The wheels of the Scandinavian Airlines flight struck the runway with a heavy thud as Copenhagen Airport emerged through the pale morning fog. Elara pressed her forehead lightly against the glass, watching sleek Scandinavian architecture blur past the runway. "We're here," she whispered. "Official Stormbornes on Danish soil."
Ethan was already unclipping his seatbelt the second the sign turned off. "Technically Danish asphalt," he corrected. "Let's survive Terminal 3 before you start bonding emotionally with the scenery."
After passport control, the twins entered the baggage hall—a massive wood-floored space that looked more like a minimalist art gallery than an airport.
"There's mine," Ethan announced proudly, hoisting his single sensible duffel bag off the carousel.
Then came Elara's "curated lifestyle."
First appeared a bright teal suitcase missing a wheel. Then another with a partially broken zipper exposing a suspicious amount of fluffy fabric. Then the conveyor belt groaned. Stopped. And died.
"No," Elara whispered in horror, staring toward the tunnel where her remaining suitcases sat trapped just out of reach. "You have to be kidding me."
A loud metallic clunk echoed from somewhere behind the wall while an airport employee sprinted past speaking rapidly into a radio. Ethan squinted at the flashing red SERVICE INTERRUPTED sign overhead. "Apparently the system jammed," he translated. "Something about the automated sorter short-circuiting."
"My other bags are in there!" Elara pointed accusingly at the conveyor tunnel. "My coat, my boots—"
"And probably an entire furniture collection."
She glared at him. "I am going to find whoever designed this airport system and give them a very professional PR statement."
"In English?" Ethan asked dryly. "Because right now the only Danish word you need is undskyld. Sorry."
Before Elara could retaliate, a side door near the machinery opened. A woman in an airport operations jacket ducked under the caution tape carrying a flashlight. "Who owns the turquoise suitcase that appears to have survived a small war?" she called.
Elara raised both hands immediately. "Me."
The woman nodded once. "I thought so." Ethan nearly choked laughing.
The worker introduced herself as Lene and explained that one oversized suitcase had wedged itself sideways inside the baggage sorter, freezing the entire line. "It happens often during student arrivals," Lene sighed. "Too many people bring their whole lives."
Ethan slowly turned toward his sister. "Oh don't start."
A few minutes later, the conveyor belt jerked back to life. A small cheer went through the baggage hall. One by one, the missing suitcases appeared from the tunnel. Elara spotted her final two almost immediately. "There they are."
One arrived with a strip of emergency duct tape around the handle. The other had a large HEAVY sticker slapped across the front. Ethan looked at the luggage, then at her. "You know you're only going to university, right?"
"They're necessities."
"Four suitcases?"
"Planning ahead."
"For what? A diplomatic summit?"
Elara gave him a look. "Some of us have standards." Ethan shook his head, but he was already reaching for one of the cases.
By the time they made it through arrivals, evening had settled over Copenhagen. Beyond the glass doors stood Brigitte Stormborne, tall and elegant in a charcoal coat, her dark curls loosely pinned back against the cool evening air. Her face brightened the second she saw them. "Ethan." He reached her first, pulling her into a hug. Elara followed a second later, dropping her bag long enough to wrap her arms around her aunt.
"Hi. I'm exhausted, freezing, and officially done with airports."
Brigitte laughed. "That bad?"
"Ask the baggage system."
Her eyes moved toward the trolley piled with suitcases. "And I see you packed sensibly."
Ethan snorted. "Elara packed," he corrected.
Brigitte gave her a knowing smile. "Of course she did."
She took hold of the trolley. "Come on. Let's get you both home."
The drive through Copenhagen was quieter than Elara expected.
She rested her head against the window, watching bicycles glide past under the streetlights, rows of neat buildings glowing softly against the evening sky. Sydney suddenly felt very far away. Beside her, Ethan kept Brigitte occupied with questions about Aalborg, the university, and how cold winter actually got. Elara tried to follow the conversation, but her eyes kept drifting shut. By the time they reached Brigitte's canal-side apartment, she was running on nothing but stubbornness. She barely managed to kick off her boots before dropping onto the guest bed. Brigitte appeared in the doorway a moment later. "Sleep well," she said. "But not for too long."
Elara groaned into the pillow. Jet lag, it turned out, was not going to make their first few days in Denmark particularly easy. Brigitte had already made one thing clear: daylight was for staying awake, exploring, and adjusting—not sleeping through Copenhagen.