"A Naming Day isn’t won at the shrine. It’s won in the months where nobody is clapping."

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  The talk about Leif’s Naming Day started the way most important garrison talks started:

  At dinner. Loudly. With food in mouths. With nobody warning anyone.

  Leif had a little less than two years left—about twenty-one long months—before his Naming Day. He wasn’t twelve yet, but the garrison didn’t wait until the last bell to start moving. This was the age when youth were sent to taste trades like soup: take a ladle, swallow, decide if it sat right.

  Sometimes it was about liking something.

  Usually it was about filling the vessel.

  Because a Class didn’t sit properly in an empty body. The Wyrd didn’t care how eager you were. If your S?fnun wasn’t full, you could stand at Level 0 until your hair turned grey, holding a name that had nowhere to live.

  Leif knew this.

  Leif had known it for years.

  Leif had, of course, brought a notebook.

  He set it on the table before anyone spoke. Not as a suggestion. As a statement of intent.

  Bj?rn noticed. Sigrid noticed. Skeggi—sitting at the end of the table with the calm of a man who’d survived wars and brine barrels—noticed and looked pleased in a way that made Leif immediately suspicious.

  “What’s that?” Skeggi asked, already knowing.

  Leif cleared his throat. “A plan.”

  Bj?rn took a drink. “Plans are fine.”

  Sigrid said, “Plans are only fine if they survive contact with reality.”

  Leif nodded like he had been waiting his whole life for this moment. “It will.”

  Eirik, chewing fish, muttered, “Bold.”

  Leif ignored him with the focus of someone who had decided his brother’s opinions belonged in the bin labeled later.

  “I’m doing apprenticeships,” Leif said.

  Sigrid nodded once. “Yes.”

  Bj?rn nodded once. “Good.”

  Skeggi grunted approvingly like a bear agreeing with weather.

  Leif continued, “Not one. Several.”

  Bj?rn’s eyes narrowed. “Several is two or three.”

  Leif flipped the notebook open and slid it forward like he was presenting a treaty.

  “Seven.”

  There was a brief silence where the whole table stared at the number the way men stared at a gate they hadn’t expected to be locked.

  Sigrid said, carefully, “Seven.”

  Bj?rn said, flatly, “Seven.”

  Eirik—because Eirik couldn’t help himself—said, “Seven? Are you trying to become a whole village?”

  Leif looked him dead in the eye. “I’m trying to not be Level 0 at twelve.”

  That shut Eirik up for a full three heartbeats, which was impressive.

  Skeggi leaned forward, eyes bright. “Say the reason. Out loud. So the air hears it.”

  Leif blinked. “What.”

  Skeggi jabbed a finger at him. “Why do we do it, book-boy?”

  Leif’s mouth tightened. He hated being called book-boy. He also knew Skeggi wasn’t wrong.

  “S?fnun,” Leif said. “Filling the vessel. If I go to Naming Day empty, I get a name and I can’t… move. I’m stuck.”

  “Stuck,” Skeggi echoed, satisfied. “Good. Hear that, all of you? Ceremony doesn’t feed you. Work feeds you.”

  Bj?rn made a small sound that meant he’s irritating but correct.

  Sigrid reached for the notebook. “Read me the seven.”

  Leif straightened. He had clearly practiced this.

  “Apothecary,” he said. “Freyeís. Cultivation materials, dosing, channel-safe handling. First, because it touches everything.”

  Sigrid nodded again, already filing who she’d need to speak to.

  “Fletcher,” Leif said. “Because I’m—” he paused, then decided honesty was stronger than pride, “—because I’m an archer and I want a trade that fits it.”

  Bj?rn’s approval was subtle, but it was there.

  “Smith,” Leif continued. “Not to become one. To understand materials. Metal, wood, bindings. What breaks and why.”

  Skeggi snorted. “Good. You can’t shoot a bow if you don’t know what makes it snap.”

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  “Leatherworker,” Leif said. “Straps. Quivers. Harness. Practical.”

  “Cartwright,” Leif said. “Wheels, balance, load—”

  Skeggi held up a hand. “One week.”

  Leif frowned. “Two.”

  “One,” Skeggi said again, and the word landed like a nail.

  Bj?rn finally spoke. “One week is enough. Either you learn how weight moves or you don’t. The rest is splinters.”

  Leif hesitated, then wrote a small mark in the margin—one week—with the reluctant obedience of a boy taking a correction he didn’t want but couldn’t beat.

  “Garrison quartermaster,” Leif said next. “Inventory, supply flow, how to keep people fed when the world turns ugly.”

  Sigrid’s gaze softened, just slightly. Refugees had a way of changing what “practical” meant.

  “And last,” Leif said, voice a touch grim, “Haldis.”

  Bj?rn barked a short laugh.

  Sigrid winced.

  Eirik said, delighted, “Last is smart.”

  Skeggi said, “Last is cowardice.”

  Leif looked scandalized. “It’s strategy.”

  Skeggi waved a hand. “Same thing wearing different boots.”

  Bj?rn pointed a spoon at Leif. “Haldis will work you until you either grow up or die.”

  Leif nodded. “That’s why she’s last.”

  Sigrid closed the notebook gently, like she didn’t want to startle it. “This is… ambitious.”

  “It’s correct,” Leif said.

  “It’s exhausting,” Eirik added.

  Leif ignored him again. “I want skills I can build around. But mostly I want the vessel full. I want to hit Naming Day and be able to move.”

  Skeggi’s eyes went distant for a moment, like something old had drifted through.

  Then he said, quieter, “Good.”

  And because it was Skeggi, he immediately ruined the moment by adding, “If you show up empty, I’ll throw you in the fjord and let the cold slap sense into you.”

  Leif stared. “That’s not how S?fnun works.”

  Skeggi smiled. “It will work on your attitude.”

  · · · ? · · ·

  Eirik waited until the adults were mid-argument about scheduling before he spoke up, because timing mattered.

  “Can I come?” he asked.

  All heads turned.

  Eirik didn’t flinch. He’d learned that flinching only made Sigrid ask follow-up questions.

  “Not as an apprentice,” he said quickly. “I’m not trying to steal Leif’s thing. I just want to go with him. Watch. Help if they let me. I’ll still do my training. I just—” he shrugged, then grinned in that blunt, too-confident way he did when he wanted something, “—I don’t want him having all the fun getting yelled at by professionals.”

  Leif’s mouth twitched. “It’s not fun.”

  Eirik said, “It will be when you mess up.”

  Sigrid looked at Bj?rn.

  Bj?rn looked at Skeggi.

  Skeggi looked at Eirik like he was measuring a fish for a barrel.

  “He can come,” Skeggi said.

  Sigrid’s brow rose. “He’s eight.”

  Skeggi shrugged. “He’s nosy. Put him somewhere he can be nosy with purpose.”

  Eirik said, bright as day, “Exactly.”

  Skeggi pointed at him. “But.”

  Eirik froze. “But.”

  Skeggi leaned forward. “You will not turn every shop into a sniffing contest. You’ll keep your hands off what isn’t yours. You’ll watch with your eyes and not with that twitchy little Touch you’ve got.”

  Eirik opened his mouth.

  Skeggi cut him off. “And if I hear you describe anything as ‘efficient’ I’m putting you in brine.”

  Eirik blinked. Then nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

  Leif muttered, “He’ll still do it.”

  Skeggi said, “Quiet. Let him try to be decent.”

  Bj?rn finally spoke. “He can come when his morning work is done.”

  Eirik said immediately, “It will be done.”

  Bj?rn added, “And when he can still hold Langr for his time.”

  Eirik’s grin widened. “Also done.”

  Bj?rn’s eyes narrowed. “What is your time now?”

  Eirik puffed his chest, because he was absolutely that kind of child. “Thirty-one minutes.”

  The table went quiet again, but this time it was a different quiet.

  Bj?rn didn’t praise. Bj?rn didn’t beam. Bj?rn simply nodded once, slow.

  “Good,” he said.

  Sigrid reached across and ruffled Eirik’s hair once—small, quick, warm.

  Then she turned back to Leif. “Apothecary first. I’ll speak with Freyeís in the morning.”

  Leif exhaled, like something he’d been holding finally loosened.

  He didn’t smile.

  But his shoulders sat differently.

  · · · ? · · ·

  Knut arrived two days later.

  He came in with the refugee work crews—big hands, weathered face, shoulders like a cart axle—carrying a coil of rope and acting like he’d always belonged inside garrison walls.

  Leif saw him from across the yard and went still.

  Then Leif moved—fast, but controlled, like he didn’t trust the world not to take the moment away if he ran at it too hard.

  Knut caught him in a one-armed hug that turned into a two-armed hug halfway through because Knut was not, in fact, made of stone.

  He held him for three breaths.

  Then he pushed him back to arm’s length and looked him up and down.

  “You’re taller,” Knut said.

  Leif said, very quietly, “I’m trying.”

  Knut’s eyes flicked to the notebook tucked under Leif’s arm, because Leif always had it, and because fathers noticed what their sons carried.

  “What’s that?”

  Leif hesitated. Then handed it over like it weighed more than paper.

  Knut opened it. Scanned. His brow rose at “seven.”

  He looked at Leif. “Seven apprenticeships.”

  Leif braced, like a boy expecting a blow that wasn’t coming.

  Knut handed it back carefully. “That’s a lot.”

  Leif swallowed. “Yes.”

  Knut scratched his jaw, thinking.

  Then he said, “Good.”

  Leif blinked. “Good?”

  Knut nodded once, heavy and sure. “Good. You’ll learn what you like, what you don’t, and what you can stand doing when you’re tired and hungry. That matters more than what sounds grand.”

  Leif’s throat moved. “It’s mostly for S?fnun.”

  Knut’s gaze sharpened. “Aye. Fill the vessel. Don’t walk up to your Naming Day with an empty belly and an empty body. You want the Wyrd to sit your Class and find a home ready for it.”

  Leif nodded so hard it was almost embarrassing.

  Knut’s eyes slid past him—caught Eirik watching from the edge of the yard with Langr leaned against a post like it was a pet he’d raised.

  Knut stared at the sword.

  Then stared at Eirik.

  Then, because he was a father and fathers were legally required to say things like this, he asked, “Is that… yours?”

  Eirik grinned. “Yes.”

  Knut looked at Leif. “Does he swing it?”

  Leif said, deadpan, “He carries it around and suffers on purpose.”

  Knut made a sound that might have been a laugh if he didn’t respect his ribs.

  Skeggi, passing by at that exact moment, said, “It’s character building.”

  Knut looked at Skeggi. “You’re the fish man.”

  Skeggi looked offended. “Skeggi.”

  Knut nodded like he’d accept it. “Skeggi.”

  Skeggi nodded back like he’d just won something important.

  Then Knut leaned down to Leif—voice low enough it was just for him.

  “Do the apprenticeships,” he said. “Work hard. Ask questions. And when it hurts, good. That’s your vessel learning it has to make room.”

  Leif swallowed again, eyes bright in a way he’d hate anyone noticing.

  “I will,” he said.

  Knut straightened, clapped him once on the shoulder, then pointed at Eirik.

  “And if that one tags along,” Knut said, “make sure he doesn’t get you thrown out.”

  Eirik said, loudly, “I’ve never been thrown out of anything!”

  Leif said, even louder, “That is not true!”

  Skeggi walked past them and said, “If you get thrown out, come see me. I’ll teach you how to blame a fish.”

  Knut stared.

  Leif stared.

  Eirik looked delighted.

  Sigrid, from the corridor, closed her eyes for one brief moment like she was praying for patience.

  Then she opened them and said, “Leif. Tomorrow. First bell. Apothecary.”

  Leif straightened like a soldier.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Eirik lifted Langr like it weighed nothing—because he’d decided it wouldn’t.

  “And me?” Eirik asked.

  Sigrid looked at him.

  She didn’t smile, exactly.

  But her voice softened a fraction.

  “You,” she said, “are going to behave.”

  Eirik put a hand to his chest like he’d been stabbed.

  “I am the soul of obedience,” he declared.

  Skeggi muttered, “That’s the funniest lie I’ve heard this month.”

  Leif tucked his notebook under his arm.

  Knut ruffled his hair once, quick and rough.

  And the Naming Year—real, practical, heavy—finally started moving in earnest.

  Not at a shrine.

  In an apothecary shop, at first bell, with a vessel that needed filling and a boy who intended to arrive ready.

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