The canyon smelled of smoke and wet earth. Charred pine trunks leaned like broken spears, blackened by old fire. The surviving column—hunters, refugees, wounded alike—stumbled down the narrow switchback into a clearing where canvas tents and crude barricades had been set up.
This was the Obsidian Dawn's hidden camp, a hollow of jagged stone and scorched trees.
The refugees collapsed the moment they saw shelter. Some dropped to their knees, some broke into sobs, others sat and stared hollow-eyed into the dirt. The Eisenreichers huddled together, muttering in their guttural tongue. The Arcanorians kept their cloaks tight, as if afraid of being touched.
Every glance toward the Skjoldurians was sharp, hateful.
Brynhild staggered in at the head of her little band—blood-soaked, sweat-slick, an axe balanced on her shoulder. Her face was smeared with gore, hair clumped against her temples. But she was smiling.
"At least," she said, loud enough for half the camp to hear, "it wasn't boring."
Her words drew glares sharper than blades. Someone spat. A child whimpered.
Styrkar followed behind, jaw tight, eyes down. Vidar was pale but unbowed, guiding two wounded with quiet steadiness. Behind them came Rúna—her artificial gait smooth but uncanny, her pale eyes scanning the cliffs like a hawk.
Relief filled the canyon, but it was poisoned with bitterness. Everyone was alive—for now—but no one trusted the hands that had brought them here.
Figures emerged from the largest tent. Obsidian Dawn officers, hard-eyed and grim.
At their head was Captain Ingrid Falk, a tall woman with cropped black hair and a scar that cut from her brow to her cheek. She wore patched armor, battered but kept clean, and her eyes held none of Brynhild's reckless fire—only calculation.
Beside her came Lieutenant Hakon Rask, younger, leaner, with a permanent scowl carved into his face. His hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, and his stare landed on Brynhild like he was measuring where to put the blade first.
The murmurs in the camp hushed.
"Captain Falk," Styrkar said, bowing his head. "We've brought what survivors we could."
Ingrid's eyes swept the ragged group. "What survivors," she repeated flatly. Then: "Report."
Styrkar hesitated, but Brynhild cut in. "Draugr swarmed the column. They broke us like kindling. We killed plenty, but…" She shrugged, flashing her red-stained teeth. "The price was high."
"High?" Hakon's voice snapped like a whip. "Half a village dead, Freydís among them—and you call it high?"
Brynhild tilted her head. "Would you rather I said fair? Or cheap?"
Gasps rippled through the crowd. A mother clutched her child closer. Hakon took a step forward, fury plain, but Ingrid raised her hand.
"Enough," she said, voice cold. "We'll speak of the dead in order, not in shouts."
But the tension was set. The leaders wanted accountability. And Brynhild's grin wasn't helping.
They didn't wait for order. The refugees surged forward, voices raw with grief.
"You left us to die!"
"You Skjoldur dogs brought the Draugr here!"
"Dravik's curse still hunts us!"
One woman, gaunt and hollow-eyed, shoved through the crowd. Her hands shook as she pointed at Brynhild.
"My daughter followed you!" she screamed. "She believed your madness—your charges, your screaming laughter—and now she's ash on the road!"
Her voice broke. She spit at Brynhild's boots. "You're a curse. A curse on all of us."
For a heartbeat, Brynhild froze. Something flickered in her eyes—guilt, maybe, or memory. But then the grin came back, wider than ever.
"If I'm a curse," she said, her tone mock-sweet, "at least I'm a hot one. The kind you'd still crawl into bed with on a cold night."
The camp went dead silent.
Styrkar clenched his jaw, his knuckles white around his spear. Vidar groaned under his breath.
The grieving mother covered her face, choking back a sob. The refugees' fury only deepened, but they were too shocked to move.
"Stand down." Ingrid's voice cut the silence like steel on stone. "All of you. Now."
Her command carried weight. Even the angriest held back, muttering instead of lunging. But the fracture had widened—Brynhild had made sure of that.
Later, beneath the shadow of the captain's tent, Ingrid confronted Brynhild directly.
"We need discipline," Ingrid said, each word clipped and cold. "Not berserkers chasing their own glory. What I saw out there was chaos dressed up as courage."
Brynhild leaned against her axe, smirking. "Discipline didn't save Freydís. My axe did. And if you want more corpses to bury, I can always sit on my hands next time."
Hakon bristled. "You arrogant—"
Ingrid silenced him with a look. Then she turned back to Brynhild, her scarred face unreadable.
"You're dangerous," she said. "To your enemies, yes—but to your own people as well."
"Finally," Brynhild said, grinning. "Someone who sees me clearly."
Vidar muttered from the corner, half to himself: "Gods help me, one day she'll flirt herself into a grave."
Ingrid exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. She wasn't used to this kind of insolence—and Brynhild seemed to thrive on it.
But in the silence that followed, no one could deny: Brynhild had kept survivors alive. Her chaos had teeth.
The stir came when the refugees noticed Rúna among them.
At first, whispers. Then pointing fingers. Then shouts.
"Another machine!"
"She's Draugr!"
"She'll slit our throats in the night!"
Fear turned fast into rage. Men grabbed stones, women pulled their children away.
Brynhild stepped in front of Rúna, swinging her axe lazily. Her grin was sharp as a wolf's.
"Relax," she said. "If she wanted us dead, she'd have killed us already. Trust me—those hands can do things."
The innuendo landed heavy. A few startled laughs broke through the tension, but most faces twisted with disgust.
Ingrid's eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself," she said to Rúna.
Rúna stepped forward, expression calm, almost emotionless. "I am not Draugr. I am not of Dravik's making. I have studied the machines. They hunt in grids, sweeping sectors methodically. This canyon lies within their next search pattern. If you remain here, you will be found."
The camp quieted. Fear rooted deeper.
Ingrid considered her, then said: "You stay. But under watch. One wrong move, and you're ash."
Rúna nodded once, accepting the condition without flinching. The refugees weren't convinced, but the command was clear.
That night, fires burned low in the canyon.
The camp was alive with mutters and arguments. Obsidian Dawn fighters whispered about abandoning the Eisenreichers—"dead weight." Refugees muttered about Skjoldur incompetence—"Dravik's brood will doom us all."
Brynhild lounged against her axe near the fire, watching the embers crackle. When Ingrid passed by, adjusting her armor straps, Brynhild's eyes followed the motion shamelessly.
"Gods," she drawled to Vidar, "if I tugged that buckle, I bet she'd bite."
Vidar groaned. "Do you ever stop?"
"Not if the grave takes me first," she said cheerfully.
Dark comedy mixed with real fracture. The refugees didn't want Skjoldur near them. The Obsidian Dawn officers didn't trust Brynhild. The Eisenreichers muttered curses about Dravik. The Arcanorians eyed the sky like they could pray their way out of the trap.
This wasn't a camp—it was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Brynhild couldn't sleep.
She sat alone on a rock at the canyon's edge, the night air cold against her blood-stiff armor. Freydís's face haunted her—the laughter, the bright axe-swing, the way it had all ended in a scream and silence.
Rúna joined her quietly, sitting a few feet away. The synthetic girl's pale eyes studied her.
"You hide your grief," Rúna said.
Brynhild snorted. "And you sound like a priest. Don't tell me machines pray too."
"I observe," Rúna said simply. "You laugh to mask guilt. You flirt to deflect pain. Fascinating."
Brynhild barked a laugh. "Careful. If you keep dissecting me like that, I might start thinking you're interested."
Before Rúna could reply, a horn split the night.
Scouts rushed in, breathless. "The Draugr—they're massing. Not retreating. And… and they're bringing something bigger."
The camp erupted in shouts and scrambling.
Brynhild's grin flickered back to life. She stood, hefting her axe.
"Bigger, huh?" she said. "Gods, I hope it's got good hands."