Three days had passed since that fateful encounter in the kitchen, and Gunnar could still feel the dull ache in his jaw. He rubbed the side of his face, working his jaw slightly until his teeth clicked together with a muted crack. In all his years on the battlefield—facing beasts, men, and monsters of every shape and shadow—he never imagined his greatest humiliation would come at the hands of a girl barely half his size, with the strength of a damned Balrog.
He'd heard the stories. Whispers of a forgotten race, divine in origin—beings worshipped as gods by ancient folk in a time when the world was still young. According to Edda and Pablo, Helga Hufflepuff was descended from such a lineage. Whether it was truth or tavern-born legend, Gunnar couldn't say. But myth or not, her strength was very, very real.
His gaze drifted to the wall, to the photographs framed neatly beneath the soft amber glow of crystal sconces. The light cast long shadows across the alabaster walls, wrapping the restaurant in a quiet warmth. Faces stared back at him—Edda, Pablo, and little Elio. Smiles full of life. Eyes full of love.
A quiet breath slipped from his lips. His chest tightened with something too heavy to name. These were moments, memories of joy once lived, not yet twisted into regrets. His wife. His daughter. Shadows now. Gone, but never distant.
He lifted a calloused hand and looked down at his palm. The glow was gone. The ember of life once granted by the Sword of Damocles was fading fast—burning low, brittle, and soon to gutter out. He could feel it, deep in his bones. When it did, the Goddess of Vengeance would come to collect what she was owed.
Gunnar turned his gaze toward the kitchen.
They had taken him in—Pablo and Edda. Given him shelter, kindness, without condition. Knowing the risk. Knowing the cost. He felt the weight of their trust settle on his shoulders, heavier than any blade he'd ever carried.
He wished he could say goodbye. Properly. But he knew they wouldn't let him go.
Not willingly.
Drawing in a slow breath, he moved toward the front door. His boots thudded quietly against the tile. At the threshold, he paused—cast one last look over his shoulder at the place that had given him peace, however brief.
Then, without a word, he stepped out into the night.
****
The streets of Caerleon were worse than he'd feared—a far cry from the city Gunnar had known moons ago. The late spring breeze carried a stifling warmth, not just from the season's turn, but from the bonfires that burned unchecked across the ruins. He pulled his hood lower over his brow, casting his amber eyes into shadow as he surveyed the chaos around him. Vehicles twisted into steel corpses. Dried blood darkened the pavements and seeped into cracked asphalt. Storefronts lay gutted—windows shattered, shelves looted, silence heavy. The city groaned like a wounded beast.
He had known Lamar Burgess to be a madman. Drunk on authority and twisted ideals. But even he hadn't expected the depths to which the Director would sink. Not this. Perhaps not even Asriel had. Desperation, after all, made monsters of men. Especially those who'd grown far too comfortable in the warmth of power.
Still, he knew Asriel would be moving now—pieces falling into place, the final gambit unfolding. Gunnar doubted he'd live to see it through, but he had faith. They'd planned for this. Prepared. He would do what he could with what time remained.
A sound behind him made him halt.
Footsteps—soft, but wrong. Close.
Gunnar's eyes narrowed. He didn't turn right away. Just reached out. In a wisp of smoke and crackling embers, his battle axe materialized in his grip—blackened steel, veins of molten fire running like blood beneath its surface.
He turned, facing the mouth of a nearby alley.
"If yer tryin' tae be sneaky," he growled, "ye're bloody awful at it." He raised the axe just enough to glint in the firelight. "Come on out then—let's make it quick. I'll cleave yer head clean off, so at least ye'll die wi' some dignity."
From the shadows of the alley, a small figure emerged. Gunnar stiffened. Axe still in hand—only for the fire in his chest to flicker with disbelief.
"Elio?" he breathed.
The lad ran straight into him, pajamas fluttering behind him like a cape, and threw his arms around Gunnar's middle with all the force his tiny frame could muster. The axe vanished in a hiss of smoke.
"By the forge, lad," Gunnar muttered, dropping to one knee, wrapping an arm around the boy protectively. "What in the hells are ye doin' out here? You should be home, safe in bed."
Elio pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.
"Why did you leave?" he asked, lower lip quivering. "You didn't even say goodbye…"
Gunnar's breath caught. He reached out, calloused fingers ruffling the boy's hair, trying to summon a smile—but it faltered before it fully formed.
"Ach, Elio…" he said softly. "There are things in this world… things best left in the dark, where they can't steal the light from your eyes. Yer' still a child. Ya' still got wonder, lad. Don't trade it for answers that'll break yer' heart."
He rested his hand gently on Elio's cheek. "But I can't stay," he said. "Not here. Not with you, not with yer ma and da. It's not safe. Not for any of ye."
Elio's hands clutched at the folds of Gunnar's coat. "But… will I see you again?"
Gunnar didn't answer right away. He looked at the boy—this small, fierce light in a dying world—and felt the weight of truth press down on his shoulders like iron. He drew a long breath, then exhaled slowly.
"I could say we'll meet again," he murmured, "but that'd be a lie. And I reckon ya deserve better than lies."
Elio's eyes glistened with tears, and Gunnar gently pressed a fist against the boy's chest.
"But you, lad—you've got heart," Gunnar said softly, resting a broad hand on Elio's chest. "More than me. More than most." He managed a tired, crooked smile, one lined with pride and sorrow. "Hold onto it, aye? Don't let the world grind it down."
He ruffled the boy's hair, gently. "Now, turn around an' run back home," he said. "Tell yer ma and da that ol' Gunnar sends his regards—and that he's grateful. Truly. I'll not forget what they did for me. Not ever."
Elio wiped at his eyes, cheeks streaked with tears, and nodded.
"That's a good lad. And—"
Gunnar's words caught in his throat. A sudden chill clawed down his spine. Instinct flared like a fire through his nerves. His eyes narrowed.
"Down!" he barked, grabbing Elio and hurling them both backward.
A metallic scream tore through the air.
A chainsaw blade—long, jagged, and whirring with demonic speed—spun through the space they'd stood moments before. It struck the pavement with a deafening crack, shattering concrete and spraying stone shards in every direction. Sparks flew. The blade hummed, embedded deep.
Gunnar landed hard, shielding Elio with his body.
Smoke hissed from his hands as the battle axe materialized—veins of molten fire tracing across the blackened steel. He swung in a wide arc, cleaving through several incoming spells that burst into neon streaks across the alley walls, setting flame to the bricks. His gaze snapped toward the origin of the attack. The chainsword twitched, then yanked itself free, snaking back along a humming cable into the waiting hand of its master.
Captain Astrea stood there, the fire behind her painting her face in a hellish glow. Her Norsefire guards flanked her, weapons raised. At her side, the hound—massive, monstrous—growled with teeth like ivory daggers, glowing eyes fixed on Gunnar.
He stepped in front of Elio, axe raised, teeth bared in a snarl.
"I'd call ye mad for throwin' blades at a child," Gunnar spat. "But we both know ye don't give a shite." His grip tightened around the axe. "As expected… o' Clock Tower filth."
"Be silent!" Astrea roared, her face contorting with unbridled fury. The hatred in her eyes blazed like wildfire as she raised her weapon, finger twitching on the trigger. "You will keep the good name of the Tower out of your filthy mouth!" she spat.
She leveled the chainsword at him, its teeth humming with anticipation. "I swore an oath—I promised I would not rest until every last one of you Nemesis terrorists paid for the death of Captain Clegane!"
Gunnar arched a brow, unimpressed.
"Clegane?" he echoed, then let out a derisive chuckle. "Ach… ye mean that lumberin' oaf they called the Ogre?" A cruel smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Please. More like a mangy welp."
He spat at the ground, eyes narrowing as he met her glare without flinching. "Heard he died whimperin'… beggin' like a dog. Fittin', really." He shrugged with mock regret. "Shame I wasn't there to see it meself. Would've been a laugh."
Gunnar's words only seemed to feed the fire burning in Astrea's eyes. Her rage deepened—but then her gaze shifted. It landed on Elio, still trembling on the ground, his small frame curled in fear. Wide brown eyes stared up, glistening with terror.
And then—Astrea smiled.
A slow, creeping, maniacal grin stretched across her face like a mask unhinged. "Seems I was right to keep the place under surveillance. I had a feeling Pablo was hiding something... or someone. Figured maybe a rebel or two—never imagined he'd be sheltering one of you."
Gunnar's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the haft of his axe. An uneasy weight began to coil in his gut like a cold stone.
Astrea began to pace, resting the chainsword lazily across her shoulder, its jagged teeth still slick with dried blood. "After I send you to the pit where you belong," she said, "I'll make sure that man answers for his crimes."
"Leave Pablo and Edda out o' this," Gunnar growled. "This is between you and me. They've no part in it. Nothin' but kind folk caught in a storm they didnae start."
Astrea's grin widened, eyes gleaming with madness. "Comforting and offering aid to an enemy of justice is treason, dwarf," she said. "And treason is punishable by death."
She raised a finger and wagged it mockingly. "I gave Pablo a chance to come clean. A chance to save his precious family. He made his choice." She tilted her head. "Actually… you made it for him, didn't you? The moment you stepped through his door."
She clicked her tongue, feigning disappointment. "Such a shame… I really will miss his pasta."
Gunnar looked over his shoulder to where Elio crouched behind him, frozen with fear. "Lad," he said gently, "I need ye to run now. Go straight home, aye?"
Elio's eyes welled up. "But…"
Gunnar forced a smile, one lined with warmth and sorrow. "Wake yer ma and da. Then run. Far and fast as yer legs'll carry ye. Don't look back."
Elio hesitated, eyes wide and shimmering.
"Ole Gunnar'll be just fine," the dwarf said, ruffling the boy's hair with a weathered hand. "You'll see."
Then he turned back to Astrea, and the smile vanished.
"Go," he said again—this time a command.
Elio cast one last glance back, his small frame trembling, his eyes locked on Gunnar's for a fleeting heartbeat. The old dwarf gave him a silent nod. And that was enough. The boy turned and ran, bare feet pounding against the ruined pavement, vanishing into the darkness without another word.
Gunnar watched him go until he disappeared into the fire-glow haze, then turned back to face the enemy. He spun his axe once in his hands, the blackened steel catching the glint of nearby flame, and fixed his gaze on the lot before him—his expression carved from granite.
Astrea's breath came in steady, ravenous intervals. Her eyes shimmered with fury barely contained, her fingers tightening around the hilt of the chainsword.
"Captain Clegane was like a father to me," she hissed. "He trained me. Shaped me. And above all, he taught me that evil deserves no mercy. No quarter."
She revved the weapon in her grip—the blade roared to life, its serrated teeth spinning in a blur, slicing the air with a shrill metallic screech that sang of blood and hatred.
"And you," she spat, "you demons cut him down and left nothing behind—not even a corpse to bury, no body to mourn. And for that, I'll tear every last one of you apart. Piece by miserable piece."
Her grin widened, unhinged and feral, the whites of her eyes burning with twisted glee.
"Everyone you've touched. Everyone who's ever spoken your name with kindness—they'll all pay for it with their lives. Like Pablo and Edda—those pathetic fools who should've known better. I'll raze their little restaurant to cinders and roast their severed heads in the flames. As for their boy…"
She paused, savoring the words.
"I'll make him watch. Every scream, every sob—carved into his mind like scripture. Then I'll send him to join them in the hellfire where you all belong."
Gunnar shook his head. "By the forge… you've more than a few pieces rattlin' loose in that skull, lass." He raised his axe, both hands gripping the haft. "And this comin' from a berserker."
His gaze darkened. "There's rage, aye. And then there's madness. You've crossed that line ten times over. You're no warrior—you're a mad dog that's lost the leash."
He bared his teeth. "And the only way ye'll ever lay a hand on that family… is over my cold, dead corpse."
Astrea cracked her neck, lips curling back in a grin. "Oh, I plan to."
The street exploded into motion.
Her guards let out a guttural cry as they surged forward, boots pounding against bloodstained concrete. Astrea lunged at the front, chainsword screeching, her beast growling at her side like a demon loosed from the abyss.
And Gunnar—he didn't flinch. He held the line, axe in hand, ready to meet the storm head-on.
****
The war-torn streets erupted into chaos—flashes of spellfire streaking across the dark, fractured sky, colliding with stone and steel in bursts of incandescent fury. Cries rang out, both furious and dying, as magic clashed with steel, and blood soaked the bones of the broken city. Gunnar surged forward, a thunderous battle cry erupting from deep within his chest.
His axe spun in a deadly arc, its blackened blade cleaving through the first line of Norsefire guards like a scythe through brittle stalks. Metal shattered. Bone cracked. Flesh tore beneath the weight of his fury. One man screamed as his sword was splintered mid-parry; another didn't even have time to scream before Gunnar's axe split his skull like a melon.
Spellfire slammed into his torso—brilliant bursts of emerald and scarlet. He staggered under the impact, blackened blood thick as tar spilling from his mouth and soaking into his beard, but he held firm. He roared, driving his axe through another guard's ribcage, cleaving the man in two, his innards spilling onto the cracked pavement.
The scent of blood, fire, and ozone thickened the air. Each strike was answered with the squelch of ruptured flesh and the shattering of bone. Gunnar carved through them like a force of nature—undaunted, unrelenting—but still, they came.
Then it came—the sound.
A shrill, mechanical scream like some infernal dirge from the pit of the abyss.
Astrea.
The chainsword spun in her grip, its serrated teeth howling as they tore through the air. She came at him like a woman possessed, her eyes alight with madness, her grin stretched wide in manic delight. Gunnar met her head-on.
He raised his axe just in time, catching the chainsword along its haft. The impact shrieked like steel screaming in protest, sparks flying as the serrated teeth chewed at the enchanted handle. The force of it drove him back half a step—but he held.
Her expression twisted with glee.
Every clash, every shriek of metal, every gout of blood—it delighted her. She was drunk on it. Her every strike came with a laugh, each dodge followed by that same smile, wide and inhuman.
She twisted the blade suddenly, catching him off guard.
The chainsword carved a shallow gash across his side—deep enough to bite. Gunnar grunted, teeth clenched against the pain, black blood pouring freely from the wound and painting the cracked concrete beneath his boots.
Then came the hound.
A blur of fangs and muscle, its eyes glowing like hot coals, the beast lunged—jaws wide, death in motion.
Gunnar barely managed to throw himself back, the creature's teeth snapping shut where his throat had been a heartbeat before. He landed hard, one hand pressed to his side, blood slick between his fingers. His chest heaved. Breath ragged. Vision swimming.
It wasn't healing. Of course it wasn't. The last embers of the Sword's gift were fading fast. His time was almost gone.
Astrea stood a few paces ahead, chainsword buzzing in her grip, her monstrous hound growling at her side with lips curled back to bare pale, dagger-like teeth. She tilted her head, eyes glittering with cruel anticipation.
Gunnar rose, staggering slightly, axe dragging behind him for a moment before he hefted it into both hands again.
"Still breathin', dog," he growled through grit teeth. "Come an' see how long that lasts."
A low, guttural laugh slipped from Astrea's lips—quiet at first, but building, rising with each breath into something twisted and unnatural. Her shoulders began to shake as the sound grew louder, more frenzied, until she was nearly doubled over, clutching her face with one hand. Through the gaps between her fingers, her eyes gleamed—irises shrunken to pinpricks, alight with lunacy.
When she pulled her hand away, her smile had curdled into something monstrous—too wide, too sharp.
"You don't look so good, dwarf," she cooed. "What's the matter? Feeling the edges of your so-called gift fray away?"
She chuckled, dark and hollow. "The Sword of Damocles—it's power, sure, I won't deny that. But even a fool can see it's fleeting. Temporary. You're runnin' on fumes now, aren't you? Not much left in that tank. And if you're scraping the bottom of the barrel…" she leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming, "then so are the rest of your pitiful little friends."
Her smile sharpened. "One by one. It'll be easier now. So much easier."
Gunnar planted his boots and spat blood to the side. He rolled his shoulders, lifting his axe with both hands, the firelight dancing across its jagged edge.
"Well then, lass," he growled, "you'd best dig deep, 'cause it's down to just you and me now." His gaze dropped to the beast beside her. "And your mangy mutt doesn't count for much."
Astrea gave a delighted gasp, tilting her head like a child surprised with a gift. "Oh? That's what they all say." She began to pace, the chainsword humming softly in her grasp. "But see, dwarf… I don't show all my cards before the call."
Then she whistled—loud and sharp, cutting through the night like a blade.
Gunnar's axe twitched in his grip.
Shadow growled low, ears folding back, his fur bristling like razors. Then his body twitched—unnatural, violent. A sickening crack echoed through the alley as bones shifted, reshaping with grotesque pops beneath taut skin. The hound began to grow. Slowly at first. Then faster.
Gunnar's amber eyes widened as the beast stretched taller, broader. Its ribs widened like a bellows, its legs thickening with muscle that pulsed beneath the skin. Shadows lengthened along the walls as the dog became something far worse. Towering. Misshapen.
By the time it stopped, it was the size of a bus—massive and glistening with drool, its maw lined with curved, bone-colored fangs. Its eyes burned crimson, locked on Gunnar with unholy hunger. The thing exhaled, steam hissing between its teeth. The ground trembled beneath its growl.
Astrea smirked like a queen watching a pet perform.
"Tell me, dwarf," she whispered, "does the word Grim mean anything to you?"
****
"Grim..." The word slipped from Gunnar's lips in a hushed breath, heavy with dread. "Aye… I've heard of beasts like that."
"Creatures forged from dark, unholy sorcery... twisted in the black fires of slaughter," he muttered, eyes fixed on the monstrosity before him. "The druids say they're born o' battlefields, from the souls o' the dead—vengeful, tormented, twisted into flesh by malice and magic."
His grip tightened on his axe, jaw clenched with fury and disbelief. "How in the bloody forge did ye get yer filthy hands on one o' them?"
Astrea merely shrugged, her grin stretching wider, eyes aglow with gleeful cruelty.
"Who's to say?" she sang. "But I'll tell you this much—I've fed plenty to Shadow. Rebels. Rats. Cowards. All screaming. All begging."
Her grin sharpened, eyes narrowing with feral delight. "And soon... you."
She whistled again—short, sharp, commanding.
The Grim snarled—a guttural, throaty sound that vibrated through the concrete—and then it lunged, a blur of muscle, shadow, and hate. Blackened energy curled off its fur like smoke from a cursed pyre, warping the air in its wake.
Gunnar barely had time to lift his axe.
He swung.
Too slow.
The beast crashed into him with the force of a battering ram, and pain exploded through his body as massive jaws clamped down. He was hurled to the side like a rag doll, crashing across the pavement.
He hit the ground hard, rolling once before slamming into a ruined wall. His vision blurred. The world tilted. He gasped, clutching at the sudden, gaping emptiness at his side. Where his left arm had been—there was nothing.
The Grim stood a few paces away, enormous chest heaving, crimson eyes locked on him.
From between its bloodstained fangs Gunnar's severed arm hung limp.
He choked on a breath, blood spilling like ink down his side, pooling beneath him in thick, blackened streams.
"Shite…" he hissed, lips curling into a pained smirk. "Fast little bastard, aren't ye?"
His good hand gripped the axe tighter.
And still—he stood.
Barely, but upright all the same.
The shriek of the chainsword tore through the air like a banshee's wail, and Gunnar snapped his blood-slick gaze to the side. Astrea lunged, her eyes gleaming wide with feral glee, the chainsword whirring to life in her grasp as she brought it down with a scream of triumph.
Gunnar's axe swung upward with raw instinct. Steel met steel in a cascade of sparks. They clashed—again and again—blades striking with brutal rhythm. Each impact rang like a funeral bell through the ruined street. Gunnar's grip faltered as the strength bled from his limbs, black blood still gushing from the torn stump at his shoulder. His vision swam. His lungs heaved. The axe in his hand felt heavier with every swing.
Astrea laughed.
A sound too sharp. Too shrill.
Madness incarnate.
With every slash of her weapon, she chipped at him—some strikes he parried, others found flesh. Pain flared bright across his side, his ribs, his legs. He stumbled, boots skidding across the blood-soaked pavement, breath rattling in his chest.
Then—she vanished from his view.
She dodged to the side.
And from the dark, a new shadow lunged.
The jaws came first—black, massive, glistening with gore.
Gunnar's eyes went wide.
"Shite—!"
The Grim's fangs sank into his torso with a sickening crunch. A ragged cry tore from Gunnar's throat as his body was lifted into the air like a ragdoll caught in the jaws of death. Blood burst from his mouth, pouring over his beard in thick, inky streams.
Astrea stood back, watching with a cruel, delighted smirk.
"So much for all that fire," she sneered. "Rats always squeal till the end… and still die squealing."
Gunnar, somehow, smiled—lips cracked, blood leaking through his teeth. "Aye… but this rat's still got one trick left."
With a grunt of dying fury, he twisted his remaining arm—and hurled his axe. The weapon spun through the air like a star of black flame. Astrea shifted—just in time. The axe missed her head by a hair's breadth, slamming into the asphalt behind her with enough force to fracture the ground. The blade screeched, sparks flying.
She staggered back. A fine red line appeared across her cheek. Blood welled up—just a drop—and trickled down the side of her face. Her hand lifted, fingertips brushing against it. She looked at the smear of blood on her glove—her expression shifting. First to disbelief.
Then to rage.
"You filthy mongrel—" she began.
But Gunnar didn't hear the rest.
Shadow's jaws tightened. A sickening crunch echoed into the night. Blood poured from Gunnar's mouth, dribbling down the beast's fangs, staining the pavement below in thick, steaming pools. Astrea approached, sneering through clenched teeth, eyes burning with fury.
"This is it, dwarf," she hissed. "To think I expected more. I used to wonder how Captain Clegane fell in battle… now I know. Cowards. Backstabbers. You lot probably used some pathetic trick. A disgrace."
She looked directly at him, watching the life fade from his eyes.
"I'm going to enjoy watching you die," she whispered. "Just as I'll savour the screams when I carve Pablo and Edda open, hang their corpses with their own entrails. And that little boy of theirs? Oh, I'll make sure he sees everything."
Gunnar wheezed.
Laughed, low and ragged.
Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh... ye poor, stupid little bitch," he croaked, eyes flickering with dying fire. "You lay a finger on them… and it won't be me ye have to fear." He grinned through the blood. "It'll be what comes after me."
Astrea smirked coldly, the curve of her lips twisted in contempt.
"Ramblings of a dying man," she said, sliding the chainsword back into the sheath on her back with a metallic rasp. "Your precious Nemesis friends'll end up just the same. Nothing but meat for my Shadow."
But Gunnar's gaze didn't flinch. His lips curled into one final, blood-streaked grin.
"I ain't talkin' about Nemesis, lass," he murmured. "You cross that line… and I promise you, that fancy wee sword o' yours, and yer flea-bitten mutt won't mean shite when she comes for you."
His eyes locked with hers, sharp even as life fled from them. "And I hope she tears ye apart."
Astrea scoffed, already turning away, the weight of his words bouncing off her indifference like pebbles on stone. "Shadow."
The beast obeyed without hesitation.
Its jaws clamped shut one final time—an audible crunch that echoed down the ruined street like a death knell. Bones cracked. Flesh split. Blackened blood sprayed across the broken asphalt as Gunnar's body hit the ground in two sundered halves.
The Grim began to shrink. With a sickening series of pops and cracks, the monstrous creature shriveled back to its smaller form. Its limbs grew leaner, its jaw compacted, eyes dimming from hellfire red to something almost docile. It wagged its tail, panting, tongue lolling from its gore-slicked mouth.
Astrea crouched and gave its fur a ruffle. "Good boy."
And then—all fell still. Except Gunnar.
Even as blood poured from him, soaking into the street beneath him, his eyes remained half-lidded, flickering toward the sky. His heartbeat slowed. Each breath shallower than the last. He'd been here before—on the edge, years ago, with his ribs crushed and death waiting. It felt familiar. But this time, there would be no second wind. No sword to stitch him back together. No Goddess to bargain with.
There would be no reunion with his wife. No gentle laughter of his daughter waiting across the veil.
And yet—no sorrow. No fear. No regret. Only peace. He had come this far. He had done what he came to do. That was enough. With what strength remained, he raised a trembling hand toward the dimming sky, the stars blurred through blood and haze. A single tear slid from the corner of his eye, cutting down his dirtied cheek like a parting kiss.
"Abigail…" he whispered. "Me darlin'... forgive me. Forgive yer auld addith."
One last breath. One last heartbeat.
His arm fell, lifeless, to the ground.
Then—from the blackness beneath him—something stirred. A circular portal, silent and shadowed, unfurled beneath his broken body. Blackened hands, etched with glowing veins of fire, reached from the void. They wrapped around him with reverence, as if claiming what was theirs. And slowly, silently, they pulled him into the dark.
And then… he was gone.
Astrea walked down the war-ravaged street, her boots crunching through shards of shattered glass and charred debris. The corpses of her fallen men lay scattered around her—twisted, broken, discarded like splintered armor in a battlefield long forgotten. Smoke curled from the ruins, mixing with the scent of ash and blood that still clung to the night air.
The battle was over.
But the war—her war—was far from done.
Her gaze narrowed, cold and unflinching. Every threat she had spoken, every promise of suffering—they were not born from impulse. They were intentions. Calculated. Certain.
She would make good on them all. Beside her, the dog trotted obediently as though it hadn't just torn a man in half. A deceptive image of loyalty masking the monster beneath.
Astrea didn't spare a glance at the devastation around her. Her mind was already elsewhere. On the next names. The next screams.
"Come on, boy," she murmured. "Let's go pay Pablo a visit."
She smiled—small, tight, and full of malice.
"It's time his family learned what justice looks like."
****
Somewhere across the fractured city, far from the blood-soaked street where the last of Gunnar's strength had faded into silence, a tremor rippled through the air—subtle, but undeniable.
Asriel staggered mid-step, clutching at his chest as though something inside him had wrenched free. His breath hitched, sharp and shallow, eyes wide with sudden realization. Isha faltered beside him. Her hand rose to her heart as if to hold it in place, but it was too late.
She felt it.
She knew.
A sob tore through her throat before she could stop it, raw and unfiltered. Tears welled in her eyes, slipping down her cheeks with abandon.
"No… no…" she whispered. "Oh, Gunnar…"
Asriel said nothing, his chest rising and falling like a man drowning in air. His gaze was distant, lost in the weight of what had just been severed.
****
In his room, Orgrim sat still as stone. He closed his eyes, his weathered features drawn tight. A deep tremor ran along his jaw, though no words came. None were needed.
They all felt it.
A bond had snapped. A light had gone out.
The silence that followed pressed in around them, thick and cruel, as if the city itself had paused to mourn the warrior it had taken.