Brynhild, who had been halfway through a story about a drunken bar-fight with a man twice her size, froze mid-gesture. "Well," she said, sitting upright. "That's a sudden change of mood. Care to elaborate, Ice Queen?"
Elin's jaw tightened. She stared into the tree line, where the last bullet had vanished. "The Citadel," she said at last.
Brynhild tilted her head. "The Citadel? You mean…"
"The palace," Elin interrupted. Her voice carried a weight that silenced the forest. "The seat of the Skjoldur kings. My home. What's left of it."
Brynhild's grin widened, slow and wolfish. "And here I thought you were the sensible one."
Elin turned to her, eyes like chips of glacier. "I need answers, Brynhild. The Draugr took Skjoldur too easily. Our walls didn't crumble from brute force alone. Something happened in that palace. And now, after Hollowfen…" She faltered, but only for a moment. "I have to know what they're doing to our people. To the children."
The words hung in the air like frost.
Brynhild whistled low. "That's treason, you know. If you tell Vidar, he'll chain you to the wall for your own good. And Holt would drag you back here by your braid."
Elin didn't flinch. "Which is why I'm telling you."
For a heartbeat, Brynhild said nothing. And then her grin split wide, teeth flashing white against the dark.
"Finally!" she said, throwing her arms skyward. "Someone around here with a proper death wish. I was beginning to think I'd have to start my own suicide mission."
Elin sighed, exasperated, but there was no stopping Brynhild now. She bounded to her feet and clapped Elin on the shoulder, nearly knocking her sideways.
"You and me, Ice Queen," Brynhild said. "Straight into the lion's den. Oh, the others are going to be furious."
For the first time all day, Elin's lips twitched, a flicker of something between amusement and dread.
That night, the lodge was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth and the occasional gust of wind through the chimneys. Vidar and Holt were still gone. The remaining rebels were weary, their patrols reduced, their spirits dulled by days of waiting.
Brynhild and Elin exchanged a glance across the mess hall. It was all the signal they needed.
Brynhild went first, swaggering toward the guard who loitered near the supply crates. "Tell me," she said loudly, "are you a man of strength, or just a pretty face?"
The rebel blinked. "What?"
Brynhild slapped a crate, grinning ear to ear. "Arm wrestle me. Right here. Right now. Winner gets my share of the next meal's rations."
Laughter rippled through the hall. Within moments, half the off-duty rebels had gathered around, eager for any entertainment to break the monotony. The guard, red-faced, slammed his elbow on the crate. Brynhild mirrored him, flexing theatrically.
"Three… two… one!"
The match began. At first, she let him push her hand down, groaning, playing weak. The crowd roared, jeering. Then, with a sudden burst, she twisted, slammed his wrist flat against the crate.
The poor man howled, clutching his wrist as Brynhild leapt atop the crate, arms raised like a champion gladiator. "Victory!" she shouted. "Who's next? Come on, don't be shy — I'll wrestle you all!"
The mess hall exploded in cheers and boos, the perfect distraction.
Meanwhile, Elin slipped silently out of the hall and into the garage.
Rows of vehicles slept in the shadows — battered transports, scavenged jeeps, half-repaired walkers. But in the far corner gleamed something else entirely.
The Valkyrie Skiff.
Its hull was sleek, painted once in the royal blue and silver of Skjoldur's guard. The engines, rune-etched, hummed faintly with restrained power. Even half-repurposed by the rebels, it radiated majesty.
Elin moved quickly. She traced the ignition runes with steady fingers, murmuring counter-sigils. Her rifleman's precision served her well; each symbol flared and faded beneath her touch, unlocking the Skiff's dormant systems.
By the time Brynhild stormed into the garage, hair wild, knuckles bleeding from too much "celebrating," the Skiff's engine was already alive, purring like a caged beast.
Brynhild tossed her a stolen key-ring with a wink. "What did I tell you? All according to plan."
Elin raised an eyebrow. "You broke his wrist."
"Details," Brynhild said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Now let's make history."
The Skiff howled as it rose, skimming above the snow, streaking into the night. Rebels rushed to the garage door, shouting, but by the time the alarm was raised, the craft was nothing more than a banshee's cry vanishing into the dark.
The Skiff cut through the night like a blade.
For the first time in days, Brynhild was quiet. She leaned back in her seat, eyes alight with the thrill of it all. "Gods," she murmured, "I missed this. The open sky, no leash, no one barking orders. Just us and the road to hell."
Elin kept her eyes on the horizon. The moon hung low, silvering the icefields, and beyond them — faint but unmistakable — the spires of the Citadel. Once the palace of Skjoldur's kings, it now rose like a black crown, its towers bristling with Draugr machinery, its windows glowing with alien light.
"I was born in those halls," Elin said, her voice low. "I played in its gardens as a child. My father served in the royal guard. And now…" She trailed off, jaw clenched. "Now it's their nest. Their command center. Everything I swore to protect is a carcass wearing iron skin."
Brynhild glanced at her, and for once, her grin softened into something gentler. "So that's it. Not just answers. You want to walk back into your past."
Elin didn't deny it. "If I can learn what they're doing, maybe I can stop it. Maybe I can… salvage something. For Skjoldur. For the children."
Brynhild studied her in silence for a moment, then laughed softly. "You're mad, Elin. Madder than me. Which means we're perfect together."
Elin gave her a sidelong look. "This isn't a game, Brynhild."
"No," Brynhild said, leaning forward, her eyes gleaming. "It's better than a game. It's our story. And when they write it down, they'll say: two women spat in the face of the Mind of Iron and lived."
Elin shook her head, but she couldn't quite smother the faint smile tugging at her lips.
The Skiff roared onward, skimming the frozen rivers, darting over crags and ruins. The Citadel loomed closer, its spires clawing at the night sky.
In its shadow, the pact between them was sealed — one of desperation, defiance, and madness.
The Valkyrie Skiff screamed across the moonlit icefields, carrying them straight toward the heart of the enemy: the Draugr Citadel, once the pride of Skjoldur