It was a hard year for Fenrin. The last year he had grown softer, his mother inadvertently taking the attention from himself along with responsibilities. He had spent more time daydreaming and playing around than working, he told himself that was why Bryn had set the competition. Part of him scoffed and was certain Lyra would never beat him. He had always been the stronger twin, picking up and mastering things quickly, but the determination in Lyra's eyes made his stomach twist and told him this would not be easy.

It was a hard year for Dyla. She didn't like how Bryn had set her children on each other, but she saw how it made Fenrin work harder and she suspected it was keeping Lyra out of trouble as well. She mostly hated it because she knew she had contributed to Lyra's change. She had left her, there was no way around this fact.

It was a hard year for Bryn. Not because of his family's conflict, but because the war was letting up, both sides exhausting and running out of resources. That meant less treasure and less reason to be on the sea. Bryn became bored with the sea.

As fall came, the High King of Valhym and the Duskar Council declared a ceasefire. It wasn't a treaty, but everyone knew this war was over. Tensions remained high, but each nation's sea forces limped back to harbors for repairs, leaving little for Bryn to feed on.

So, Bryn ordered the ship docked in the secret cove and spent the rest of fall arranging for a new captain, making alliances and agreements in trade for his ship and the more sea-bound crew. His personal pirating days were over.

Returning to the estate, Fenrin grew nervous, although he was careful not to let it show. He realized no rules had been set for the engagement and he became more and more convinced Lyra would strike as soon as possible.

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His twin's plan had indeed been that, until she'd read a fascinating treatise on mental warfare. When they arrived, she greeted them without incident, but spent the winter showing up suddenly or brushing too close to her anxious brother. She had grown taller than he was. Fenrin slept poorly the whole winter. It never occurred to him that he could strike first. Lyra suspected as much, sleeping soundly in her room.

Finally, Bryn declared it almost time to leave, this time openly as the family dined and that was when Lyra struck. She leapt over the table at her brother, whose sword—a recent upgrade—quickly rose to meet her knife. She jumped back, kicking at bowls and plates to make room for her feet on the table. Fenrin rolled back watching his sister carefully.

Dyla gripped her chair watching her twelve year old children fight. Bryn shouted, "No death, no maiming. First blood wins."

The twins stalked each other, Fenrin circling the table, Lyra refusing to give up her high ground. He lunged but she danced out of his reach, kicking a candlestick at him. He knocked it aside with his sword and she jumped. She grabbed his hilt and raised her knife. In turn, he grabbed her knife hand and they stayed there locked together until, slowly her hand was pushed back, the very tip of the blade tracing a thin red line on her cheek.

Lyra closed her eyes and dropped the knife. Fenrin backed away panting.

"Fenrin," Bryn said as a matter of calling the victor.

Lyra spun and strode away and Fenrin watched her go, looking for a moment as if he would follow, an ache in his heart where the broken tie to his sister lay dusty. Then the dagger on the ground caught his eye and he remembered the sight of Lyra bearing down on him, her knife poised to strike. She had wanted to hurt him. He threw away the broken thing's pieces.

Bryn, Dyla, and Fenrin left that night. Lyra stayed in her room and didn't watch them go.