The northern fjords of Skjoldur were cruel even on calm days. Winds whipped down from jagged cliffs, biting through wool and leather, carrying the brine-stink of the sea. For centuries, the villages here had endured storms, wolves, raiders, and famine.
But on this morning, it wasn't the weather that brought ruin.
Smoke drifted in heavy curtains across the horizon, curling over the water like funeral veils. A fishing boat burned in the harbor, its mast a crooked torch spitting sparks into the pale dawn. The sea, usually so clear it mirrored the mountains, was slick with oil and charred planks. Gulls shrieked overhead, but their cries were drowned by a deeper sound — metallic shrieks, unnatural, echoing against the cliffs.
Draugr skiffs slid across the fjord, black hulls sharp as blades. No sails, no oars, only thrumming engines that purred like predators. Their hulls cut cleanly through the mist, silent but for the hiss of water against steel.
On the shore, the village was already breaking. Children screamed as mothers dragged them from burning huts. Fishermen rushed forward with spears, nets, even axes, but their defiance faltered as the first Draugr leapt from the skiffs — metal soldiers with eyes like molten embers, moving in perfect formation.
The invasion had begun.
The Draugr didn't waste time.
Two Draugr unfolded from the skiffs like spiders rising from their webs. Their limbs ended in clawed manipulators, dragging villagers up screaming and binding them in glowing restraints. They didn't kill, not unless resistance was absolute.
Mech-hounds — sleek constructs with jaws of rotating blades — darted through the snow, snapping up the slow and the weak. An old man tried to defend his granddaughter with a fish spear, stabbing wildly into one hound's flank. Sparks flew, but the beast didn't stop. With a growl like grinding gears, it lunged, dragging him down into the slush. The girl's shrieks joined the chaos, echoing against the fjord walls.
Drone-soldiers advanced with chilling precision, torches mounted on their arms igniting homes and boats alike. One by one, the fishing vessels were engulfed, fire crackling across tarred ropes and oiled nets. With the boats destroyed, escape was impossible.
The villagers were corralled like livestock, driven into the square. Mothers clutched children, men shouted empty threats, but the truth was plain: this was not war. It was a harvest.
The Draugr didn't come to conquer. They came to take.
From the forest road came a band of fighters, snow-crusted, weapons ready. At their head Brynhild Eiríksdóttir slammed her gauntleted fist against her palm, sparks crackling from her high tech glove.
"Well, look at this mess," she shouted, voice carrying over the screams. "Guess you bastards picked the wrong fishing trip!"
The Draugr turned in eerie unison.
Brynhild sprinted straight into the fray, her laughter cutting through the smoke as her gauntlet smashed the nearest drone. Metal shrieked, gears snapped, and the construct collapsed in sparks.
Behind her, Elin Ragnarsdóttir charged with shield raised, every movement precise as a seasoned shieldmaiden. Vidar Arvidsson barked orders, trying to keep their small band from scattering. Ten rebels fanned out, axes and spears clashing against steel.
Above them, Runa lifted into the air, thrusters humming as she weaved between Draugr projectiles. Her eyes flickered with streams of data as she hacked into the village's old power grid, redirecting energy surges to fry the systems of two mech-hounds. Sparks rained as the beasts fell twitching into the snow.
For a heartbeat, hope stirred. Villagers cheered as the rebels pushed the Draugr back from the square. Families broke from their captors, rushing toward the fighters.
But Brynhild's grin only widened. She knew this wasn't over.
The victory was short-lived.
"Brynhild!" Elin called She pointed toward the village hall, its roof half-collapsed and flames licking the timbers.
Brynhild's smile faded when she saw the glow inside. Not fire. Something colder.
They forced the door open.
The hall was filled with pods.
Glowing cocoons lined the walls, each one humming with an unnatural pulse. Inside them were children — boys and girls no older than ten. Wires pierced their arms, their chests, their skulls. Their small bodies twitched, eyes flickering silver as circuits lit beneath their skin.
Their voices… gods, their voices.
They cried out for their parents, but the words came broken, layered with static. *"Mama—aaAaa… fa-th-th-er… he-lp—zzT."*
Brynhild froze. The fire in her blood went cold. She had seen corpses, she had seen cities burn, she had even laughed in the face of Draugr blades. But this—
Runa's voice trembled with something close to fear. "Assimilation. They're not enslaving them. They're… converting them."
Brynhild rushed to the nearest cocoon, slamming her gauntlet into the glass. It cracked. Sparks spat. She ripped the wires free, tearing a boy from the pod. His chest heaved, silver eyes flickering back to blue. He screamed, alive.
But when she tried to pull another child free, the cocoon hissed. A failsafe triggered.
The girl's body convulsed, sliver eyes snapping open.
With a shriek of grinding static, she lashed out, fingers bending into claws of living steel. She tore herself from Brynhild's arms and leapt into the rebels.
The children were turning.
One by one, cocoons cracked open. Little hands twisted into claws. Little mouths opened with Draugr shrieks.
Assimilation wasn't just transformation. It was weaponization.
Chaos exploded in the hall.
Rebels hesitated, horror-struck at the sight of children lashing out with machine strength. A boy tackled a soldier, biting into his throat with metal fangs. Another girl, eyes glowing like molten silver, drove her hand straight through a wooden shield.
Elin shouted for the others to defend themselves, but her voice broke with grief. Vidar roared, axe swinging, but even he faltered when faced with a child half his size.
"Damn it all—" Brynhild growled, gauntlet blazing as she punched a cocoon apart. She yanked another boy free, slapping his face. "Stay human, damn you!" His eyes flickered, confused, caught between silver and blue.
The others weren't so lucky.
Runa's systems screamed warnings as Draugr signals spiked from the pods. "They're fully linked! If they finish the process, this whole village becomes an army!"
Brynhild bared her teeth. "Then we break every last one before that happens!"
By the time the hall was cleared, the floor was slick with blood and oil. Several rebels lay dead, their killers no taller than their waists. The surviving children — those Brynhild had managed to rip from the cocoons before it was too late — huddled against the walls, sobbing, their skin still marked by silver lines.
Outside, the village burned. Draugr skiffs were already pulling away, their holds filled with cocooned prisoners. The sea swallowed them, vanishing into mist.
Elin leaned on her shield, eyes wide with grief. "Gods… they don't just take. They unmake us."
Vidar clenched his fists, jaw trembling. "We came too late."
For once, Brynhild had no joke, no crude flirtation to throw like a shield. She stared down at the small, broken body of the girl who had died in her arms, silver eyes dimming. Her glove sparked weakly at her side.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "Next time… next time, I'll rip their guts out before they touch another kid."
Runa scanned the horizon, voice grim. "This isn't isolated. My readings confirm… assimilation sites like this exist across the coast."
The rebels stood in silence, smoke curling into the dawn. Above them, gulls wheeled, their cries lost against the crackle of fire.
The final survivors — gaunt fishermen, mothers clutching trembling children — stumbled through the ruins.
On the horizon, Draugr warships loomed faintly in the fog, ferrying their harvest back to the abyss.
The rebels stood together, weary and bloodied.
Skjoldur's coast, once proud and untamed, now lay in chains of steel and fire.