The Norsefire guards stood frozen for a breath, wide-eyed as they stared at their Captain—their Captain—now crumpled in the cratered wall like a broken doll. Bits of shattered red brick and mortar rained from the impact, tumbling to the bloodstained pavement below, slick and glistening under the downpour. Astrea stirred, barely, a cough rattling in her chest as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, washing into the cracks of the stone.
Then, all eyes turned.
Helga stood at the center of the street, soaked to the bone, fists clenched at the ready. Her amber eyes burned like molten gold beneath the flicker of lightning. No grief, no fear. Just silence. And fury. Something had shifted in her. Something deep, dark, and unshakable. Her face held a shadow that chilled the spine.
Panic set in.
Weapons came up. Swords. Truncheons. Wands. Ten guards, hardened soldiers of the Tower, raised their arms as one. A sharp cry split the air as they charged, boots hammering the pavement, spellfire erupting from wands in blazing orbs of luminous energy. Red, gold, and green—screaming through the rain.
Helga moved.
She exploded forward off the balls of her feet, fast—inhumanly fast—her form blurring through the downpour. The first blast missed her shoulder by inches; the second she swatted aside mid-run, the glowing orb shattering harmlessly against her gauntlet. The street became chaos. Flashes of color, blades slicing air, cries lost beneath the crash of thunder.
But she was already among them.
Helga twisted through the ranks like a tempest, her gauntleted fists moving faster than thought. A punch to the ribs sent one guard crashing into a lamppost—armor caved inward. Breath lost in a gasp of blood. Another met her elbow to the jaw. His head snapped sideways with a wet crack as teeth flew from his mouth. A spin—her backhand caught the next across the temple, dropping him like a puppet with its strings cut. They tried to react. They tried to fight.
But every time her fists met flesh, the sound was that of war drums on wet stone—bone shattering, skin splitting. With each strike, the rain itself was cast aside in wide gusts, shockwaves rippling from her fists with every blow, leaving craters in the pavement, cracking stone beneath their feet.
Screams filled the street. Blood mixed with the rain, slicking the ground red beneath falling bodies. One by one, they dropped—limbs bent wrong, faces caved in, weapons snapped in half. Some tried to crawl. Others didn't move at all. Helga didn't stop.
Every blow. Every crunch of knuckle against bone. Every scream, every pitiful whimper that echoed through the rain brought with it a memory—moments once filled with warmth. Pablo's hearty laugh. Edda's gentle embrace. Elio's shy, innocent smile. The way they made her feel welcome, safe, and loved.
All of it, gone.
Stolen by monsters.
And those monsters—they rejoiced.
Something had broken inside her. The part that searched for reason, for understanding, for some redeeming thread in the people who did this. It was gone. All that remained was a hollow, frozen ache and a single, unrelenting truth rising from the depths of her soul.
She was done.
Done making excuses.
Done justifying the cruelty of others.
Done trying to empathize with the darkness that twisted people into beasts.
Most of all—she was done holding back.
Two guards lunged at her from either side, blades arcing toward her with a clash of steel and fury. Helga caught them mid-swing, her gauntlets locking around the sharpened metal. Her teeth clenched, eyes ablaze with fury as she crushed down—iron groaned, then snapped, the blades shattering like glass in her grip. The guards had no time to react.
Her fists drove forward—one to the jaw, the other to the cheekbone—striking like warhammers. Their faces crumpled inward with sickening cracks, blood bursting in fans across the rain-slicked pavement.
They dropped without a sound.
Helga moved again.
Another charged—this time a woman, heavier, swinging a truncheon with both hands. Helga didn't flinch. She stepped in close and snarled as she drove her gauntleted fist deep into the woman's gut. The woman's eyes bulged as the breath—and more—was torn from her. A burst of blood and bile erupted from her mouth as her body folded in on itself, crashing lifeless to the ground.
Helga turned, slowly, to the last four guards. Three clutched wands, hands trembling. The fourth gripped a sword in both fists, his eyes wide but wild with desperation. With a strangled cry, he broke formation and charged, blade raised high as if sheer will might carry him through what none before him had survived.
Helga met him head-on. She surged forward, rain trailing off her coat like a storm at her heels. In a single, fluid motion, she leapt—her body twisting midair, gauntleted fist cocked back.
And then she came down.
Her punch landed square on his face with a wet, crunching boom. His skull ruptured beneath the blow, bone and blood erupting in a gruesome spray as his head shattered like a melon dropped from a great height. The body collapsed to the pavement just as Helga landed in a crouch, the concrete beneath her feet cracking from the force.
She stood.
The three wand-wielders stared at her in silent horror. Blood painted her face and shoulders, strands of viscera clinging to her brow and jaw. She said nothing. Did nothing. Then, slowly, her fingers reached to her shoulder—gripping the limp optic nerve of what had once been the man's eye.
She held it a moment, letting them see it.
Then dropped it.
The eye landed with a soft, wet plop on the rain-slicked asphalt.
Helga didn't blink.
That was enough. Whatever false courage the three remaining guards had clung to shattered completely. They screamed—raw, panicked cries that cut through the downpour—as they loosed wild bursts of spellfire. Bolts of light tore through the rain, desperate and directionless.
Helga didn't flinch. She moved, vanishing in a blur of motion. In the time it took a heart to beat, she was among them—fists a storm of violence.
Bone snapped like brittle twigs. Blood sprayed across the street in crimson arcs. She grabbed the first guard by the face. Palming his skull like a melon and drove it straight into the side of a Norsefire armored truck. The thick windshield exploded on impact, shards of safety glass embedding into his face and eyes. Before he could even groan, she yanked him back and slammed him into the metal door, the impact crumpling the armored plate inward with a low, hollow boom.
She turned to the next.
The woman stood her ground, wand raised, lips trembling.
"Tonitrus!" she cried.
A bolt of lightning erupted from her wand, shrieking through the storm. It struck Helga square in the chest, blue light exploding on contact. Her body jolted, seizing from the force, but no scream followed. No collapse.
Just a step.
Then another.
Eyes narrowed. Jaw clenched.
"Tonitrus!" the guard screamed again, and again, and again—each blast louder, more desperate, more violent. Lightning crashed against Helga's body like divine judgment and still she walked.
Rain hissed off her gauntlets as she raised her arms, crossed them, and then snapped them outward. The magic dissipated with a burst of displaced air.
Then came the roar.
Helga charged, howling like something primal and furious. The woman barely had time to gasp before Helga's uppercut caught her under the chin, lifting her clean off her feet and into the air. In the same motion, Helga seized her ankle and swung her downward like a hammer, face-first into the asphalt.
A wet crack rang out as bone and blood exploded beneath the impact, painting the street in a widening stain of red.
She hauled the limp body back and swung again—this time against the opposite side, slamming her like a ragdoll. Limbs bent in unnatural angles, vertebrae splintered, a mess of crushed bone and pink matter streaking the pavement. With a final roar, Helga hurled her into the side of the armored truck. The body struck with enough force to cave in the metal, lifting the vehicle slightly before it crumpled back down with a groan of warped steel.
Helga turned, her glare locking onto the final guard. He stood frozen, soaked and trembling, yet desperation twisted into resolve. As she lunged, he raised his wand and shouted:
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of sickly green erupted from the tip, searing through the rain, striking Helga square in the face. Her head jerked back from the force. The guard's breath caught, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. For the briefest moment, he believed it. That it was over.
Then Helga's head turned forward.
Her amber eyes narrowed, glowing subtly and alive with burning fury.
The guard's smile vanished.
She moved in a blur.
Helga planted her feet, her body twisting like a coiled spring unleashed. Her gauntleted fist came around in a wide hook, crashing into the side of his head. His lower jaw tore free from his skull, spiraling through the air like a mangled boomerang before it clattered against the pavement in a spray of blood and bone.
The guard stumbled backward, his face a ruin of torn flesh and shattered bone. Blood gushed down the front of his armor, his eyes still wide, locked in horror, before his body gave out and collapsed in a heap.
He didn't move again.
****
"Avada Kedavra!"
The killing curse struck Helga square in the back. Her body jolted forward from the force, stumbling briefly in the rain-soaked street. The searing green light faded, but she did not fall. She turned. Her amber eyes, aflame with cold fury, locked onto Astrea.
The Captain stood at the far end of the wreckage, her smaller chainsword in her hand, the tip hummed with magical energy. Her stance was unsteady, blood streaking down her chin, but her gaze burned with defiance.
Helga straightened.
The rain ran down her face, mixing with the blood smeared across her jaw. Her golden gauntlets, cracked and scorched, pulsed with otherworldly power—energy coiling along the runes etched into their surface like living veins of molten light.
"Avada Kedavra!" Astrea cried again.
The spell hit Helga's shoulder. She flinched, staggered a step—but kept walking.
"Avada Kedavra!" Astrea screamed, wilder now.
Again, the curse struck. And again, Helga endured.
Spell after spell, bolt after bolt, the killing curse slammed into her body. Green flashes lighting the storm—but it was as if they passed through rain and thunder. Her pace never broke. Her eyes never wavered.
"Die!" Astrea shrieked. "Die!DIE!"
But the girl didn't fall. She advanced, step by step, unrelenting. Her fists curled tight, gauntlets glowing brighter with each heartbeat. The wind howled. Thunder rolled. And still Helga walked. Astrea's breath hitched, blade trembling in her grip.
In that instant, the dwarf's final words echoed in her mind. She had dismissed it. Trivial. A dying man's last gasp. She hadn't thought twice about it—brushed it off as the delusion of a broken rebel clinging to myth. But now she stood ankle-deep in the remains of her butchered men. The air reeked of blood and iron. The street crackled with the power of something unnatural—inhuman. The girl who approached her was no longer weeping over corpses. She was wrath incarnate.
Magic meant nothing to her. The Killing Curse had failed. And for the first time in years—years—Astrea felt it.
A tightness in her chest.
A chill in her bones.
Fear.
Her lips parted. A breathless whisper drowned by rain. "Why won't you die?"
There was no answer.
Only the sound of boots striking pavement.
Only the sight of a fist raised high.
And then Helga charged.
"Stay back." Astrea's face pulled with terror. "Stay back!" she cried.
Helga closed in, fist cocked and glowing with power—moments from striking—when something massive crashed into her from the front.
Shadow.
The beast, now fully transformed, slammed into her like a freight train. Its fangs snapped inches from her face, jagged and steaming, its bellowing growl so deep it rippled through the rain-soaked puddles beneath them. Astrea flinched at first—but then her lips split into a smile, twisted and exultant.
"Yes! Kill her, Shadow!" she shrieked. "Rip her apart, boy!" Breaking into laughter. "Show her what true justice looks like!"
But Helga didn't fall. Her boots planted deep into the asphalt, cracking it beneath her heels. Both hands gripped the beast's gaping maw, its breath fetid and sour with rot as it snapped violently inches from her face. She held it—held back a creature the size of a bus with her bare hands, her gauntlets glowing brighter with each pulse of strain.
Then came the roar.
Helga heaved—a burst of raw force exploding from her arms as she wrenched the beast aside and hurled it across the street. Shadow crashed into a parked car and rolled into the side of a crumbling building. Brick shattered. Windows exploded. Rain sprayed in all directions as the massive hound struck the wall with enough force to buckle steel.
It rose—snarling, maddened—and charged again. Helga met it head-on, slamming a left hook straight into its jaw. The impact cracked like thunder. Shadow was lifted from the ground and launched across the street, smashing through a line of rusting cars. Metal warped. Glass rained down. A trail of crumpled wreckage followed its path before it skidded to a stop in the ruins of a collapsed wall.
Helga reached to her waist and slipped the gray sash free. Rain trailed from its fabric as she held it taut between her fingers. Across the rubble-strewn street, Shadow began to stir. The hulking beast rose from the wreckage, shaking shards of glass and twisted timber from its blood-matted fur. Those crimson eyes, burning with unholy malice, locked onto her. Fangs bared. A snarl rumbled in its throat before it charged, full force, the ground quaking beneath its paws.
Helga's amber eyes narrowed.
"O' moon, cast forth the shadows of deception. Form the chains that bind the heavens—pillar of the nine realms…" she whispered. In a burst of golden light, the sash in her hands morphed—links of blackened chain unfurled from its folds, glowing with ancient runes.
"Truss—Gleipnir!"
The chains snapped to life, serpentine and swift, wrapping around Shadow in mid-leap. The creature choked, howled, its massive body constricted as the links coiled tighter, binding it like a serpent coiling prey. Helga twisted in the air, yanking the chains with a snarl. Shadow howled as it was whipped through the air and hurled into a cluster of buildings. Brick exploded. Beams splintered. A rain of debris followed the beast's tumbling form before it hit the ground with a sound like thunder cracking through stone.
With one arm, she wound the chain around her gauntlet. Her right hand lowered. Cocked back—as the gauntlet began to shift, its form expanding. Metal plates unfolded, glowing sigils igniting across its surface as it doubled in size.
"O' star, bring forth your end…" she chanted, tremulous with fury. "Break the chains that bind the earth—anchor of the nine realms…"
A golden flame ignited across the surface of her gauntlet, burning brighter with every word. "Shatter—Laevatein!"
With a guttural cry, she yanked on the chain. Shadow, bound and broken, was ripped through the air toward her like a ragdoll caught in a storm.
"Helheim—" Her fist pulled back, the gauntlet igniting in a blaze of golden fire. From the inferno surged the spectral form of a badger, its fangs bared, claws outstretched, roaring with feral fury.
"Smash!"
Her punch landed square in the Grim's maw.
The impact was cataclysmic.
A sonic boom tore through the city street. Rain exploded outward in all directions. Windows blew out in every building along the block. Asphalt split. Craters formed where they stood. Shadow's skull collapsed inward like shattered porcelain. A geyser of blood and bone exploded across the pavement, coating cars, walls, and wreckage in visceral red. Giant fangs ripped free from its mouth, embedding themselves into the hoods of vehicles like ivory daggers. The beast's massive frame crumpled, limbs twitching before falling still—its body twisted and pulverized, a formless heap of gore and ruin.
A long, final groan rattled from its broken chest.
Helga stood amidst the ruin, bathed in crimson rain.
The chain shimmered with light—then unwound itself, fading back into a sash that coiled gently around her waist once more.
The street fell silent.
And Helga, eyes wild and unblinking, turned to face Astrea.
****
Astrea's eyes were wide. Her breath caught in her throat as a cold, hollow numbness surged through her body like ice in her veins. Her legs faltered, the strength leaving them in trembling waves. A sound broke from her lips—not a word, but a choked sob, sharp and small.
Shadow lay broken and lifeless, a twisted heap of blood, bone, and ruin. Her loyal hound. Her companion in the fire. Her partner in the dark. From the moment he was just a shivering pup in her arms, she had known nothing in her life more constant than him. From the quiet walks along the cliffs of the Western Reach to the nights surrounded by fire and steel—he was always there. And now… gone.
"Sh… Shadow?" She stumbled toward her fallen partner. "Y-you're joking, right?" Her hand trembled as she reached toward the grotesque heap. "Come on, boy… get up. Please…"
Her knees gave out. Her hand clutched over her mouth as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.
"No…" she whispered. "You can't… You can't be—"
The grief twisted.
Rage bloomed.
"You…" Her voice broke through sobs, raw and trembling. Her tear-streaked face twisted with rage, blood-smeared lips curling over bared teeth. "You murderer."
Helga's breath caught in her chest. Her eyes shrunk to pinpricks. Her jaw clenched, trembling fists curling so tightly her knuckles blanched. Her gaze flicked, just for a heartbeat, to the lifeless bodies of Pablo and Edda before snapping back to Astrea.
"You'll pay for this," she whispered. "You'll pay for killing my—"
She didn't finish. The street erupted beneath her as Helga shot forward, the asphalt cracking in a thunderous burst as she launched herself toward Astrea. Her fist met Astrea's face with a sickening crack, the blow sending her body cartwheeling down the road, skipping across the asphalt like a ragdoll hurled by a god.
She barely had time to draw a breath before Helga was on her. A flurry of blows rained down—brutal, relentless, precise. Every punch carried the weight of loss, every strike a scream made flesh. Blood splattered beneath Helga's knuckles as Astrea's ribs crunched, her face snapped violently with each swing. A strike to the throat silenced any scream; she gagged, choking on pain and blood.
Helga grabbed her by the hair and slammed her into the nearest wall. Red brick cracked and crumbled around them. Astrea's head snapped back as Helga's fist collided once more—sending her crashing through the shattered storefront, through timber and glass, through shelves and dust, until she slammed into the far wall of the shop and slumped, stunned and broken.
The floor shuddered violently as Helga burst through, her entrance like a falling star crashing from the heavens, raw power radiating in her wake.
"Alfheim..." She twisted her body, gauntlet raised. "Smash!"
The punch landed square in Astrea's chest with a detonation of force. Her scream was torn from her lungs—alongside blood that sprayed from her mouth, eyes, and nose. Her body launched through the air, crashing through the shop wall, across the street, and into the heavy oak doors of the church beyond. The doors exploded off their hinges. Wood splintered into jagged shards.
Inside, pews shattered in waves as Astrea's broken form collided with them. She came to a halt at the altar, slumped beneath the stain glass, a ruin of blood and breath, barely conscious.
Helga stepped through the broken arch of the church doors. Her silhouette backlit by the lightning that split the sky behind her. Rainwater streamed from her golden gauntlets, splattering the marble with every step. Steam rose from her skin with every breath.
Astrea staggered to her feet near the altar, one hand pressed against her ribs, the other gripping her chainsword, its teeth twitching weakly, whining like a wounded animal. Blood poured from her mouth and ran in rivulets down her arms, painting the marble floor in slow, winding streaks.
The church, once a sanctuary, now felt like a tomb. Faded crystal sconces cast an anemic amber light across dull grey stone. Heavy banners hung from the ceiling, motionless despite the storm outside. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the stained-glass window above the altar—some forgotten god with a face that meant nothing now. The gods, they said, were always watching.
But not tonight.
Astrea's voice broke the silence, a twisted rasp torn from a shattered throat.
"Shadow... I raised him since he was a pup." She coughed, eyes welling with fury. "He was with me through everything. We laughed. We fought. We bled for justice. For Avalon. Against the filth that rotted its core. He wasn't just a hound—he was my partner. My only friend." Her fingers trembled as she flicked the activation rune on her weapon.
The chainsword sputtered, then revved to life with a shrill metallic scream. Its bloodstained teeth blurred in a whirling cyclone of vengeance.
"And you—" she cried. "You killed him!"
Her bloodshot eyes locked on Helga.
"Helga Hufflepuff... I won't forgive you. I'll never forgive you for what you've done!" She staggered forward, every step lurching with fury and pain. "You took everything from me. And I swear—if it's the last breath I draw, the last ounce of strength left in my body—I will kill you!"
Astrea raised her chainsword and lunged, the blade howling as it cut through the air, ravenous for blood. Helga met her head-on, her gauntlets flashing up just in time to catch the flurry of strikes. Sparks burst in every direction as steel met enchanted metal, the grinding screech echoing through the hollow church.
Helga ducked beneath a wide swing, then retaliated—her fists a blur of motion. Each strike landed with bone-shattering precision, slamming into Astrea's ribs, gut, collarbone. Blood sprayed from her mouth with every impact, painting her armor in streaks of crimson. Still, Astrea pressed on, her weapon whirring, defiant in her agony.
The chainsword came down again—but this time, Helga caught it mid-arc.
Her hand clamped tight around Astrea's wrist, gauntlet grinding bone with terrifying force. A scream tore from Astrea's throat, raw and animal, as Helga's grip tightened—until with one brutal wrench, she ripped the arm clean from the elbow.
Blood gushed like a burst pipe, the severed limb falling to the floor with a sickening thud—still wrapped around the hilt of the now-lifeless chainsword.
Astrea didn't have time to scream again.
Helga twisted her torso and slammed a punch into her face.
The blow lifted Astrea off her feet, her body crashing through the stained-glass window behind the altar. Colored shards exploded into the storm, catching the light like burning embers. She spun through the air, a broken ragdoll, before crashing into the building across the street with a thunderous crunch—splintering wood and stone as she tore through the storefront and vanished into smoke and debris.
Helga stood beneath the shattered arch, fists curled, chest heaving.
Then she stepped forward, her boots crunching across the blood-slick marble.
****
Helga stepped through the shattered storefront, the broken door creaking on its hinges as she pushed past. Rain whispered through the crumbling frame behind her, but inside, the air felt still—almost reverent. The first thing she saw was her own reflection. Dozens of them.
Mirrors lined the walls and floor, each one different—some framed in simple pine, others in ornate gold and wrought iron, carved with serpents and roses and crowns. Her fractured image stared back at her from every angle—mud-soaked, blood-smeared, gauntlets dripping with rain and red. She looked monstrous.
A trail of blood sliced through the showroom floor like a thread of consequence, winding deeper into the gloom. Helga followed it, each bootstep dull and heavy against warped wooden floorboards. Her gauntlets pulsed faintly with magic, a soft thrum beneath the echoing silence. She reached the heart of the room—an open space surrounded on all sides by mirrors, angled like windows into a thousand twisted worlds. The blood trail ended there. But Astrea was nowhere in sight.
Not until something cracked across the back of her skull.
The impact was dull, blunt—but not enough to stagger her. A hollow thunk followed as the wooden head of a sledgehammer bounced to the floor at her feet, splinters flying. She stared down at it.
Then turned.
Astrea stood behind her, wild-eyed, drenched in blood, both her own and others. Her face was a canvas of pain and madness. In her last remaining hand, she gripped the shattered handle of the hammer, trembling. Her body swayed like a marionette with half its strings cut.
Helga tilted her head slightly, her expression half-lidded and cold, the fury simmering just beneath the surface. Astrea let out a cry—a desperate, final burst of defiance—and raised the handle to strike again.
Helga caught her wrist. There was no effort in it. No struggle.
Just inevitability.
Her fingers tightened around the joint—then with a sudden, brutal motion, she twisted and ripped the arm clean from the elbow. Astrea's scream tore through the mirror shop, piercing, raw—until it gave way to choking gasps and the sickening slap of blood hitting the floor.
She stumbled back. Helga's fist was already in motion.
The punch landed squarely in Astrea's face, the force lifting her off her feet and slamming her back into the largest mirror behind her. The glass spiderwebbed from the impact, fractures splitting across her reflection like prophecy. She slumped against it—bloodied, broken, barely conscious—her image shivering across a hundred reflections. Helga stood over her, breath steady. No rage now. Just purpose.
Astrea choked on her breath, every inhale a ragged gasp scraping through her throat. She tried to lift her head, but her body barely obeyed. Blood ran in down her face, pooling at her knees. The last remnants of strength trembled inside her bones Helga stepped forward. She reached and seized Astrea by the jaw.
Her fingers curled with terrible calm, gripping one side of the captain's head. And then, without a word, she drove it into the mirror. The shattered glass hissed as it met skin. Helga dragged Astrea's face down its jagged length like a blade across raw hide. The scream that tore from Astrea's throat was raw—animalistic. Her flesh peeled against the fractured surface, bits of skin and blood smearing the glass in crimson streaks. Tiny shards rained to the ground with every motion, falling like glimmering dust.
By the time Helga wrenched her head back, the mirror was a red-streaked canvas of agony. Astrea stumbled, caught a glimpse of her reflection in the cracked shards. Her face was a ruin—jagged strips of skin hung in tatters, blood dripping from torn muscle and exposed cheekbone. Her breath hitched. Then, her knees buckled as she collapsed with a strangled sob.
"Do it…" she rasped. "Kill me."
She turned her head just enough to glimpse Helga looming behind her. "Do it!" she shrieked, every inch of her trembling.
Helga gripped her by the matted strands of auburn hair and wrenched her head back.
"No," she said.
Astrea laughed. Weak, broken.
"T-hen you're a fool," she coughed, spitting blood. "Because… I'll never stop. Never. I'll hunt you, your friends, your family—I'll bleed them dry, one by one. Justice never loses. Justice never—"
Helga cut her off.
"You misunderstand," she said. "Pop-Pop Hufflepuff once said—dying's easy."
And she slammed Astrea's head into the mirror.
It cracked hard. A bloom of red smeared the glass.
Helga pulled her back. Astrea groaned, barely conscious, one eye twitching in confusion and fear, the other swollen shut.
"I told you back at the square—everyone deserves a chance. A choice," Helga said. "You called Pop Pop and I naïve. And maybe you were right. But I won't stray from who I am… or what I believe in. So here it is. Your chance. Your choice. Your mercy."
Her eyes hardened.
"But don't mistake it for kindness."
She slammed her head into the mirror. The glass shattered further, pieces embedding into skin and bone.
"Because you're going to learn about pain." She slammed Astrea into the mirror again.
Glass splintered deeper, webbing outward from the center.
"You're going to learn about loss." Again.
Astrea whimpered, barely breathing now.
Helga dropped to a knee beside her, grabbing her face with both hands, forcing her to meet her eyes.
"Pablo and Edda didn't deserve what you did to them. Elio didn't deserve it." Helga's words were quiet but heavy. "Now that boy has to grow up in a world without his mama and papa—because of you. Not because you had no choice. But because you wanted to. Because it made you feel powerful."
Her gaze stayed locked on Astrea's, unsettlingly calm, almost detached.
"And now you grieve," she went on. "You cry for your dead mutt as if that somehow redeems you. After everything you've done. After all the lives you've torn apart, the joy you've stolen, the pain you relished..." Her eyes narrowed. "And you still think you're owed vengeance?"
Helga slammed her face into the mirror again. Harder. Larger shards fell and clinked against the floor as Astrea groaned, half-choking on the blood and drool.
"Pop Pop used to speak of scum like you, back in his Badger Guard days!" Helga growled. "The kind who'd laugh while others begged for mercy, who'd butcher for sport and call it duty. Then wail and scream for payback the moment they got even a taste of their own medicine."
"And it's people like you who make me sick. You preach justice. You claim to be its avatar, that monsters who prey on the innocent deserve to die." Her breath grew heavier. "But you're the monster, Astrea. You've just worn the mask so long you started believing your own lies."
She slammed her again. The mirror groaned under the blow. Astrea spat blood from her lips.
"You said every morning you look in the mirror and see that sweet little girl who made you who you are..." Helga leaned in close. "Well, not anymore. You don't get to use her memory to excuse what you've become."
She tightened her grip, her gaze burning. "From now on, every time you look at your reflection, you'll see what you really are. No more illusions. No more excuses."
Another slam. A splatter of blood streaked down the cracks.
"And every time you look at your ugly mangled face, you're going to remember." She broke into a snarl. "You'll remember what you did!"
She slammed her again.
"You'll remember Pablo."
Again.
"You'll remember Edda."
Again.
"You'll remember Elio."
A crack and a snap.
"You'll remember every innocent you slaughtered in the name of your sick, twisted justice!"
And finally, Helga stood. Her hands wrapped around Astrea's head. "And most of all…" She raised her.
"You're going to remember me!"
And with a final cry, she drove her skull into the mirror with such force, the entire pane exploded. Glass rained in silver flecks, scattering across the wooden floor in a chorus of shattering echoes. Astrea collapsed to the ground in a heap, unconscious. Blood pooling beneath her. A broken weapon beneath broken ideals.
Helga stood above her, chest rising with every ragged breath. The fire in her eyes had dulled, flickering in the silence that now hung heavy in the air. Slowly, she turned her gaze to the devastation she'd wrought, to the broken glass and shattered mirrors that glittered like fractured stars.
She stepped over the debris, until something stopped her—Astrea's torn limb, lying limp upon the ruined floor. Around the wrist, soaked and faded, was the bracelet. Helga crouched down, her fingers brushing against it before lifting it free. She held it in her palm, staring at it for a long, quiet moment.
"You said justice never loses..." she murmured. "But Pop Pop Hufflepuff once said—someone's justice always loses to someone else's."
Her fingers curled around the bracelet, clenching it in her fist. She cast one final glance over her shoulder—at the blood, the ruin, and the woman broken beneath it all.
"And yours..." Her voice was calm now, almost mournful. "...was just worthless."
Then she turned, and walked out into the rain.