Victory or Sovngarde

Chapter One

"Oh, yeah?" jeered Embla from the training yard. She planted her hands onto her hips, one skinny fist tight around the hilt of her wooden sword. "Well, you fight like a crippled skeever!"

Her cousin, Bria, laughed at that. She'd inherited her father's ability to laugh everything off. "I do not! It is you who fights like a baby!"

Embla gasped. "Take that back."

Bria smirked, raising her own wooden sword. She flicked a lock of her golden-blonde hair away from her sweaty face, icy eyes locked on her opponent. "Why don't you get over here and make me?"

For a girl who was a little over eight months younger than Embla, Bria had a lot of spunk and tenacity. Strong as a sabre cat, just like Farkas.

Growling, Embla charged, sword raised, and started sparring with Bria again.

"You'd think they'd learn," I said, turning away from their mock-fight. I glanced at Tyra, who was busy bouncing her son Kaleir—or Kale, as he was affectionately called—on her knee. The poor lad was three years younger than my children, and not old enough to play with them just yet. Although he certainly did his best, running after them and his big sister as fast as his chubby toddler legs could carry him.

"I know," Tyra said. "But they're children. Competitive ones, too."

"They get that from their fathers."

We shared a laugh, and as if on cue, our husbands walked out.

"Something funny?" Farkas asked as he sat next to Tyra. He smiled at Kale, brushing his hand over his son's head.

Kale reached for Farkas, chubby hands outstretched. "Da!" he cried, giggling at his own cleverness.

Farkas took his son into his arms. He made a much better father than I had ever thought he'd be. Although, anyone who was as kind and tenderhearted as he was would make a wonderful parent.

"How long have they been at it?" Vilkas asked, sitting next to me and pointing at Bria and Embla.

"Quite some time," I said. "They paused to insult each other, then went right back to fighting."

"They're both very good," Tyra said. "For their age. When I was Bria's age, I was learning things like cooking and cleaning. Not sword-fighting."

"And when I was Embla's age, I was helping pick vegetables to sell. Or learning how to till earth and sow seeds." I sighed and leaned into Vilkas's side. "I am thankful that our children will not have that life. It was hard, unforgiving work."

After watching our girls spar for several minutes, we couldn't help but start cheering for either one. Vilkas and I rooted, of course, for Embla, while Farkas and Tyra cheered on Bria. We had a friendly rivalry between us, always bragging on which of our children was the best swordsman. It was bound to happen; it couldn't be helped. We didn't let it come between us, though. We were still the best of friends, as were our children.

In the end, they called a draw. Both were too tired to keep fighting, but too stubborn to admit defeat. Begrudgingly, they shook hands and strapped their wooden swords to their waists. Then, they linked arms and skipped up the stairs to us.

Bria gave Farkas a tight hug around the neck, then she kissed Kaleir's head. "One day, Kale, you'll be big enough to fight with swords," she said, holding her brother's hand around her finger. "I'll teach you when you're big enough."

He smiled. "Bri! Bri!"

While Farkas, Tyra, and Bria cooed over Kale's cleverness, Embla sat down on Vilkas's lap, leaning against his chest. "Did I do good, Papa?" she asked as she hugged him tightly. "Did I?"