"Rest isn’t doing nothing. Rest is letting the body do its own work while you stop getting in its way."

  · · · ? · · ·

  Skeggi had been in the garrison six days when people stopped calling him “the fish man” and started calling him “that old bastard.”

  This was, in Skeggi’s view, progress.

  He took meals with the soldiers now. He argued with Haldis about storeroom order. He bullied the cook into letting him “fix” a brine barrel. He called Captain áskell “boy” exactly once and somehow lived.

  And then—like a man who could not help himself—he made a fish room.

  He didn’t ask permission.

  He just found the smallest workroom off the lower corridor, pointed at the floor drain like it proved a sacred right, and said, “This’ll do.”

  It did.

  Mostly because nobody wanted to fight him about the smell.

  · · · ? · · ·

  Eirik smelled it before he reached the door.

  He stopped, one hand on the latch, and looked over his shoulder like he expected to see a skunk lurking with malicious intent.

  Leif, behind him, said, “Is it… worse?”

  Rí tilted her head, sniffed once, and said very seriously, “It’s alive.”

  From inside, Skeggi’s voice floated out, cheerful in the way of a man committing crimes against air.

  “Stop loitering! Get in here! Your noses are soft!”

  Eirik opened the door.

  The smell hit him in the chest and tried to knock him down a stair.

  He took one step in, squared his shoulders, and decided he would not be weak in front of Skeggi.

  His eyes watered immediately.

  Skeggi stood over a stone bowl with sleeves rolled up, looking pleased with himself. On the table were jars, crocks, a tub of brine, a knife meant for something bigger than a fish, and a line of cleaned herring laid out like soldiers waiting inspection.

  “This,” Skeggi announced, “is how you make your bones stop whining.”

  “It smells like a dead whale lost a fight,” Eirik said.

  Skeggi nodded. “Good nose. Means you’re paying attention.”

  Leif took a cautious step in and then another cautious step back out again.

  Rí walked in like she owned the place, sniffed the brine tub, and said, “This one’s angry.”

  Skeggi beamed. “Finally. Someone with manners.”

  Eirik pointed at the row of fish. “So what’s the plan, old man? We eat this and become… what, tougher?”

  Skeggi lifted a finger. “No. You eat this and become less stupid about being tough.”

  “That’s not—” Eirik started.

  Skeggi slapped the table—lightly, but with intent—and the jars jumped.

  “Listen, brat. Body tempering isn’t just sitting on the floor and gritting your teeth until the world is impressed. It’s feeding the body what it can actually use.”

  He tapped one crock. “Salt.”

  Tap. “Time.”

  Tap. “A little smoke.”

  Tap. “And enough rot to scare away cowards.”

  “That’s not a selling point,” Leif muttered from the doorway.

  “It is to the right people,” Skeggi said without looking at him.

  He picked up a strip of pale fish and held it out.

  Eirik stared at it like it might bite.

  “It won’t kill you,” Skeggi said. “Probably.”

  Eirik took it and bit.

  His face did something complicated.

  First: salt.

  Then: sharpness.

  Then: a slow, strange warmth that spread across his tongue and down into his stomach like the fish had decided to become a small fire.

  He swallowed.

  He waited.

  He realized his bones did not immediately explode.

  “I’ve had worse,” he said, because it was important not to lose.

  Skeggi snorted. “You’ve had better too, don’t lie.”

  Rí took a bite without asking. Chewed thoughtfully. Then nodded like a tiny judge handing down a sentence.

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  “This one is good,” she said. “This one will make your elbows behave.”

  Eirik blinked. “What?”

  Skeggi cackled—too hard—then winced and pressed a hand to his ribs.

  “Don’t make me laugh, you monsters,” he growled. “I’m still held together by spite and string.”

  He pointed at Eirik. “You. Sit.”

  Eirik sat.

  Skeggi shoved a clay jar toward him. It was sealed with wax, the lid stained dark around the edges.

  “This is brine-salve,” Skeggi said. “Not ‘preparation.’ Don’t call it that. Makes you sound like a clerk.”

  Eirik opened his mouth.

  Skeggi jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t.”

  Eirik shut his mouth. He looked at Leif and mouthed silently: clerk.

  Leif rolled his eyes like he’d been called worse, which he had.

  Skeggi continued, “You do your tempering. You rub this into the joints after. Not like perfume. Like you mean it. If you do it right, you’ll wake up sore, not broken.”

  Eirik sniffed the jar.

  His face twisted.

  “That’s… fish.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s more fish.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s fish that’s been to war.”

  Skeggi nodded approvingly. “Now you’re learning.”

  Leif, still near the doorway, said, “Does it have to be—”

  “Yes,” Skeggi said.

  Leif tried again. “Could it be—”

  “No,” Skeggi said.

  Rí leaned in and sniffed again. “It smells like a mean aunt.”

  Skeggi looked genuinely delighted. “That’s the deep bite. Good. Means it’ll do its job.”

  Eirik looked down at his hands, at the calluses and the stubborn little aches that lived in his wrists now from too many holds, too many swings, too much Langr.

  “So it’s fish… that helps the tempering,” he said slowly.

  Skeggi’s gaze sharpened, pleased.

  “Yes.”

  Eirik frowned. “Why?”

  Skeggi waved a hand like the answer was obvious.

  “Salt pulls. Time changes. Rot breaks down what the body can’t chew. You take a thing that’s too rough, too hard, too stubborn—” he pointed at Eirik “—and you make it softer without making it weak.”

  Eirik stared.

  Skeggi stared back.

  Then Skeggi said, “Don’t look at me like that. It’s the same as training. Same as people. Same as your head, which needs a lot of brine.”

  Leif coughed. “That part I believe.”

  Skeggi ignored him.

  He slid a bowl across the table. “Now. Mix.”

  “With what?”

  “With your hands. Get in there.”

  Eirik hesitated.

  Skeggi leaned forward. “If you can carry that metal fence post around all day, you can touch a fish.”

  “That’s different.”

  “It is not.”

  Rí had already plunged her hands in and was happily stirring like she was making mud pies.

  “See?” Skeggi said. “The small one has courage.”

  Eirik glared, then put his hands in.

  Cold. Slimy. Salt bite. Then that same slow warmth, like the brine had teeth.

  His face tightened.

  Skeggi watched him with the satisfaction of a man watching a child become tougher in real time.

  “There,” Skeggi said. “That’s your body listening.”

  Eirik grunted. “It’s loud.”

  “Yes.”

  “And rude.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it smells like hell.”

  Skeggi nodded. “That too. Keep stirring.”

  · · · ? · · ·

  Skeggi tried to recruit them for fishing at dinner.

  He did it like he was ordering troops.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Fjord.”

  Bj?rn didn’t even look up from his bowl. “No.”

  Skeggi blinked like he’d never heard the word before.

  “No?” he repeated.

  Bj?rn took another bite. “No.”

  Skeggi looked personally offended. “You’re telling me no to fishing.”

  “Yes,” Bj?rn said.

  Skeggi turned to Sigrid like surely she’d fix this.

  Sigrid sipped her drink calmly. “Also no.”

  Skeggi’s jaw dropped a little.

  “Both of you?” he demanded.

  Sigrid’s voice stayed warm and flat at the same time. “We have refugees sleeping in the training hall and a cook who looks like she might stab someone with a ladle. We are not spending a day in a fjord.”

  Skeggi stared like he was being abused.

  “It’s not spending a day,” he argued. “It’s wasting a day. Productively.”

  Haldis, passing behind him with a ledger, said without slowing, “That is the stupidest pairing of words I’ve heard all week.”

  Skeggi pointed at her. “See? Even she needs the fjord.”

  Haldis didn’t look back. “I need silence.”

  Skeggi sighed, then pivoted.

  “Fine,” he said, and stabbed a finger toward Eirik. “You.”

  Eirik straightened like he’d been chosen for a heroic quest.

  Skeggi stabbed the air again. “You’re coming.”

  Sigrid’s eyes slid to Eirik.

  Eirik immediately remembered what his mother’s eyes meant.

  He tried anyway. “I—”

  Sigrid said, “No.”

  Eirik’s shoulders fell. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Skeggi looked at Leif.

  Leif, traitor that he was, said, “I would like to go.”

  Skeggi squinted. “Why.”

  Leif said, very earnestly, “Fish are a valuable—”

  Skeggi’s eyes narrowed further.

  Leif corrected himself smoothly. “Fish are… good practice.”

  Skeggi nodded. “Better.”

  Then Skeggi looked at Rí.

  Rí looked back with complete innocence.

  Skeggi opened his mouth.

  Sigrid didn’t even glance up this time. “No.”

  Rí sighed like the world was cruel. “I didn’t even ask.”

  “You were about to,” Sigrid said.

  Rí, offended, said, “I was thinking.”

  Sigrid replied, “That’s how it starts.”

  Skeggi threw his hands up.

  “Fine! Nobody wants joy!” he announced. “Enjoy your dry bread and your sensible decisions!”

  Bj?rn finally looked up.

  “Skeggi,” he said, mild as a summer cloud.

  Skeggi turned, still grumbling.

  Bj?rn added, “If you try to take my children into a fjord while my wife is busy, she will peel you.”

  Skeggi paused.

  Then, very quietly, he said, “She would.”

  “Yes,” Bj?rn said. “She would.”

  Skeggi sat down, suddenly very interested in his food.

  Rí leaned over to Eirik and whispered, “Peel like a potato.”

  Eirik whispered back, “Good.”

  Leif whispered, “You two are terrifying.”

  They all ate.

  Skeggi sulked loudly.

  It did not move Sigrid even a little.

  · · · ? · · ·

  The next morning, Eirik did his body tempering in the cold room before the sun was fully up.

  Not because anyone made him.

  Because the soreness in his joints had become a thing he understood, and understanding it made him greedy.

  He sat. He breathed. He held the heat down in the bones and the cords and the places where strength actually lived. He stayed there until the body stopped begging and started accepting.

  When he finished, he stood slowly and rolled his shoulders.

  He felt heavy. Solid. Not stronger yet—just… being made.

  Skeggi was waiting outside like a vulture with bad manners.

  “Good,” Skeggi said.

  Eirik blinked. “You were watching?”

  Skeggi shrugged. “I was walking by.”

  “You were leaning.”

  “I lean where I please.”

  Eirik narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to make sure I do it.”

  Skeggi smiled with all the warmth of a rusty nail.

  “Yes.”

  Then he shoved the brine-salve jar into Eirik’s hands.

  “Rub,” Skeggi ordered.

  Eirik opened it.

  He regretted it immediately.

  He rubbed anyway.

  The salve bit into his skin, cold and sharp, then warmed, then settled like a heavy blanket.

  His wrists stopped complaining.

  His elbows—apparently—behaved.

  He flexed his fingers and realized he could feel the difference.

  Eirik stared down at his hands.

  Then he looked up at Skeggi with sudden, honest respect.

  “That works,” he said.

  Skeggi nodded like the world was finally catching up.

  “Yes.”

  Eirik cleared his throat.

  “So,” he said carefully, “how much fish do we need to—”

  Skeggi slapped his back hard enough to make him cough.

  “Now you’re asking the right questions,” Skeggi said. “Come. We’ve got herring to ruin.”

  “Ferment,” Eirik corrected automatically.

  Skeggi paused, then grinned.

  “Ruin,” he repeated. “But with purpose.”

  Eirik picked up Langr and followed, still rubbing fish stink into his wrists like a man being anointed into a very strange priesthood.

  Leif passed them in the corridor and said, helplessly, “You smell like violence.”

  Eirik said, proud as anything, “It’s tempering.”

  Rí appeared, sniffed once, and announced, “He smells like a mean aunt again.”

  Skeggi walked ahead like a king returning to his throne.

  “Good,” he said. “We’re raising the standards.”

  And for the first time since the refugees arrived, the garrison felt—just for a morning—like it had room for shenanigans again.

  Which, Skeggi would insist, was also a kind of work.

  · · · ? · · ·