A floorboard creaked beneath Nyelle's careful steps. She froze, breath caught in her throat, waiting for any sign that the sound had disturbed Elina's cooking or Aerik's mending by the hearth. When no reaction came, she continued her silent path across the room, her objective clear: the loose board beneath Torvald's side of the bed that had caught her attention three days prior.
Two weeks had passed since her "recovery," time spent mapping Yorkton's districts and absorbing every detail of the Harringer family's routines. Her exploration had revealed key information about this medieval world—the empire's structure, the city's social hierarchy, the economics of survival in Lower Yorkton. But the mystery in her own home remained most intriguing.
Twice now, she'd noticed Torvald kneeling beside the bed late at night, moving something beneath the floorboards when he thought everyone was asleep.
With Torvald at the docks and the afternoon sun warming the small bedroom, the opportunity was perfect. Nyelle dropped to her knees, fingers finding the almost imperceptible gap where one plank met another. She pressed on the board's edge, and it lifted smoothly—clearly designed for regular access.
The hollow space beneath contained a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth. Nyelle withdrew it with practiced hands, her movements reminiscent of Nirei's careful examination of forged documents or counterfeit currency. She unfolded the cloth on the floor, revealing its contents with a soft intake of breath.
Three daggers lay nestled in the fabric, their leather sheaths worn but well-maintained. They weren't kitchen implements or common tools—these were weapons, designed specifically for combat. She drew one carefully, revealing a slender double-edged blade with a distinctive crossguard and pommel.
"Military issue," she whispered, recognizing the design from somewhere in Nirei's memories—perhaps a historical collection he'd once considered investing in. The blade caught the afternoon light, revealing a small insignia engraved near the hilt—two crossed swords beneath a stylized eagle.
"Imperial Special Division."
The voice behind her sent a jolt through Nyelle's body. She turned quickly, the dagger still in hand, to find Torvald filling the doorway. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes fixed on the weapon in his daughter's hand.
"Father," she began, mind racing for a plausible explanation. "I was looking for—"
"The truth, Nyelle." His voice remained calm, but carried an unfamiliar authority. "Why are you digging through my things?"
In that moment, something in his posture shifted—a straightening of the spine, a subtle repositioning of weight that spoke of military training. This wasn't the weary dock worker she'd come to know. This was someone else entirely.
Nyelle opted for honesty. "I saw you hiding something. I was curious."
Torvald studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "Put it back in the sheath properly. Point first, then roll the handle downward."
She followed his instructions, noting the precise way he'd specified. Not a casual direction but a trained habit.
"You were a soldier," she said, making it a statement rather than a question.
"Once." Torvald entered the room fully, closing the door behind him. "Long before you were born."
He knelt beside her, taking the wrapped bundle and placing it on the bed rather than returning it to its hiding place. His calloused fingers traced the leather sheath of one dagger with surprising tenderness.
"Special Division," Nyelle prompted, watching his reaction.
Something like pride flickered across his weathered face. "The Emperor's Shadows, we were called unofficially. Special operations, difficult assignments." He glanced at her. "Not something I've spoken of to you children before."
This was new information about the man she was supposed to call father—a hidden dimension of his life that perhaps explained the scars she'd noticed, the nightmares Elina had mentioned in passing.
"Why keep them hidden?" she asked.
"Some pasts are better left buried." He unwrapped the bundle fully, revealing items she hadn't noticed before—a tarnished medal, a sealed letter, and a small leather-bound notebook. "These aren't simply weapons, Nyelle. They're memories. Some good, many not."
"Why keep them at all, then?"
Torvald's laugh held no humor. "Some ghosts don't stay buried, no matter how deep you dig the grave." He picked up one dagger, testing its balance with the ease of muscle memory. "These remind me of what I once was—and what I chose not to be anymore."
Watching him handle the weapon, Nyelle saw a transformation. The laborer's slouch vanished, replaced by a warrior's poise. His movements became precise, economical, dangerous.
"You still practice," she observed.
"Old habits." He resheathed the blade. "Some skills you don't let rust, even when you hope never to use them again."
Nyelle's fingers itched to hold the daggers again. Nirei had never been a fighter—manipulation and deception were his weapons—but something about these blades resonated with her. Perhaps it was their hidden nature, the secret skill they represented.
"Could you teach me?" The question emerged before she'd fully formed the thought.
Torvald's eyebrows rose. "To fight with daggers? What would a child need with such skills?"
*To survive in a world I don't understand. To protect myself in this vulnerable body.*
"The streets aren't always safe," she said instead. "Aerik says the Blackwell boys have been following me after market days."
It wasn't entirely a lie. Devin Blackwell and his friends had indeed taken notice of her during her explorations, though she'd easily evaded them thus far.
Torvald frowned, considering. "There are other ways to handle bullies. Your mother wouldn't approve of weapon training."
"Not the full fighting," Nyelle clarified quickly. "Just... how to be aware. How to move." She gestured at the daggers. "You don't have to give me one."
He studied her face with an intensity that made her wonder if he could somehow see through to Nirei's consciousness. After a long pause, he rewrapped the bundle except for one dagger, which he held loosely in his hand.
"Come with me," he said, rising to his feet.
They slipped out the back door into the small yard behind the house—a patch of hard-packed earth bordered by a rickety fence. The space was barely fifteen feet square, with a small shed for tools in one corner and a clothesline stretched across another.
"First lesson," Torvald said, his voice dropping into a different cadence—clipped, precise, instructional. "Awareness. Before any weapon becomes useful, you must understand your surroundings."
He guided her to the center of the yard. "Close your eyes. Tell me what you hear."
Nyelle obeyed, focusing her attention outward. "The blacksmith's hammer three streets over. Children playing near the well. A cart passing on the main road. Mrs. Hennet arguing with her son about firewood."
"Good." Approval warmed his voice. "In the Special Division, we trained blindfolded for weeks until we could map entire buildings by sound alone. Now, eyes still closed—where am I?"
She concentrated, filtering out the ambient noises to focus on immediate sounds—the subtle shift of weight on packed earth, the whisper of fabric as an arm moved. "Two paces behind me, slightly to the right."
"Open your eyes."
She turned to find him exactly where she'd placed him, a slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
"You have good instincts," he said. "Better than most adults."
The praise shouldn't have mattered to someone who had once manipulated millions from sophisticated investors, yet Nyelle felt an unexpected flush of pride.
"Now watch." Torvald assumed a neutral stance, the dagger held reverse-grip against his forearm. "The first principle of knife defense isn't attacking—it's making yourself a difficult target."
He demonstrated a series of movements—not flashy combat techniques, but practical shifts designed to protect vital areas while maintaining mobility. The economy of his motion spoke of years of training refined by actual combat.
"Your turn," he said, gesturing for her to mimic his stance. "No weapon yet. Just the positioning."
Nyelle assumed the posture, surprised at how awkward her small body felt attempting these movements. Nirei had been physically fit—regular sessions with an expensive personal trainer had ensured that—but this child's form lacked the muscle memory and coordination she expected.
"Arms closer to your center," Torvald instructed, gently adjusting her position. "You're small, which means you're already harder to hit than a full-sized opponent. Use that advantage."
For the next hour, he guided her through basic defensive postures, occasionally demonstrating how a movement would deflect an incoming attack. He never placed the actual dagger in her hands, but allowed her to observe as he demonstrated proper grips and holding techniques.
"The blade is an extension of your arm, not a separate thing," he explained, executing a fluid defensive pattern that ended with the dagger positioned to counter an imaginary attacker. "You don't fight with a knife—you fight with your entire body, and the knife is simply the point of contact."
Sweat beaded on Nyelle's forehead as she repeated the movements, determination overriding her body's protests. Something about this training felt right—not just useful for survival, but somehow connecting her to this man who wasn't really her father.
"Enough for today," Torvald said finally, noting her fatigue. "Your mother will have my hide if she catches me teaching you this."
Nyelle nodded, using a sleeve to wipe perspiration from her brow. "When can we continue?"
Torvald studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "You enjoyed this."
It wasn't a question, but she answered anyway. "Yes. It feels..." She searched for the right word. "Important."
He nodded slowly. "Tomorrow I work late shift. The day after, we can practice again if your mother takes her mending to Lady Meredith's." He resheathed the dagger, his movements automatic after decades of handling the weapon. "But Nyelle—this stays between us for now."
"Our secret," she agreed, understanding his concern. Elina would likely object to her daughter learning combat skills, regardless of the justification.
As they returned inside, Torvald paused at the doorway. "Why were you really looking under the floorboards?" he asked quietly. "The truth this time."
Nyelle considered her answer carefully. "I wanted to understand you better," she said finally. "There's more to you than you show."
His expression softened with something like sadness. "We all have hidden parts, little one. Even you."
The words struck uncomfortably close to her situation. Did he somehow sense the impostor behind his daughter's eyes?
"What do you mean?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
"That mind of yours works differently than most," he said, tapping her forehead gently. "Always has, even as a babe. Watching, calculating. Your mother worries about it sometimes."
Relief and something like guilt mingled in Nyelle's chest. He wasn't seeing Nirei—he was seeing qualities the real Nyelle had already possessed. Perhaps the child whose body she inhabited had been more like Nirei than she'd realized.
That evening, as the family gathered for dinner, Nyelle observed Torvald with new perspective. The way he positioned himself in the room—back to the wall, clear sightline to the door. The precise way he handled his knife while eating. The watchful awareness that never fully disappeared, even in the safety of his home.
This wasn't just a simple laborer who had once served in the military. This was a highly trained operative who had chosen to bury his skills beneath a working man's facade. The revelation added layers to her understanding of the Harringer family dynamic.
As Elina described her day's work and Aerik complained about the tannery master's unreasonable demands, Nyelle caught Torvald watching her with thoughtful eyes. He offered a slight nod—acknowledgment of their shared secret—before returning his attention to his wife's story.
Later, preparing for sleep on her straw mattress near the hearth, Nyelle replayed the defensive movements in her mind, her body subtly shifting through the positions Torvald had taught her. The training had awoken something she hadn't expected—not just the practical value of self-defense, but a sense of connection to this man who had shared a hidden part of himself with her.
As she drifted toward sleep, her mind returned to the insignia on the daggers—two crossed swords beneath an eagle. Another piece of this world's puzzle, another fragment of information to help her navigate her new existence. But more importantly, a thread connecting her to Torvald in a way that transcended the lie of their supposed relationship.
For the first time since awakening in this child's body, Nyelle felt something beyond the calculating need to survive. It wasn't quite belonging—not yet—but perhaps the beginning of understanding.