Chapter 95
Morning arrived quietly at the Norse mansion.
Sunlight slipped through the narrow gaps of the ivory curtains, spilling across the polished floor in pale gold ribbons. Dust motes floated lazily in the beam, suspended in silence.
On the bed, Lara’s lashes trembled before her eyes slowly opened.
For a moment, she lay still—disoriented.
The ceiling was unfamiliar.
The air smelled different. Not the faint sandalwood polish of the Zuvel mansion. Not the distant hum of city traffic.
Then memory settled in.
She wasn’t home.
She was in the Norse mansion—her godparents’ estate. The place that felt both safe and heavy with history.
Her gaze drifted to the wall opposite her bed.
The one-year-old girl beamed at the camera, her two white teeth prominent. The smile was bright, untouched by the weight of the world.
Lara stared at that baby.
Morning light brushed over the glass, making the child’s grin appear almost luminous.
So innocent. So unaware. Lara looked away first.
She moved with quiet efficiency and changed into black jogging pants and a tight-fitting training shirt. Hair pulled back into a high ponytail.
Metal struck metal.
She stepped out into crisp morning air and froze.
All three Norse brothers were already on the lawn.
They weren’t jogging. They were sparring.
The rising sun caught on the edges of their training swords—steel, real weight, but blunt along the edge. They were practice weapons.
Their movements were sharp. Controlled. Economical.
Logan lunged first, footwork swift and grounded. Lucas parried with surprising strength, pivoting smoothly. Liam stood opposite them, calm and calculating, correcting angles with the smallest wrist adjustments.
Perhaps they had already finished their run.
Or perhaps this was the real training.
When Lara walked closer, the rhythm slowed.
Logan and Lucas disengaged at the same time.
“Good morning, Sis,” they greeted in unison, breathing slightly heavier but grinning.
Liam gave her a short nod—acknowledgment without excess.
“Good morning,” Lara replied, her eyes already drawn to the sword in Lucas’ hand.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t decorative. It was balanced.
She studied the grip. The weight distribution. The way his fingers curved around the hilt.
Logan followed her gaze and smirked.
“Want to try?” he asked, twirling the sword once with effortless confidence before catching it cleanly. “I can teach you p>
Among the three brothers, Logan was the most naturally gifted in swordsmanship. Aggressive. Intuitive. Fast.
Liam was strategy. Logan was strength. Lucas was instinct.
He extended the training sword toward her.
The metal caught the sunlight.
And for a split second—
Something in Lara’s chest stirred.
Not fear. Not hesitation. Recognition.
She stepped forward.
“Teach me,” she said quietly.
And somewhere in the orchard, a breeze moved through the trees—
As if the past itself was watching.
Logan drew the sword slowly, letting the blunt metal whisper against the scabbard. No dramatic flourish. Just the weight of it settling into his palm. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, grounding himself.
He began with footwork.
Left foot forward. Right heel light. Shift. Slide. Pivot.
He moved across the lawn in measured patterns, carving invisible lines with the tip of his blade. The first sequence was slow—almost painfully so.
High Guard.
Step.
Cut down.
Recover.
He stopped himself mid-swing.
Logan reset his stance. Slower this time. He watched the arc of the blade as if it were someone else’s—observing the angle, the tension in his wrist, the way his elbow flared when it shouldn’t. He adjusted.
Cut again.
The blade hummed cleanly through the air.
He transitioned into combinations.
High cut. Turn the hips. Low sweep. Half-step back. Thrust.
The thrust wavered.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. Impatience was his worst habit. When he tried to force precision, it slipped further away.
“Control first. Speed later p>
“Now, it is your turn Sis p>
Lara stepped into the courtyard as if she had been born from the morning light.
No warm-up stretches. No muttered corrections. No visible effort.
She simply drew her blade.
The sound rang clear and bright, like the first note of a performance.
Liam stood at the edge of the training grounds, arms crossed, pretending not to watch.
She began in stillness.
Then—
Movement.
Her foot slid forward, smooth as water finding its path. The blade rose overhead, not with force but with intention. She turned her wrist, and the steel caught the sun, scattering gold across the grass.
A downward cut followed, perfectly aligned. No wasted motion. No tightening of the shoulders. The sword traveled in a clean arc and stopped exactly where it meant to.
She flowed into the next motion without pause.
Step. Pivot. Spin.
The blade became an extension of her spine, tracing circles around her body as she turned. A high sweep melted into a low crescent. She shifted her weight mid-rotation, the sword passing behind her back before reappearing in a rising diagonal that would have opened an opponent from hip to collarbone.
There was no strain in her breathing.
No hesitation.
Logan noticed the smallest details—the way her heel barely skimmed the ground before settling; the way her hips initiated each cut before the shoulders followed; how every strike ended balanced, grounded, controlled.
She wasn’t fighting an invisible enemy.
She was dancing with inevitability.
A thrust came next—precise and sudden. The blade shot forward and stopped dead, unwavering. Not a tremor in her hand. She held the position for three long heartbeats, then rolled her wrist and redirected into a parry so fluid it looked rehearsed with a partner only she could see.
The sequence accelerated.
High guard. Deflect. Spin under. Reverse grip. Slash.
It should have looked complicated.
It didn’t.
It looked effortless.
When she leapt, it was measured—not dramatic, not exaggerated. Just enough to clear an imagined sweep. She landed soft, knees bent, blade already descending in a controlled vertical cut that would have ended the exchange.
She finished as she began.
Still.
The sword lowered slowly to her side. The lawn seemed smaller somehow, as if it had reshaped itself around her movement.
The three brothers stood frozen, their mouths wide open.