did.
He stepped around the broken edge of the table, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual stroll through the garden.
"I get it," he said lightly. "Protective older sibling. Wants what's best for the little sister. Very noble."
His eyes flicked toward me. "Very adorable."
I mouthed stop talking with frantic intensity.
"And let me guess," Gerald continued. "You think I'm beneath her?"
"You're breathing, that's beneath her."
"Ouch." Gerald winced theatrically. "That one almost stung."
The frost aura around Sigvar spiked.
Lysa sighed loudly, rubbing her temples. "For the love of the Norns…"
"Do you want to fight me?" Gerald asked cheerfully.
I grabbed Gerald's sleeve. "He does, and he will kill you."
Gerald leaned closer to me and grinned. "Maybe, but if I win, does that mean I get your hand in marriage?"
"I WILL SET YOU ON FIRE." I scream.