The hidden safehouse of Group 13 sat like a stone scar in the northern forest, half-swallowed by snow and pine. The structure had once been a hunting lodge before the wars — broad walls of black timber reinforced with scavenged steel, its chimneys puffing weak smoke into the frozen air. Now it served as a sanctuary, or as close to one as rebels could hope for. Outside, the wind whispered across the drifts. Inside, it was quieter still.
Runa sat hunched over her workbench, shoulders tense, face tilted under the dim glow of an arc-lamp. The panels of her left arm had been pulled open, delicate wires exposed like veins. She worked with a soldering tool and a probe, her lips moving in muttered diagnostics. Every so often her mechanical eye flickered, a faint static hum escaping her throat as she cursed softly in Skjolduric.
The others stole glances at her when they thought she wouldn't notice. There was something unsettling about how human her frustration sounded, how natural her sighs were when a circuit refused to align. The rebels could never quite decide whether it made them pity her or fear her. Runa ignored their stares. Precision was her shield — and right now, precision meant survival.
Solveig's absence was felt most sharply in the silence. She had been sent to a healer's hall after Hollowfen, the horror of the children-constructs leaving her trembling and hollow-eyed. Without her soft voice, without her nervous questions, the safehouse seemed to echo louder, as if the walls remembered her. Brynhild had joked she was off "getting her soul rewired," but nobody laughed.
Vidar and Holt had left that morning on a recovery mission to fetch their stranded assault vehicle. Without them, the base lacked its stabilizing spine. Vidar's calm authority and Holt's steady presence often anchored the group when tempers rose. Their absence left a space into which tension could creep, though no one admitted it.
Out behind the lodge, Elin Ragnarsdóttir was the picture of poise. She knelt in the snow at the firing range, her sniper rifle pressed to her shoulder, its long scope gleaming with frost. Each movement was economical, as if rehearsed countless times. She breathed, steadied, and fired. The crack echoed off the trees, startling crows into black flight. Snowflakes clung to her lashes and melted as if afraid to linger. She didn't blink. She didn't smile. She simply chambered another round.
And then there was Brynhild.
She sprawled on a stack of frozen crates not far from Elin, kicking her boots idly and tossing pebbles into the snow. Each throw was punctuated by some outrageous remark.
"Tell me, Elin," she called, cupping her hands like a street barker. "Do you think the rifle makes you look more intimidating, or is it just your natural talent for glowering?"
Elin said nothing, adjusting the scope. Another shot cracked.
Unfazed, Brynhild slid off the crates and stood in a ridiculous imitation of a marksman, holding a piece of firewood like a rifle. "Bang!" she cried, flopping dramatically into the snow as if she'd been shot. She lay there spread-eagle, gazing up at the gray sky. "Oh no! My one weakness: a woman with colder eyes than winter!"
Still no reply. The wind carried Elin's exhale, calm, disciplined. Another round thundered from her rifle.
Brynhild sat up, brushing snow from her hair, and shouted, "Come on, don't tell me you don't notice me. I'm practically dying over here from neglect. Have some mercy!"
Finally, Elin lowered her rifle. For a heartbeat she only looked at Brynhild, her expression unreadable. Then — almost imperceptibly — the corner of her mouth curved into the faintest smile.
It was enough.
Brynhild's eyes lit like torches. She slapped the snow with both palms and let out a triumphant laugh. "Ha! There it is! Proof that you do have a heart. I knew I could crack it." She bounded to her feet, brushing ice from her trousers, striding close enough that Elin could feel the warmth of her presence even in the cold air.
Elin shook her head and raised her rifle again, but that ghost of a smile lingered.
The rest of the squad barely paid attention, save for Runa, who rolled her eyes from inside the safehouse and muttered: "They're both insane."
And maybe they were. But in the silence of the forest, in the shadow of horrors they couldn't yet face, insanity was a kind of balm.
The sun had long since begun its descent, sliding behind the black silhouettes of pines, but Elin remained on the firing range. She had been there for hours, kneeling in the snow, breathing steadily, the sniper rifle cradled against her shoulder like an extension of her body. Every shot was measured, precise — a ritual more than practice.
Brynhild hadn't left her side. For all her boasting that she was "dying from boredom," she refused to go inside. Instead, she spent the hours lying in the snow, doing handstands against the lodge's outer wall, throwing her voice like a street clown, anything to pry some reaction out of Elin.
She got little more than narrowed eyes, an occasional shake of the head. Still, Brynhild pressed on, relentless.
But then, without warning, Elin lowered her rifle.
The weapon's barrel dipped into the snow, its iron mouth steaming. She exhaled, slow and heavy, as though the weight of her silence had finally grown too much.
"I'm going into the city," she said.