The Obsidian Dawn base was nothing more than a scar hollowed into the bones of the mountain. Its stone walls were patched with scavenged steel plating, its wooden barracks thrown together from planks pried off collapsed villages. Dim lanterns swung on hooks, barely holding back the blackness of the cavern's maw. Smoke from the cookfires clung to the ceiling, a greasy haze that made the air taste of ash.
The survivors—those who had escaped the last slaughter—were crammed into every corner. Men and women lay wrapped in torn blankets, their boots still on, too weary to undress. Children whimpered in their mothers' arms. The wounded groaned as healers stitched wounds by lamplight, the stench of blood sour in the air.
Brynhild Eiríksdóttir sprawled on her bedroll near the back wall, arms folded behind her head. Her armor had been tossed aside in a careless heap, her greatsword propped within arm's reach. She stared at the lantern above, its flame guttering with every draft. Her lips curled into a faint smirk, though her eyes were hard.
Sleep didn't come easy to her. Not when she still heard the screams from earlier in the night. Not when she could almost feel the heat of the Draugr's steel claws raking her skin.
Across the room, Ingrid paced like a wolf in a cage. The commander of the Obsidian Dawn never allowed herself rest. Her hand brushed the hilt of her sword with every turn she made, her eyes sweeping the shadows as if daring them to stir.
Outside, along the crude palisade that marked the camp's perimeter, sentries stood guard. Two young men huddled close, their breath misting in the cold night air.
"You see that?" one whispered, pointing toward the tree line beyond.
The other squinted. Faint glimmers flickered there—lines of pale blue light crawling over the rocks like veins. At first glance, it might have been fireflies. But the shapes were too rigid. The lines formed symbols, then melted, then reformed.
"Residual Draugr filth," the second muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "This whole valley's cursed. They bled their machines here years ago, and the ground still remembers."
The first guard spat. "Long as it stays out there, let it glow."
Neither spoke again. They turned their eyes away, willing themselves not to see the runes pulsing brighter in the dark.
Inside the base, the exhausted rebels drifted toward uneasy sleep. For a moment, it seemed as though the night might pass quietly.
It did not.
The first scream came from the eastern watchtower. A shriek torn in half, cut short as if the throat that carried it had been crushed.
Then the walls shook. A thunderous impact rippled through the camp, rattling lanterns off hooks, pitching bowls and weapons across the stone floors. Men leapt to their feet. The children wailed.
"Attack!" a voice bellowed from outside. "They're inside! The Draugr are inside!"
The night tore open with fire.
Constructs burst through the palisade in jagged shards of splintered wood and twisted steel. Their forms were wrong—no longer the purely mechanical beasts the rebels knew, but something else, something infused with… sorcery. Blue light poured from the cracks in their frames, spilling like blood from open wounds. Symbols crawled across their armor, lines of power that flared whenever they moved.
One lifted its arm, and a lance of fire spat forth, streaking across the camp to smash into a barracks. The shack exploded into splinters, screams trapped beneath the collapse.
Another planted its clawed feet and slammed both arms down. From the ground rose a wall of glowing runes, a barrier of light and force that sealed off the eastern gate. Fighters rushing for escape crashed into it and fell back, stunned and burned.
Bolts of lightning leapt from the constructs' hands, arcing between tents, frying men alive where they stood. The air filled with the stink of scorched flesh and ozone.
Panic swallowed the camp whole.
"Gods save us, they use magic!" someone cried, voice cracking.
"They're not machines anymore—!" another screamed before being cut down by a whirring blade.
The Draugr pressed inward, their glowing eyes sweeping the camp like lanterns searching for prey. The sound of their metal feet on stone was deafening, a thunder of inevitability.
Brynhild was already on her feet, her greatsword in hand. The smirk that tugged at her lips earlier had returned, wider now, reckless.
"Well, shit," she muttered, rolling her shoulders. "Guess it's my kind of party."
The camp burned. Refugees scattered like trapped animals, chased by constructs that should not have been capable of what they were doing. Tents collapsed, flames licking skyward, sparks falling like stars. The air was a cacophony of screams, metal, and thunder.
Ingrid barked orders, her voice like a whip. "Form lines! Shields front! Hold them off the civilians!"
Her fighters rallied as best they could, dragging spears and battered shields into a semblance of formation. For a moment, it seemed like they might push the Draugr back.
Then Brynhild saw them.
Near the far side of the camp, a cluster of refugees—half a dozen women and children—were trapped. A collapsed tent pinned them, its canvas aflame. Beyond the fire, three constructs stalked closer, their eyes burning.
Brynhild's chest tightened. Her grip on the greatsword shifted. She glanced toward Ingrid's struggling line… then back to the civilians.
Her lips twisted into a grin. "Sorry, Ingrid."
She bolted.
"Eiríksdóttir! Hold your ground!" Ingrid roared. But Brynhild didn't listen.
She charged through the flames, her long hair whipping, sparks clinging to her armor. A construct raised its arm, a lance of searing light bursting forth—but Brynhild slid beneath it, rolling through the dirt, springing to her feet with a laugh.
"Missed me, clank-boy! You'll have to do better if you want a date!"
Her greatsword sang as it cleaved through the machine's leg, sparks erupting like fireworks. The Draugr toppled with a metallic shriek. She planted her boot on its chest and ripped her blade free.
The civilians screamed as the fire closed in. Brynhild threw herself into the blaze, hoisting the burning canvas with raw strength. "Move your asses! Unless you wanna roast!"
They scrambled free, coughing, clutching children to their chests.
Another Draugr lunged. Brynhild whirled, laughter spilling from her throat even as death bore down. "That's more like it! Finally, someone who wants to dance!"
She met its strike head-on, sparks showering as steel clashed. Her ferocity was a storm, her crude taunts echoing in the chaos: *"Come on, don't be shy! I'm worth the chase!"*
Her frenzy drew every Draugr in the area to her. The civilians fled, the path cleared by her madness.
But behind her, Ingrid's line faltered. Without Brynhild's sword to anchor the flank, the constructs surged. Shields splintered. Men screamed. Several fell, cut apart as they tried to hold the breach.
By the time Brynhild dragged the last child free of the flames, half of Ingrid's squad lay dead.
Dawn bled gray across the sky. The camp was a ruin of smoldering wood and bodies. The air stank of blood, smoke, and charred flesh. Survivors picked through the wreckage in silence, searching for anything to salvage.
Brynhild sat on a broken beam, her armor blackened, her blade notched. Children she had saved clung to their mothers nearby, alive because of her. She grinned faintly, trying to shake the weight pressing on her chest.
Ingrid approached. Her face was a mask of exhaustion, her eyes hollow. She stopped before Brynhild, hands tight on her sword belt.
"You saved them," Ingrid said flatly.
Brynhild smirked, leaning back. "You're welcome."
"You doomed us." Ingrid's voice was low, cold. "Because you couldn't hold the line, seven of my fighters are dead. Good men. Brothers. You chose glory over discipline, and they paid the price."
Brynhild's smirk faltered for just a heartbeat. She looked away, then forced a laugh. "Glory? Please. I just like saving pretty women."
"Call it what you want," Ingrid spat. "But don't pretend it wasn't selfish." She turned sharply, leaving Brynhild staring into the embers.
Around the camp, whispers spread. Some spoke her name with reverence—the shield-maiden who saved the helpless. Others muttered curses, blaming her for the friends they would never see again.
Brynhild kept her grin fixed, tossing crude jokes at anyone who looked her way. But when she thought no one was watching, her eyes lingered on the burned patch where Ingrid's men had fallen. Guilt gnawed at her, quiet, unrelenting.
The wolves had come in the night, and though the camp still stood, nothing felt safe anymore.