Sigurd did not calm down quickly.
He screamed.
He wailed.
He fell backward, tiny plush legs flailing as he shouted things like, "My honor! My dignity! My ankles!" and "Why do I have buttons for eyes—THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!" Jerry watched, coiled neatly on my pillow, expression blank but tail flicking in what I suspected was amusement.
After five minutes of theatrics, another three of muttering about "the indignity of reduced stature," and two more of him banging his fuzzy head into my blanket dramatically, Sigurd finally sat up. His little chest heaved.
"…I am calm," he announced, though his squeaky voice gave him away.
I took a deep breath, sat at the edge of the bed, and tried not to stare at how fluffy he was.
"Sigurd," I began gently, "I summoned you because… I need help."
He perked up immediately—paws folding together, chin lifting like an offended noble. "Ah. Of course. Mortals always need something. Very well. Let us hear your request."
"It's not just a request." My throat tightened. "It's… everything."
That got his attention. His little button eyes softened—just barely.
"I need to save my kingdom." My voice dipped quieter. "My people are trapped. They'll starve. Freeze. Die. Unless I find a way to return stronger than I left."
Sigurd's ears twitched.
"And to save them," I continued, "I need to become stronger. Much stronger. Fast."
For once, he didn't interrupt.
I forced myself to meet his plush gaze. "I summoned you hoping… you could teach me. Help me grow. Train me."
A long silence settled between us.
Sigurd folded his arms.
"That," he said finally, voice surprisingly serious for someone who looked like a child's toy, "is a noble cause."
Warm relief washed through me.
Then he hopped to his feet with renewed confidence, pointing a stubby paw skyward. "And you have come to the right place! For I am Sigurd the Dragonslayer—master swordsman, warrior without equal, hero of legend!"
Jerry snorted. "Hero of marital murder."
Sigurd whirled. "I WAS ASLEEP—"
"Still counts," Jerry mumbled.
I coughed loudly to redirect them before Sigurd launched himself at Jerry's tail. "Why… exactly are you willing to help me?"
He froze again.
For a moment, I saw him hesitate—really hesitate. The bravado faded. The heroic posturing dimmed.
Then he sighed.
"Helheim is boring," he muttered flatly. "Eternal gloom. Eternal dampness. No breakfast pastries. And the company—ghastly."
I blinked. "So you're helping because… you're bored?"
"And because your cause is noble!" he added hastily. "Yes, that too. Very noble. A proper quest. Much better than waiting around in the underworld with the shades of people who smell like swamp water."
I wasn't going to push my luck. At least he was willing.
Sigurd cleared his throat and puffed out his stuffed chest. "Let us begin then! If you require strength, then strength you shall have. For I am a master swordsman!"
Jerry muttered, "In a body the size of a potato."
Sigurd ignored him.
He hopped down from the bed—landing with a soft pomf. Then he marched toward the open floor space, pacing like a general assessing a battlefield. "First things first—your basics are atrocious."
"I haven't done anything yet."
"Yes, and it already shows."
I stared.
He stared harder.
"…Fine," I grumbled. "Teach me."
He nodded. "Swordsmanship, child, comes in ranks—much like magic. But unlike mages, swordsmen rely on mana not for spellcasting, but for reinforcing the body, the blade, and the will."
He pointed his paw at me. "Repeat the ranks."
"Um… novice swordsman, experienced swordsman, master swordsman—"
"No no no!" He slapped his own face. "Humans always oversimplify!"
Jerry rolled his eyes. "Here we go."
Sigurd dramatically cleared his throat.
"Tier One—clumsy novices who hold a blade like a vegetable. Tier Two—those who can actually swing without stabbing themselves. Tier Three—warriors who can channel mana through their body but not their blade. Tier Four—novice magic swordsmen, capable of imbuing both body and weapon. Tier Five—skilled magic swordsmen, feared on the battlefield. Tier Six—true masters, unmatched."
I stared at him.
"…I think I understood five percent of that."
"Enough. You learn the rest by doing." He hopped closer. "Now. To become strong, you must use mana differently than you do for magic."
"I thought mana was mana?"
Sigurd shook his plush head vehemently. "The flow is different. For spells, you gather mana outward, directing it to a point. For swordsmanship, you gather inward—pulling mana into your core, then sending it through your limbs."
I tried to follow his explanation. He used his tiny paws to gesture wildly, which made little sense but was entertaining.
He continued, "Imagine your mana is water—"
"That feels too on the nose," Jerry muttered.
"—and you force it through channels in your body."
He demonstrated by directing a faint pulse of mana down one of his plush arms. Somehow, his button eyes glowed faintly. "This reinforces strength, balance, precision."
I nodded, trying to mimic him. "Like this?"
Mana shifted clumsily inside me, stumbling like a baby deer.
Sigurd stared.
"…That is the magical equivalent of dropping a sword on your foot."
"Great," I deadpanned.
He sighed long and theatrically. "We have work to do."
He showed me again, slower this time—tiny pulses of mana traveling from his core (which, yes, apparently teddy bears had) down through his body, creating a steady, controlled current.
It took me five tries to even get the mana into my arm.
By the eighth try, my hand spasmed violently enough that Jerry hissed and backed up.
By the tenth, I got a faint, brief glow.
Sigurd clapped. "Progress!"
"That hurt," I muttered.
"Then do it again."
I did.
Again.
And again.
By the twelfth attempt, mana flowed smoothly enough to give my hand a light buzz instead of stabbing pain.
"Better," Sigurd said. "Still terrible, but better."
I groaned. "How was your first time?"
"I was eight," he announced proudly. "And excellent."
"Fantastic. That helps."
He coughed. "Now—forms."
"What forms?"
He pointed upward. "The forms of swordsmanship! Fluidity, stance, footwork—without them, you may as well be waving a stick."
He demonstrated a stance.
Well—no.
He attempted to demonstrate a stance.
In his teddy bear body, the move translated to him standing with his legs slightly apart while his little arms extended in what looked like an attempt to do an enthusiastic stretch.
"…Sigurd," I said slowly, "that looks like a dance warm-up."
"IT IS A DEADLY POSTURE," he snapped.
I bit my lip to avoid laughing and mimicked him. "Like this?"
"No!" He waddled over and smacked my calf with his paw. "Your stance is weak! Again!"
Jerry sighed. "This is painful to watch."
Sigurd spun toward him. "You want to teach then?"
Jerry recoiled instantly. "Absolutely not."
"Then hush!"
He went back to correcting me—quite aggressively for someone who weighed less than a loaf of bread. He barked orders, slapped my shins, shouted about posture, and generally acted like every drill sergeant I had ever imagined.
After several minutes, sweat dripped down my temple.
"So," I panted, "would this be easier if you had your old body?"
Sigurd froze.
A sharp, almost mournful silence fell.
"Yes," he admitted quietly. "With my true body, I could show you far more."
"So why are you a teddy bear?"
He stiffened, pulling himself up with whatever pride a plush toy could muster.
"When a Fylgja is summoned, they take the form that best reflects their spiritual resonance with their summoner."
I stared.
Jerry broke into laughter.
Sigurd glared daggers. "Do not read into it!"
I held up my hands. "I wasn't going to! I just—wanted to know if Fylgja can ever appear human."
"Yes," he grumbled. "It is rare, but possible."
"Is it possible for you?"
He hesitated.
"…Perhaps. If you grow stronger. If your spirit stabilizes. If my own mana isn't constrained by—this." He gestured helplessly at his fuzzy body.
I nodded slowly. "Then let's get stronger. Both of us."
His button eyes glinted with something fierce.
"Very well. Then from this day forth, I—Sigurd the Dragonslayer—shall forge you into a warrior. Whether you cry, faint, bleed, or vomit—"
"Can we skip the vomiting part—"
"—YOU WILL TRAIN!"
Jerry snorted. "This was a mistake."
And even though my muscles burned, my mana pathways ached, and my future looked overwhelming…
…I felt something warm settle in my chest.
Determination.
For my kingdom.
For my people.
For myself.
"Alright, teacher," I said, dropping into the stance again. "Where do we start?"
Sigurd smirked.
"With everything."