The ruins of Hollowfen became a killing ground.
Brynhild laughed as she fought, a sound sharp and wild, echoing over the shrieks of metal-flesh children. Her gauntlet glowed brighter with every swing, its powered core surging as if feeding on her reckless fury. She smashed one child down through a stone slab, bones and wires bursting apart, then swung backhand to pulp another that leapt at her throat.
"Come on then! Bite harder!" she shouted, blood flecking her lips.
Her hair whipped wildly around her face, firelight and sparks reflecting in her eyes. She looked less like a soldier and more like a berserker goddess, reveling in the chaos.
Vidar fired beside her, his rifle kicking against his shoulder. He was no longer frozen, no longer staring into the past. Now he fought as if killing could silence memory — shot after shot ripping through silver eyes and small skulls. His face was grim, jaw set, but every bullet was precise, controlled, a soldier's craft.
"Left flank! Keep them off the line!" he barked, voice cutting through the cacophony.
Holt was already there, axe dripping with oil and blood. He carved a path, his massive frame turning into a wall of muscle and rage. Every swing of his axe was a thunderclap, every impact another child torn apart. But he bled from his arm, crimson soaking his sleeve, his breaths ragged. Still, he refused to slow.
Runa dragged Solveig behind shattered masonry, shielding the girl with her own body. Her arms rose, plasma bolts snapping from her palms with clinical precision. Each beam cut through a Draugr-child, melting steel, splitting synthetic veins. But even she struggled. Her system screamed in her ears — cannot hack, no entry, no control — these things were different. Twisted. Resistant. Her one advantage stolen.
"I can't override them!" she shouted. "They're locked — unstable code!"
Brynhild heard, but she only laughed harder.
"Then shoot more of 'em!" she called back, plowing her fist through another attacker.
Elin's eyes flicked between the melee and Runa. Without hesitation, she disengaged, pulling back to guard the AI and Solveig. Her shield flashed in arcs of silver, deflecting claws and blades, her sword darting in quick thrusts that felled any who got too close. She moved with precision — calm, measured, not like Brynhild's chaos but like a stone wall in the storm.
"Stay behind me," she ordered Runa. "You too, Solveig."
But Solveig was beyond listening, curled in on herself, sobbing silently as she rocked back and forth.
The group was fracturing.
And then it happened.
One of their fighters — a rebel no older than twenty, whose name Brynhild couldn't even recall in the madness — was dragged down. He screamed, thrashing under a wave of child-sized bodies. Brynhild saw him reach for help, his hand clawing at the air. She lunged toward him — but too late.
Teeth and steel ripped him apart. His scream cut short, drowned in the wet crunch of flesh and snapping wires.
"NO!" Holt roared, swinging wildly to reach him, but there was nothing left to save. Only pieces.
Another rebel, a woman with bright hair matted in blood, fought her way back toward the group — only for half a dozen children to leap onto her. She struck, stabbed, screamed — but then they froze.
Their silver eyes burned brighter, their bodies locking around her in a grotesque embrace.
"Help me!" she cried.
And then they exploded.
The blast tore her apart, shredding her body into scraps that painted the ground red. Smoke and static screamed together in the air. When it cleared, there was nothing but fragments of flesh and melted metal.
The group faltered. Panic clawed at them. The children weren't just fighting — they were sacrificing themselves.
"Back-to-back!" Vidar shouted, his voice like steel. "Circle! NOW!"
They obeyed.
The survivors drew tight, their backs pressing together in the shadow of Hollowfen's ruined square. Brynhild at the front, fists raised. Holt beside her, axe in one hand, the other pressed to his bleeding side. Vidar covering them with his rifle. Elin shielding Runa and Solveig.
The children surrounded them. Dozens. Scores. More than the eye could count, slipping from alleys, crawling from broken doorways, spilling from collapsed roofs. Their bodies twitched, jerking, moving in sharp, unnatural rhythms like puppets yanked by cruel strings.
They pressed closer with every breath.
Vidar fired into the mass. Holt swung until his muscles burned. Brynhild surged forward, striking, smashing, screaming, laughing. Elin's shield turned aside blow after blow, her sword cutting quick, sharp arcs. Runa fired plasma until her arms smoked, circuits screaming with overload.
But for every one they killed, more replaced them. The circle shrank, step by desperate step.
Brynhild's mind raced, even as her grin widened. This is it. This is the stage. They'll remember who stood tallest when the end came.
She could almost taste Elin's gaze on her, feel it like fire on her skin. Yes. This was her moment. She'd be their shield. Their hammer. Their hero.
And yet even she knew — they couldn't hold.
The children pressed in. The circle broke. The screams rose again.
And then —
The children froze mid-motion, their small hands inches from blades, claws inches from throats. Their silver eyes flickered, dimming, their limbs twitching like marionettes with cut strings.
One by one, they fell.
Thuds echoed through the ruins as bodies collapsed — limp, lifeless, piles of flesh and steel.
The rebels stood heaving, bloodied, burned, their weapons shaking in their hands. The silence was deafening.
No enemy. No explanation. Just corpses.
Brynhild stood at the front, her chest heaving, gauntlet dripping blood and sparks. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a crimson smear across her cheek.
She chuckled. Low at first, then louder.
"Well… wasn't that something?"