The children came at them aggressively.
Their small, twisted shapes lurched out from the half-lit ruins, silver eyes glimmering like dying stars. Some shuffled unevenly on legs half-flesh, half-metal, while others crawled on jointed arms that clicked like insect limbs. Their voices were a chorus of static whispers, warped syllables stretching into broken echoes.
"Mama…" one rasped, head twitching unnaturally as sparks jittered from the metal running through its skull.
The sound alone was enough to tear something inside the rebels.
Solveig dropped where she stood. Her legs gave out as if the earth itself had sucked the strength from her bones. She fell to her knees, trembling violently, arms wrapped around herself. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her wide eyes fixed on the children, unblinking, as though blinking might make them vanish.
"I… I can't do this," she whispered, barely audible above the mechanical scraping of the approaching forms. Her voice cracked on the last word, a note of sheer despair ringing through it. "I can't… I can't…"
Behind her, Runa stood stock still. The AI — the machine mind that had seen war before any of them — flickered. Her synthetic face twitched with emotion she should not have been able to feel. She had been made for combat, precision, efficiency. But even she faltered at this. Her lips parted, words dying before they could form. The steady calm she always wore shattered like fragile glass, leaving something that looked close to horror.
Vidar froze too. His rifle, always steady, sagged in his hands. His jaw clenched as if grinding through old memories, the kind that weighed on a man's spine until it bent. His eyes weren't here. They were sixty years in the past, staring at ghosts that never left him.
Even Elin — stalwart, unflinching Elin — let her mask slip. Her gaze sharpened, the muscles of her face hardening, lips pressing thin. The shieldmaiden's hand tightened around her blade until her knuckles whitened, betraying a crack in the calm she cultivated.
They had fought Draugr before, and worse. But this—
This was different.
Children.
Small bodies twisted into nightmares. Faces that should have been innocent were warped into grotesque vessels. It was cruelty made manifest, and none of them could bring themselves to act first.
Except one.
Brynhild.
Her grin split across her bloodied face like fire lighting the dark.
"This week just keeps giving," She said to herself "I died and came here to this? It's like cinema — except I'm the one who saves everyone."
Her heart pounded in her chest, a drumbeat of raw exhilaration. This wasn't tragedy. This was spectacle. A stage built for her alone.
Her eyes flicked to Elin. Beautiful, composed Elin — who still hadn't looked away from the enemy. Brynhild's grin widened. Yes. This was her moment. She'd show her. She'd show all of them.
"Runa!" Brynhild barked suddenly, her voice cracking the paralysis like a whip. "Secure Solveig!"
The words snapped her into motion. Runa blinked, her system flickering back online, and she grabbed Solveig under the arms, dragging her behind the cover of a broken wall.
The others still hesitated.
But Brynhild didn't.
The first child lunged.
Brynhild stepped forward into its path, her gauntlet already humming, blue light crawling across its steel veins. She met the rush with a roar and a swing.
Her fist connected with the child's head. The impact cracked bone and bent steel in one brutal crunch. Sparks sprayed across her cheek as the thing flew backward, slamming into the stone wall so hard it left a crater before collapsing in a tangled heap of flesh and wire.
Blood. Sparks. Smoke.
She laughed.
But there was no pause. More came. Ten. Fifteen. Crawling, stumbling, sprinting on twitching legs. They swarmed, climbing over each other like feral animals.
Brynhild barreled into them. Her gauntlet blazed brighter, every punch sending bodies sprawling, walls breaking, metal shrieking. She was a storm given flesh, and she welcomed their numbers.
Behind her, Vidar snapped out of his stupor. His rifle rose with a click, and he opened fire in controlled bursts. Bullets tore into mechanical flesh, sparks and blood erupting in bursts. His face was tight, eyes narrowed — no time for thought, only survival.
To his right, Holt roared like an animal and charged, axe gripped in both hands. He swung wide, the blade crunching through a child's torso, splitting it clean in half. Another rushed him and he slammed the butt of his axe into its jaw, shattering teeth of steel.
The battle erupted.
Screams. Gunfire. Metal clanging against stone.
The air filled with smoke, blood, static cries — a claustrophobic storm of sound and violence.