The fabric shop was about to close; dusk pressed in, and the young woman working inside could feel the cold wind of the season whistling through the shutters. Her mother had told her to gather the remaining cloth and dresses so they could finally go home and prepare dinner.

While she lifted a bundle of garments—trying to heave it onto a shelf—she heard the door creak open.

“Good afternoon,” a man’s voice announced.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said, setting the last of the fabric aside and stepping toward the central counter. “We’re closing for the day. Please come back tomorrow.”

“I’m not here for cloth or a dress,” he said. “My business is… a bit more personal.”

“Then you must be mistaken. We only sell fabric here. And from your attire, you appear to be a nobleman—this hardly seems the proper shop for someone of your tastes. Perhaps closer to the city center you might—”

“Hjørdis.” His voice cut gently through her words. “It’s me.”

“Captain?” She whispered, eyes widening. “Is that really you?”

“Who else would it be, my wild one?” He answered in Icelandic.

With a delighted cry, Hjørdis darted around the counter and sprang into Karl’s arms, clinging to him as she rattled off a flurry of jubilant Icelandic.

“Hey, hey—easy,” Karl said, lowering her back to the floor. “Remember, speak Castilian out here.”

“Sorry. This altar-boy dialect just isn’t my thing.” Hjørdis stood with a bright smile on her face.

“How have you been? That sun-kissed skin suits you,” Karl murmured, brushing his hand along her cheek.

“I prefer it to the last one—I looked like a ghost. And you? With that blond hair, you almost look the way you did in Iceland. Though the curls don’t do you any favors.”

“My parents are from Spain. You find a few blond heads around there.”

“Oh, so you are a nobleman. Tell me—have you found anyone else? Besides me, I mean.”

“Unfortunately, no. I was just wandering nearby and spotted you by pure chance—the glow, you know how it is.”

“So I’m the first. Well, at least with you around I can relax a little.”

“We’ll talk more later. I just wanted you to know I’m here. I’ll return in the morning, and we’ll decide what to do next.”

Hjørdis agreed, and the two went their separate ways.

That night, as Karl lay in bed, memories of their last meeting drifted back. The six of them, suspended once more in that infinite darkness. Someone had asked where Agnar was, and Karl had been forced to explain that he had chosen not to be reborn with them. It had taken time for the group to understand, but they’d had plenty of it to talk.

Those long conversations plagued him now—whether any of the others might someday choose to abandon the eternal journey once they learned how to sever themselves from rebirth. The thought kept him restless until dawn.

The next morning, Karl returned to the fabric shop. This time he was greeted by Hjørdis’s mother—a woman with long, wavy hair who eyed him with unhidden interest. Karl told her he wished to invite her daughter on a stroll, confessed he’d been captivated by her beauty, and even purchased several garments, which his coachman loaded into the carriage.

Moments later, he and Hjørdis were walking through the streets, posing as a pair of lovers on a date.

“Oh, my lord,” Hjørdis simpered in an exaggerated European accent, “I do hope you won’t take advantage of a virginal, innocent maiden such as myself.”

“Your Castilian is atrocious,” Karl said flatly. “And we both know you have less modesty than most men when it comes to romance.”

“Hey! I can be… refined? Refined if I really try. Not that I enjoy it, if I’m being honest.”

“That part I believe.” Karl hesitated, then added quietly, “Listen… I wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it? If it’s about what happened with Agnar, don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure it was his wish, and we should respect that as his companions. I certainly do.”

“It’s related.” He sighed, eyes dropping to the cobblestones before he forced the question out. “Would you have wanted the same? If you’d survived, would you have cut the bond and refused to be reborn with the rest of us?”

Hjørdis continued walking beside him, thinking for a few breaths. They rounded a couple of streets before she finally halted.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“Truly? You had a husband, a son, and a good home.”

“Yes… but I don’t think I was a good wife or mother. I mean, I liked being married—having a man at my side, going through pregnancy, raising a child. It was ‘fun,’ in its way. But it wasn’t really me. Maybe I would have preferred a few more years with them But living out a whole life without moving on, without discovering more of the world? That would’ve been unbearably dull.”

“I… I didn’t expect that. You truly wouldn’t want to be a mother again? I’ve heard it’s every woman’s dream to marry a handsome man, a good provider, and bear him a brood of children.”

“We’re individuals too, Captain.” Hjørdis tapped her index finger against Karl’s forehead as if knocking on a stubborn door. “Some women do want that life—pampered by some puffed-up dandy and popping out children who end up draining out their tits—but not me. I’m still a Northerner at heart.”

“I see. My apologies.” Karl watched her finger retreat. “I didn’t know breastfeeding Kintaro bothered you that much.”

“It didn’t, not really. But feeding one child isn’t the same as feeding six.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve got four brothers—just men in that house. I’m the third and the roughest of the lot.” Karl let out a short laugh.

They walked on for several minutes until the plaza opened before them. A small, riled-up crowd had gathered—Creoles mixed with a few full-blooded Spaniards like Karl and a handful of natives, but what stood out most were the slaves, their dark skin and humble clothes setting them apart.

Karl studied them for a moment, then stopped dead. Hjørdis nearly walked into him and asked what was wrong. He didn’t answer—he bolted toward the commotion.

A Spaniard was lashing a slave across the back. The young man’s dark skin was already welted and now smeared with blood, but he didn’t flinch or cry out. Around him the crowd shouted—some gleeful, others mournful.

Karl pushed his way through and took in the whole scene. Beneath the slave crouched a small girl with more European features, though her warm complexion betrayed African ancestry. She sobbed, begging the young man to step aside and let the blows fall on her instead.

Karl wanted to intervene, but barging in recklessly would only doom them both. As he hesitated, he overheard two women nearby discussing what had happened. Apparently, the girl had spilled some soup on the man’s clothes; he’d raised a hand to slap her, but the young slave had intervened. Since the man was his master, he’d punished him with the whip. One lash—delivered spitefully—had nearly struck the child, so the young man had shielded her with his own body…bringing things to this moment.

Karl searched frantically for a distraction, something to pull the brute’s attention away. Then he noticed an elderly man eating soup from a bowl. Karl approached, offered a coin worth triple the meal’s value, and the old man accepted instantly.

The man with the whip paused to catch his breath. His companions urged him to continue, or the slave would “never learn.” He lifted the whip again, ready for another strike.

Before he could bring it down, hot liquid splashed across the right side of his coat. He yelped, dropping the whip, twisting and flailing like a headless chicken trying to cool itself. Laughter rose from rich and poor alike.

“Oh—my apologies,” Karl said, still holding the bowl. “I must’ve tripped. Maybe on your arrogance, since it’s so…oversized.”

“You!” the man roared. “How dare you!”

“I said I was sorry. Look, let me pay for the coat. In fact, I came to propose a deal.”

“A deal? What sort of deal could I possibly make with someone as dim-witted as you?”

“I wanted to buy him.” Karl nodded toward the young slave, who glanced back at him from the corner of his eye. “He’s yours, right? Would you sell him to me?”

“Are you insane? Yes, he’s mine, but I won’t sell him—no matter the price. He belongs to me, and he’ll be disciplined properly.”

“As far as I can tell, he just protected that little girl. She stained your clothes…and so did I. We all make mistakes.” Karl shrugged, offering the man a disarming smile.

“My answer is still no. And as for what you just did…” The man pulled a glove from his coat pocket, clenched it in his fist, then hurled it into Karl’s chest. Karl barely reacted. “I challenge you to a duel.”

A sharp gasp rippled through the plaza.

Karl blinked, baffled, as the man glared back at him.

“Do you accept or not?” the man demanded.

“I’m not exactly well-versed in duels, but… I suppose yes, I accept.”

“Then pick it up.” He pointed at the glove lying on the ground. “Pick up the glove. Are you entirely illiterate?”

Karl crouched, retrieved the glove, and once again the crowd erupted in a unified gasp that echoed across the square.

“Perfect. I’ll grant you the honor of choosing the type of duel—and the hour.”

“I get to choose?” Karl blinked, baffled.

“Indeed. A small display of my generosity. What weapon shall it be? Pistols, sabers… or something more archaic?”

“How about axes?”

Every onlooker—even the man who had challenged him—went rigid with shock. The challenger’s face twisted into a bizarre blend of confusion and outright disbelief.

“A-axes? Y-you can’t be serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious.” Karl rubbed his knuckles together, as if warming his hands before a fire. “You told me to choose. I’m taking you at your word. I trust a gentleman won’t suddenly back out.”

“…Very well. Axes it is. And the hour? Tomorrow morning? Or do you prefer the afternoon?”

“Here and now.”

The crowd had exhausted its capacity for surprise, yet Karl kept wringing more out of them. Gasps fluttered through the plaza.

“Now? Wh-why now?”

“Why not? No moment beats the present. Besides, it saves the crowd the trouble of waiting till tomorrow. That would be dreadfully tedious.”

“But what are we supposed to fight with? What are the rules?”

“Quite simple. We stand facing each other. One throws an axe—if he misses, the other throws his. We trade turns until one of us yields… or dies.”

“That’s… extremely simple. Unfortunately, I don’t have an axe on me.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Karl’s grin sharpened as he slid both hands into his coat. He drew out two dark-steel axes of excellent craftsmanship, each haft wrapped with a chain of matching metal. “I can lend you one. In fact, I’ll even give you the sharper of the two. It’s what a gentleman would do, isn’t it?”

The man stared, dumbstruck. The youth had been carrying two axes—and was offering him one. With the crowd’s eyes drilling into his back, the challenger had no choice but to reach out. His hand trembled. The weapon was far heavier than he’d anticipated; he nearly dropped it the moment he gripped it.

They moved to an open spot in the plaza where people quickly cleared a wide circle. Both stepped into the center of the improvised field. Karl told his opponent they could put about twenty feet between them—and that he’d grant the first throw.

The man planted his feet and hefted the axe, studying Karl. The blond youth stood at the agreed distance, eyes drifting up toward the sky as if this were all a mild distraction. The sight stoked the challenger’s anger. When the volunteer acting as referee shouted the signal, the man lifted his axe and hurled it with everything he had. The weapon spun through the air, slicing close to where Karl stood.

Unluckily for the man, it missed entirely and tumbled harmlessly across the ground.

“Nice throw,” Karl said, lowering his gaze to the axe. “I suppose it’s my turn.” He drifted backward several steps, never taking his eyes off the man.

“What are you doing?” the challenger snapped. “We agreed on twenty feet!”

“I’m giving you a little advantage. I’ve handled these weapons longer than you have.” Karl stopped walking.

They now stood roughly forty feet apart. The difference was so absurd that the man let out a short, incredulous laugh and braced himself with renewed confidence.

Karl tossed the axe upward. It spun. He caught it cleanly by the haft. He repeated the motion—again and again—each throw higher, each rotation faster. On the fourth and most forceful pass, he caught the axe, slid his hand down to the chain, and whipped the weapon into a tight, blistering spin.

The display lasted only seconds, yet it was enough to silence the plaza. Awe rippled through the crowd—and through his opponent.

Then Karl snapped his arm forward. The axe fanned out in a whirling arc and shot across the distance with brutal speed. The challenger barely had time for his face to contort—fear, shock—before the blade buried itself in his skull. He staggered back on weak legs, took two feeble steps, and toppled flat onto the ground.

He didn’t move again.

Blood began to spill from the man’s head as the crowd gasped—some thrilled, others screaming in terror. One woman even fainted, overwhelmed by the sight.

The volunteer who’d been chosen to mark the start of the duel approached Karl’s opponent. The man showed no sign of life; the axe buried in his skull leaked a steady flow of red across his slack features.

“He’s dead,” the volunteer managed, voice trembling.

Every spectator turned toward Karl, still standing exactly where he’d hurled the axe.

“I’m guessing that means I win… right?” Karl asked, tilting his head as though genuinely curious.

The dead man’s companions stared at the ground. After several seconds of heavy silence, they begrudgingly admitted Karl had won and could leave. But the young warrior insisted the young girl should be freed as well—and that he still intended to buy the slave who’d been whipped.

The fallen man’s companions accepted the payment at last and told him he could take the young man. Karl used the moment to retrieve his axes, wiping the blood from the one lodged in the man’s skull with the silk handkerchief he kept in his pocket. When he finished, he, Hjørdis, and the slave took their leave.

The three of them walked to an apothecary and bought what they needed to treat the young man’s wounds. They poured alcohol over the cuts, spread ointments along his back, and wrapped everything in clean cloth. He barely reacted.

“Good to see you again, big guy,” Hjørdis said, working more salve into Holger’s bruised skin.

“I’m glad to see you both too,” Holger murmured, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “Everything’s been… rough so far.”

“I know slaves have it hard,” Karl said. “I won’t ask what you’ve endured up until today. Just know that from now on, we’re going to help you.”

“I truly appreciate that.”

“Do you have any family or friends we can help?”

“No… I only had my father, and he died when I was still a small child. I was passed from master to master after that. Some were better than others, but the one you killed was definitely the worst.”

“Well, he’s cured of his arrogance now,” Hjørdis remarked. “Axes to the head tend to do that.” She let out a sharp laugh.

Karl and Hjørdis finished bandaging him, then helped him sit up. They also handed him new clothes and a thick wool cloak they’d bought along with the supplies.

“Thank you,” Holger said as he looked over his new outfit. “I hope I don’t stand out too much wearing all this.”

“You’ll be the best-dressed slave around,” Hjørdis said with a grin—and no one needed to doubt she meant it. “If anyone has a problem with that, they can complain to us. We know how to deal with them.”

“Thanks… There’s something else I should tell you.”

“What is it, big guy?”

“I think I know where Sigurd is.”

Karl and Hjørdis froze, surprise tightening their faces. They exchanged a glance, then turned to Holger. Karl spoke first.

“Where did you see him? How do you know it was him?”

“Let me guess,” Hjørdis said flatly. “White hair?”

“That’s right,” Holger replied. “One of my masters took me to a settlement, and I saw a native with white hair. He wore a crest on his head, so I couldn’t make out his face well, but his age, his bearing… it has to be him.”

“If I could see him with my own eyes, I’d know for sure,” Karl said. “Do you know where this settlement is?”

“It was some time ago, but I think I can guide you both. It’s a bit far, though.”

“Then let’s not waste time,” Hjørdis said. “Let’s head out and find that snow-headed bastard.”

“Hold on, Hjørdis,” Karl cut in. “First we need to figure out where Holger is going to stay—and then we need to know exactly where we’re heading. I want to find the others too, but tension between the two sides is sky-high. We can’t just go wherever we want… I’ve already tried.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“Hide Holger on one of the plots near my house—there’s a shed he can use. After that, we’ll get supplies and everything we need for the journey.”

“I agree,” Holger said.

“Alright… I suppose we can wait a little while,” Hjørdis admitted, a trace of reluctance in their voice.

As night fell, Holger and Karl headed to Karl’s home, while Hjørdis returned to their mother’s shop.

That same night, a young man hauling a cart full of goods overheard talk of the duel that had taken place in the plaza. The details shifted depending on who told the story, but every account agreed on two points: axes were involved, and the victor—a young blond man—had swung his weapon using a chain attached to its handle.

***

The next morning, the three companions set out to explore the capital again, this time deliberately avoiding the plaza to stay clear of onlookers curious about Karl’s duel the day before.

The air was cold, as it usually was in the capital this time of year. Wind gusted through the streets, clouds dimming the sun and threatening an afternoon rain. They had dressed in thick layers that covered them well, bracing against the chill.

“Are we really just going to only buy food and hire a guide?” Hjørdis asked hesitantly.

“We don’t need protection—I think the three of us can manage on our own,” Karl replied. “Finding someone who knows the terrain is far more important. These areas are likely guarded by locals… and who knows what else.”

They moved from shop to shop, gathering provisions: water, bread, cured meats, legumes, and dried fruits. Once fully stocked, they set out to find a guide.

They wandered through the market a bit longer until Holger suddenly stopped, staring intently at a shop. It looked different from the others, decorated with painted cloths inscribed with letters. Holger couldn’t read Castilian, but the symbols around the words told him enough.

“Guys!” Holger exclaimed.

“What is it, big guy?” Hjørdis asked.

“Look—at that shop in the back. Those letters… do they say what I think they say?”

“’I’m here… I’m Rune’.” Hjørdis read aloud.

“It’s him!” Karl said, excitement lighting his face.

The three of them sprinted toward the shop. A young man with brown hair and olive-toned skin was finishing with a customer, thanking her for purchasing a vase and sending her off with a smile.

They reached the shop’s front, panting and so careless that they nearly knocked over a table displaying pottery tools.

“Can I help you youngsters with something?” the young man asked, grinning mischievously.

“Are you…?” Karl began.

“Wait… let me guess.” The young man interrupted, pointing at each of them in turn, “Karl, Hjørdis, and Holger. Did I get it right?”

“Yes, it’s definitely Rune,” Hjørdis confirmed.

“I’m glad to see you too. That look suits you.”

“Putting those letters on your shop was a good idea—they stand out,” Holger added.

“Not as much as you, big guy. Dark skin isn’t your thing, but I suppose I can get used to it.”

“Hey, how long have you had this sign-up at your shop?” Karl asked. “It must be dangerous with the officials and clerics claiming everything’s the work of the devil.”

“This morning. Took me a while to paint it all, but I figured a certain someone—who likes tossing axes at noble heads—might be interested,” Rune said, sarcasm lacing the words.

“Have you heard about the duel?”

“The whole capital knows! I don’t know about Sigurd, but I’m sure Arvid won’t take long to find us.”

“Wait… you know where Arvid is?” Hjørdis asked.

“It’s… complicated. Let me pack up the shop, and I can explain better.”

The group helped Rune stow away everything from the shop—vases, figurines, and cooking implements. Once that was done, Rune began gathering various tools into a sack, slinging it over their back, and pitching in with whatever else they could carry from the purchases. When everything was loaded, they set off.

"So you’re a noble," Rune said. "Hjørdis is a seamstress, and Holger's a slave."

"Basically," Karl replied. "I was born here, but my parents took me to Spain when I was a baby—twenty years ago. I only recently returned to the capital, and now I’m focused on bringing everyone together."

"I see," Rune nodded. "I had a mother too, but a fierce fever took her a couple of years ago. Since then, I’ve run the business myself, and along the way I got into a few scrapes trying to track people down. The holy office isn’t something to take lightly."

"Hey, Rune," Hjørdis said. "Are you finally going to tell us where you saw Arvid?"

"It’s complicated, like I said," Rune replied, pausing before continuing. "I was walking through one of the slums when I heard a young man shouting. I went to see what was happening and saw someone who looked well-born, judging by his clothes. Handsome, long black hair… quite striking."

"How did you know it was him?" Karl asked.

"Don’t interrupt—this is where I’m getting to. The young man had clearly had too much to drink and was shouting in several languages—some Icelandic, Latin, and Japanese. Most of what he said were obscenities, believe me, and they were clear enough."

"Don't tell me," Hjørdis said, chuckling. "I still remember those drunken nights by the campfires in the last two lives. Everyone swore we’d been possessed by witches or yokai."

"As I was saying…" Rune continued, "This guy looked my age. I tried to approach and talk to him, but a few men stopped me—probably his guards. They took him along with a Girl, he was holding roughly. She looked like a prostitute, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her…"

"Are you…sure that was Arvid?" Holger asked, frowning. "Doesn’t sound like him."

"Yes…he’s always been passionate about everything," Hjørdis added. "Just clever…a good boy through and through."

"I had doubts too," Rune admitted. "It’s just that no one else I can think of speaks all those languages. I even wondered if it might be one of you, but seeing you here now rules that out."

"Maybe it was Sigurd? He can be more aggressive."

"He didn’t have white hair—that’s never changed, not even in our previous life, when everyone in that country had dark hair. That night I couldn’t speak with him directly, but I asked the men he was drinking with if they knew who he was. Apparently, he lives in a well-off family’s house. I can lead you there, but I’d like him to be the last one we look for."

"Why?" Karl asked. "Arvid is our friend—if he’s in trouble, we should help him immediately."

"No, captain, listen," Rune said firmly, gripping Karl’s shoulder and meeting his gaze. "I insist that we must all be together before we go to him. Whatever’s happened to him in this life is going to need everyone’s help."

Karl and the others exchanged confused looks at Rune, who seemed unusually shaken, but they agreed to leave Arvid for last, even though Karl still felt they should rush to help him if he was in danger.

That same day, they found a merchant willing to guide them to the territory Holger had mentioned. According to him, it was indeed a native settlement, though reaching it was tricky if they hadn’t arranged entry with one of the tribal leaders—but that could be sorted once they arrived, provided they handled things carefully.

They spent the night with the merchant on the outskirts of the capital and set out early the next morning. During that time, both Karl and Rune couldn’t stop thinking about the person who might be Arvid and what could have made them act that way.

The following morning, the group traveled in two wagons toward the settlement. Holger proved invaluable—despite having been there only once, he remembered the paths that led directly to the place.

“Do you want some?” the merchant asked, holding out a handful of green leaves to the travelers.

“No, thanks,” Rune replied. “I’ve heard those things can make you a little crazy.”

“They’re for the aches caused by the cold,” the merchant continued, popping one of the leaves into his mouth and chewing as he spoke. “They also help with digestion—you should try them.”

“I don’t want any either,” Karl said. “Do you know how long it’ll take us to get there?”

“The settlement should be close… though I’m not exactly sure where.”

Suddenly, the merchant slammed the cart to a stop, making the horses whinny at the abrupt jolt. In the back, the four young travelers lurched forward with the luggage and demanded to know what was happening. The merchant just shook his head, warning them to stay put.

Footsteps sounded all around them, followed by a chorus of shouting—like animals howling. Then they saw a group of people running toward the cart, encircling it. They were all indigenous, dressed in traditional garments for warmth and carrying weapons—spears, clubs, and other implements that looked deadly.

The four went on guard, gripping their weapons. Rune reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of hammers.

“Don’t get aggressive,” the merchant warned. “They’re very territorial and will attack at the slightest sign of threat.”

“Do you speak their language?” Karl asked. “That might help right now.”

“Well… a little. Just a few words…”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Holger said. “They’re only defending their territory. I know how much the Spanish have taken from them over the years.”

The group searched for a solution while listening to the incomprehensible words shouted by the natives. The merchant tried to explain with the little of their language he knew, but it seemed useless.

Just as it seemed the confrontation would turn violent, Hjørdis stood up, lowered her knives, took a deep breath, and shouted:

“Sigurd! You damn snow-haired idiot, we’re here, so get out!”

The words were in Icelandic.

At the sound, the natives lowered their weapons and began speaking among themselves, clearly confused.

“Do you understand what they’re saying?” Holger asked the merchant.

“I think… they’re saying things like ‘language,’ ‘seer,’ ‘sacred,’ and similar… I can barely make sense of it,” the merchant admitted.

The natives calmed slightly and made way for a figure walking toward the cart. Short in stature, wearing a wooden mask and a plume of feathers that looked exotic, with a pair of machetes hanging from ropes at the waist under their garments.

The figure stopped in front of the cart and studied the three young travelers. Then, removing the mask and plume, long white hair fell over reddish-brown skin.

“Say ‘snow-haired’ again, and I swear I’ll cut your tongue out,” the young man said.

“Is that him?” Rune asked Karl.

“It is,” Karl replied, smiling at Sigurd.

“Get down,” Sigurd ordered. “We need to talk.”

Somewhat confused, the group stowed their weapons and climbed down from the cart, unloading their provisions. A few natives helped them, though they were hesitant at first.

The merchant left after receiving his payment, warning them to be careful and handing over a few of the green leaves he had recently eaten, insisting they might come in handy.

They walked along the wooded mountain trails until reaching an area full of other tribe members. There were huts made of mud and straw, fire pits, and open spaces for the inhabitants to move around.

At one point, Sigurd led them to a hut and told them they could enter—this was where they could talk without being disturbed.

Once inside, the group settled around a campfire. Sigurd drew out a pipe, packed it with a handful of dried leaves, and crushed them with a twig. He leaned close to the flames, coaxed the leaves alight, then took a long pull before turning his head and letting the smoke drift away from the others. He offered the pipe to his four companions. They declined with polite shakes of the head.

“So…” Sigurd began, another plume escaping his lips as he glanced them over. “I’m guessing the girl is Hjørdis, the muscle-bound one’s Holger, the blond is the captain, and since the skinny one isn’t carrying a bow, that must make him Rune.”

Rune snorted. “You’ve grown less crude with age.” He eyed the pipe. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“The tobacco around here’s excellent,” Sigurd said lightly. “You should try it.”

“Now that you mention it…” Hjørdis reached into one of her pouches and pulled out a bundle of leaves the merchant had given them. “The man who brought us said this might come in handy.”

Sigurd took the green leaves, turning them over between his fingers, lifting them to his nose. After a moment, he set them atop a folded cloth behind him. “That’s a narcotic. Helps with certain aches and ailments. I’ve heard that, prepared the right way, it can mess with your head. Still—colonizers like it. It’ll work as trade.”

“Have you had trouble with them?” Karl asked. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not too familiar with what the people here have gone through. I only came back recently.”

“Pure Spanish, are you?” Sigurd said. “Lucky. You lot have it easy.”

“What happened to your people?” Holger asked. “Aren’t the natives supposed to live farther north?”

“We were,” Sigurd said. “Then we chose to fight. They drove us off our land, so we came all this way to return the favor.”

“Seems fair enough,” Hjørdis said. “‘An eye for an eye,’ like that bearded king used to say. My mother taught me that.”

“So you’re planning to fight?” Karl frowned. “That doesn’t sound very wise right now. From what I’ve heard, things have been tense since July twentieth. Not many survive when they stand against the Spanish.”

“Bolívar’s doing it,” Sigurd said, drawing from the pipe again. “Why shouldn’t we?”

“He’s got men with rifles—and he knows military strategy,” Rune cut in. “Besides, you shouldn’t compare yourself to him. From what I know, he’s no saint.”

“The point is, we plan to strike when the opportunity shows itself,” Sigurd went on. “That’s why we’ve been negotiating with a few nobles, trying to secure weapons and horses.”

“That explains it,” Holger said slowly. “I saw you a few months back. One of my masters brought me here, and I recognized you by that white hair of yours.”

“So that’s how they spotted me.” Sigurd smiled thinly. “Good eye. I try to hide it as much as I can. Around here they think I’m some kind of shaman—or something close. Doesn’t help that I talk in my sleep, slipping into other languages. Still, it’s earned me a certain authority.”

“That’s how you got them to let us through?” Karl asked.

“I told them I’d had a vision,” Sigurd said. “A blond man wielding two axes, a giant, a woman with knives, a man with hair like a woman’s holding a bow, and a fellow with a shadowed gaze would come to see me. And here you are.”

“So you don’t want to come with us?” Karl asked.

“I could,” Sigurd admitted, “but I think I’m more useful here. I’m the best fighter they have, and there aren’t many who know how to fight anymore—not like before.”

“And yet you still want to march into an impossible war,” Rune said.

“Don’t pretend you know anything,” Sigurd snapped, letting the pipe fall from his hand. “I’ve watched people I grew up with die. I’ve fled like a rat, dodging fire and shots. It’s been hell so far.”

“So far,” Karl said quietly. “Now you’ve got us. We can help.”

Sigurd straightened, picked up the pipe, and took another draw before fixing Karl with a knowing look. “And in return for what? I know that face—you’re negotiating. Say it.”

“Help us find Arvid,” Karl said. “It looks like he needs us. We already have a lead on where he might be, but we need to go together.”

“What kind of help?”

The five of them talked for several minutes about what Rune had seen and how they would proceed with the plan. At first, Sigurd resisted the idea. But when memories of everything they had lived through alongside Arvid resurfaced, the most compassionate member of their group finally relented. He agreed to help—though not without making it clear that his stance on going to war remained unchanged.

Sigurd’s tribe escorted them to the outskirts of the settlement, toward a road that led straight to the capital. There, they were given horses that would allow them to travel faster. Before setting out, Sigurd traded his native garb for clothing that would draw less attention in the city. He claimed to have acquired it through one of the many exchanges his people had conducted over the years.

The journey to the capital was far from easy. Heavy rains lashed them along the way, landslides clogged the narrow paths, and other travelers watched them with open curiosity—a group so small, yet so strikingly diverse.

After more than a day on the road, they reached the capital’s gates. Both Holger and Sigurd pulled their cloaks low, hiding their faces to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

Once in the capital, Rune told them where the property lay—belonging to those who, according to what Rune had heard some time ago, were the relatives of the man who might be Arvid. They were a wealthy Spanish family, infamous for rumors of mistreating their servants and engaging in businesses of questionable morality.

“So we just go there, kick down the door, and drag Arvid out?” Sigurd asked.

Rune grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I haven’t thought past that point. I still know too little about the conditions he was born into—how he was raised. As long as we get him out in the most direct way possible, I don’t think the details matter much.”

“We’d be better off asking someone about that family first,” Karl put in. “Then we decide whether we take him by force or try to handle it peacefully. What did you say Arvid’s name is in this life?”

“If the drunkards I saw that night were telling the truth, he goes by ‘Jeremías’ now,” Rune said. “Apparently he’s quite popular with the young ladies.”

“Looks like he’s grown fond of the luxuries of a good life,” Sigurd remarked, a low chuckle escaping him. “I’m sure he’s enjoying his youth. When he sees us, he’ll know the fun is over.”

“Let’s find out where he spends his time,” Karl said. “Then we’ll try talking to him there.”

Not long after, a scream echoed near the entrance to the plaza where they stood. They gathered their things and moved toward the noise, finding a crowd clustered around a young boy tied to a post. On his head sat what appeared to be a hat, painted with a bright red target.

“Don’t move,” said another youth, gripping a musket as he poured powder into the chamber beneath the hammer. His hands shook as he worked. “If you twitch, I’ll blow your head off—so don’t even tremble.” He finished loading, raised the weapon, and aimed straight at the boy.

The crowd watched in tense silence. The shooter struggled to steady the musket, trying to line up the shot with the target painted on the hat. The boy could do nothing but shake and sweat, waiting for the shot he feared was inevitable.

Seconds dragged on. The musket remained trained on the boy’s head, the hat perched there like a death sentence. The young man fumbled with the hammer, setting it into position, then slid his index finger onto the trigger, waiting for his hands to stop trembling.

The gun fired.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a sharp breath as sweat streamed down his face. He felt nothing—no searing pain, no bullet tearing through flesh, not even the hat tumbling from his head. What reached him instead were the shocked cries of the crowd.

He opened his eyes, heart hammering, and saw that the shooter was no longer aiming at him. The musket lay on the ground, beside what looked unmistakably like an axe.

“You!” the young man shouted, spinning toward a blond figure standing nearby.

Karl stood with one arm still outstretched. “My apologies,” he said mildly. “I couldn’t bear the thought of such a fine hat being ruined. Guess I threw the axe on instinct.”

“An axe? Don’t tell me you’re the captain.”

The young man sounded mildly bored, as if the answer barely mattered.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Karl answered in Icelandic. Then he switched to Castilian. “Does that bother you, Arvid?”

“I suppose the ones back there are the rest of them. Thanks for bringing them along—now I can show them just how much my aim has improved.”

Arvid moved toward the rifle lying on the ground, seized it with practiced confidence, and began loading a pellet into the barrel again. The delay gave Karl enough time to walk over, retrieve his axe, and ask quietly,

“What do you think you’re doing? Are you going to try killing that boy again?”

“He’s just the son of one of my employees.” Arvid kept his eyes on the weapon as he worked the barrel. “If I kill him, I pay her for the loss. I’m punishing him for spilling wine on my clothes. If he survives, he’s free to go. Relax—I don’t miss.” He finished loading and raised the rifle, sighting down it at the boy.

Karl stepped in and clamped a hand around the barrel, forcing it upward. He met Arvid’s gaze. Arvid turned on him, irritation flashing hot and sharp.

“Don’t interfere, Captain.” His voice was steady, but fury churned beneath it.

“What happened to you?” Karl asked, confusion and sorrow weighing down his words. “If it weren’t for the glow clinging to your body, I’d think you were someone else entirely. I can’t believe you’re the same Arvid we knew.”

“That Arvid is dead!” Arvid wrenched the rifle from Karl’s grip. “Now you’d better leave—before I give the order to have you all beheaded.”

At his signal, the men standing near the carriage moved in, forming a line behind Arvid. Their faces were grim, their hands wrapped around what looked like sabers and clubs.

Karl took in the scene and retreated a few steps. At the same time, Rune—standing farther back—made a series of subtle hand signs. Karl understood at once and answered with a brief nod.

“So what’ll it be, Captain?” Arvid pressed, menace threading his tone. “Are you leaving…or staying?”

“What if I stay,” Karl said evenly, “and make things a little more interesting?”

Arvid frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You claim you’ve got excellent aim. And it seems you don’t care about us anymore. Let’s test that.”

“Stop wasting my time and say it already—or do you want me to shoot you?”

“Actually?” Karl smiled. “Yes. I’ll take the boy’s place. I’ll stand by the post with a hat on my head, and you’ll try to knock it off with that little cannon of yours. If you miss and I’m still breathing, you come with us. If I die, you kill the boy too. And if you hit the mark, we leave without you. What do you say?”

Arvid studied him, unease and curiosity mingling in his expression, as if the man before him were a stranger wearing Karl’s face. Then he glanced back at his companions. Only Holger, Hjørdis, and Sigurd were visible among them—and all three nodded without hesitation, firm in their captain’s judgment.

Arvid looked back at Karl. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“If it were, I’d have to be smarter than you to pull it off.” Karl slipped his hands into his coat. “Besides, we’re at a disadvantage. I’m just testing my options—trying to see how I might drag you along with us.” He drew out his two axes and let them fall to the ground at his feet.

“Untie him,” Arvid ordered. His men went to the post and cut the ropes binding the boy. “Pick up those axes and put the hat on the blond one. No need to tie him—he’s not going anywhere.” He smiled as he began preparing the rifle again.

“So you trust me that much?” Karl said lightly. “I knew there was still something good left in you.”

“Shut up. I just want this over with.” Arvid snapped the rifle shut. “Besides—you know how good my aim is.”

Karl took his place before the post, clasping his hands behind his back, tucked inside his coat. The men who had freed the boy obeyed the rest of the orders, lifting both axes from the dirt and settling the hat carefully onto the blond man’s head.

Arvid gripped the weapon and leveled it at his captain, who returned his gaze with a smile brimming with confidence. The rifle’s barrel wavered side to side as Arvid struggled to keep steady, as if the long instrument itself were dancing in his hands.

“Had one too many last night?” Karl teased. “You’ve always been a lightweight.”

“Shut up!” Arvid snapped. “Drunk or sober, I can hit anything.”

“I just wanted my ‘last’ words to reach you. Don’t get so tense—I’m sure you’ll hit the mark.”

“In that case, shut your mouth and let me focus. I might miss on purpose… hit somewhere you really wouldn’t want me to.”

“Oh, terrifying!” Karl said, mock fear dripping from his voice. “The thing that scares me most—aside from someone pointing a gun at me—is loud noises. Doesn’t it scare you too?”

“Noises? What are you talking about?” Arvid asked, lowering the rifle and staring at him in confusion.

This time, Karl’s smile didn’t radiate confidence. It carried a more complicated emotion—cunning—the kind Arvid had seen before.

It was then that Arvid realized he’d walked straight into one of Karl’s tricks. He tried to aim again, but before he could, the tip of the barrel was intercepted by an object that shot from Karl’s hand. In a blink, Arvid recognized it as another axe—a third one that must have been hidden in his coat.

The men behind Arvid tried to move, but were almost immediately caught off guard by a series of cannon-like blasts, smoke pouring from the back of their carriage, and flames spreading across the ground.

Arvid glanced back, distracted just long enough for Karl to strike. The captain wrenched the weapon from his grip and slammed a brutal headbutt into him, sending him unconscious.

When the men regained their senses, they lunged at Karl, only to be ambushed by the rest of his companions.

Holger struck and rammed three of them until they were out cold. Hjørdis left shallow cuts across the arms, legs, and clothing of four more, who collapsed from the blood loss. Sigurd, however, was more savage: the remaining five suffered blows to vital areas with his machetes, losing fingers and eyes in the process.

When the fight ended, Rune returned, carrying a bag and a small torch. He told his companions to head to his shop, knowing how they could hide. They followed him through the chaos, weaving among the crowd stirred by explosions, smoke, and the aftermath of the brawl.

They ran for several minutes, Karl and Holger carrying Arvid to make sure he didn’t slip, until they reached Rune’s shop. He opened the door and slipped inside, moving to a corner where a floorboard matched the color of the floor, concealing a hole beneath. Rune used a long knife to lift the board, set it aside, and gestured for his companions to descend the stairs into the opening. They obeyed as the dark-haired young man blocked the entrance with furniture and cloths.

At the bottom, they found what appeared to be a cellar, filled with crates and books. Holger asked as Rune descended:

“What is this place?”

“Apparently, my father used to distill alcohol here illegally,” Rune replied. “This was the cellar where he kept the still and the barrels. He died from alcohol poisoning shortly after I was born—or at least that’s what my mother of this life told me.”

“And you turned it into your private study?” Karl asked, setting Arvid against one wall. “At least it’ll keep us hidden for a while.”

“It’s a bit cramped, but we should manage the night fine,” Rune said, lighting a candle to ignite the wall torches.

“What did you use for the distraction?” Sigurd questioned. “It sounded like the cannon fire you hear on battlefields.”

“Fireworks.” Rune held up the bag they were carrying, now open, for everyone to see. “Bought them from some foreign merchants who came to the capital a couple months ago. Been itching to use them.”

“How’s Arvid doing?” Holger asked. “I think we could have convinced him without having to resort to force.”

“You saw how he acted,” Hjørdis said, “like an arrogant, heartless fool. I didn’t believe what Rune told me at first, but now that I’ve seen him with my own eyes, I get what you meant.”

“Still, I think we should hear him out,” Karl suggested. “There must have been something that made him act that way.”

Minutes passed in the basement. The noise outside had faded, and those inside began speaking in hushed tones.

Soon, Arvid, still leaning against one of the walls, slowly opened his eyes. His companions approached him, only to have him snap a furious, contemptuous, “Stay back!” that made them recoil in confusion.

“Hey, friend,” Karl expressed with a faint smile, “sorry about earlier, but we needed to talk to you, and it was clear you weren’t in the mood.”

“In the mood…” Arvid muttered, trying to sit up, a wry laugh escaping that dripped with mockery. “You always take everything so lightly.”

“Friend…” Holger continued, “We know you’ve probably been through a lot, but we’re here now. We can help you.”

“Don’t spout nonsense! You don’t know anything about what I’ve been through! Nothing! Got it?!”

“Hey!” Hjørdis shouted, grabbing Arvid’s wrist. “Don’t talk to the big guy like that—he just wants to understand why you’re acting this way.”

“Let go…” Arvid hissed angrily.

“What did you say? Speak up, I—”

A punch. That’s what Hjørdis felt as Arvid’s clenched fist slammed into her face, forcing a few steps back. The others watched in stunned silence. Arvid’s face burned with rage and disgust; Hjørdis’ showed nothing but confusion. Slowly, her companions moved, reacting as best they could.

Hjørdis quickly planted her feet, stopping the backward stumble, then swung an arm with full force, landing a solid blow to Arvid’s nose. Blood erupted, and he pressed his hands to his face, groaning in pain. The assault continued—Hjørdis struck his face and stomach repeatedly, then grabbed his shoulders and drove knee after knee into his abdomen. She struck so fiercely that the others had to hold Hjørdis back, preventing serious internal injury. Arvid collapsed onto the floor, blood streaming down his face, clutching his stomach.

“Who do you think you are?!” Hjørdis roared, thrashing as the others restrained her. “We are your friends, your family—don’t you dare raise a hand against us!”

“Hjørdis… calm down,” Holger said, holding her gently under the arms. “He’s just confused.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! We were supposed to fight together, to be allies, and now he tries to kill the captain and hits me! I don’t care what the captain says—this can’t be Arvid… not our Arvid.” Hjørdis’ voice cracked as she finally stopped struggling.

Seconds passed. Hjørdis’ head hung low, limbs stiff. Her companions loosened their grip, letting her sit on the floor. Holger reached out, but Hjørdis swatted his hand away, rose, and walked toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Rune asked.

“To keep watch. I don’t want any intruders sneaking in while we’re here,” Hjørdis said, her voice more serious than usual.

“Hjørdis…” Karl started. “I know this isn’t easy, but—”

“If I stay, I don’t know what I might do!” Hjørdis exclaimed, glancing back, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It’s better if I step away.”

“Alright… Just don’t take too long. Remember, they’re still looking for us.”

“I won’t,” she said, climbing the stairs and removing the board covering the entrance.

Silence settled over the basement once Hjørdis was gone. Those left standing exchanged confused glances while Arvid struggled to sit up, his groans echoing against the walls.

“Damn… she’ll pay for this,” Arvid muttered, pushing himself to his knees against the wall.

“You had it coming,” Sigurd expressed, almost growling.

“Don’t put it that way,” Karl said.

“He deserved it! I don’t exactly like her either, but even I know you don’t hit your companions like that.”

“Besides, hitting a woman like that isn’t right,” Holger added.

“Men, women—that doesn’t matter. Companions are companions. We can argue, we can fight sometimes, but hurting each other like that is unacceptable.”

“Who cares?” Arvid questioned, struggling, “in the end it’s all pointless. We all betray each other—people are just like that.”

“Do you really think we’d be capable of betraying you?” Karl asked.

“They all do, eventually. And I’ve been with you for a very long time.”

“Arvid!” Holger cried as he rushed to where his companion lay collapsed. He dropped to his knees, gripping Arvid by the shoulders. “What happened to you? You weren’t like this. Of all of us, you were always the most understanding—the calmest one, the one who kept the peace when everything went wrong. Please… tell us what happened.” His fingers tightened as he searched Arvid’s face, worry laid bare in his eyes.

Arvid stayed silent for several seconds. Then, after meeting Holger’s gaze, he asked him not to hold so tightly and to give him a moment to speak. Holger did as he was asked, pulling back and giving him space. That was when Arvid finally began.

“After we were separated in the infinite darkness, I was reborn, like we all are. You know how it goes—a baby swimming through shadows, dragged into the world. But this time, something was different. My mother didn’t look at me with relief or hope. Whenever she held me, all I saw in her eyes was fear, worry, sadness—as if I were some calamity that had fallen into her life.

“As I grew older and learned the language better, I found out the truth. I was the result of an affair between my mother and my father, who was already married. He was a bourgeois man who sent us money from time to time, mostly to keep my mother quiet.

“My childhood was… normal. My mother taught me what she could in her spare time, and I did my best to protect her and love her. That lasted until I turned fourteen.

“Not long after the war for independence back in 1811, my father was caught up in a scandal. He was hunted for supporting the centralists, and because of that, his other son—his heir—was murdered.

“His wife, who already knew about my mother, began to fear me. As I later learned, she couldn’t have any more children. So she decided to get rid of us.

“One afternoon, some men came to our house. They took us to a warehouse where my father’s wife was waiting. I remember that despite all the terror my mother felt, I kept smiling. I truly believed everything would turn out fine. We were tied hand and foot, so there was little I could do. My body wasn’t developed enough to fight five grown men anyway.

“I remember that woman insulting us simply for existing. She called my mother a whore who never should have met my father and said I was nothing but a mistake that should never have been born. She slapped my mother over and over while I watched. Every time I tried to speak, the men punished me with blows.

“At one point, the woman stepped closer and pressed a dagger to my throat. I was terrified—but I was more afraid for my mother. She was staring at me, her eyes full of anguish. What I didn’t expect was what she said when the woman asked her what she wanted her to do.”

“At least let me go.”

“She started shouting that the woman was right—that I was a mistake, that she never should have met my father, that she regretted everything. She said they could kill me if they wanted, she didn’t care, as long as they let her leave and promised she’d never be seen in the capital again.

“While all this happened, the woman holding the knife only laughed, mocking how pathetic my mother was.

“I stayed there on my knees, numb, my mind struggling to understand what I was hearing. I don’t know if it was rage—or if some part of me knew I couldn’t die in that place—but I clenched my hand so hard I dislocated my thumb, loosening the ropes enough to slip free.

“I freed my hands and grabbed the dagger, driving it straight into the woman’s throat. She barely had time to realize what had happened before she collapsed, blood pouring out of her like a fountain.

“What came next is blurry. Maybe it was the immeasurable fury, maybe just the rush of survival instinct, but when I came back to myself, the men who had beaten me were dead on the floor. Some had their throats cut, others had been stabbed through the heart—but they were dead all the same. I was holding machetes and knives I didn’t even remember picking up. At the far end of the warehouse, my mother was trying to flee. After that, I lost consciousness.

“Hours later, I woke up in a bed, in an elegant room I didn’t recognize. A man sat beside me—a stranger at first. After speaking for a while, he told me who he was. My father. He said he knew what his wife had done and that he didn’t blame me.

“I was furious with him, but my body felt too heavy, too broken, to even try to strike him.

“He said he wanted to apologize—to my mother and to me—for everything. He wanted to start over. He invited us to live with him. At first, I thought about refusing. Then my mother walked into the room and threw her arms around him, thanking him for all he’d done. After that, I couldn’t say no.

“That was the beginning of my new life. My father paid tutors to teach me literature, religion, finance, and the use of the saber. My mother, meanwhile, embraced a life of luxury after my father married her formally. I could endure that.

“The problem came when she told him she was pregnant. That changed everything about the plans they had for me.

“Their attitude shifted. My father only saw me from time to time, just to make sure I was still alive, and he instructed my tutors to be harsher with me. My mother all but forgot I existed. She ignored me whenever I tried to spend time with her, caring only about her pregnancy.

“By then, I was seventeen, and I was terribly alone. The only comfort I had came from the two people who still cared about me. One of them was Omari. He was a slave who worked in the house, but we became friends after he defended me from one of the instructors’ sons who was harassing me. He listened to me. He played with me, even though he knew he could be punished for it.

“The other was Rosa. She was the daughter of a maid who worked in the house. I saw her from time to time, and little by little I grew fond of her. Thanks to those two people, I managed to endure everything that was happening to me.

“The months passed, and my father had to travel to attend to some business matters. He left my mother in my care. By then she was already halfway through her pregnancy, and I had resigned myself to being nothing more than the bastard who had to get used to second place. I didn’t mind. I was waiting to hear from you, to meet again, to keep spending time with Omari, and perhaps to confess my feelings to Rosa.

“During my father’s absence, my mother decided to visit a doctor outside the capital. I chose to go with her since my father had entrusted her safety to me. She accepted without much concern.

“On the way, we ran into trouble because of the relentless rain. The carriage rocked wildly, nearly out of control, yet despite that my mother kept urging the driver to hurry.

“At a very sharp bend, the driver lost control, and we plunged down a ravine. I tried to grab my mother, but her hands and her gaze were fixed solely on her belly.

“I woke not long after. I had a few superficial wounds, and my forehead was bleeding, but otherwise I was fine. I climbed out of the carriage and looked around. The driver lay dead beside the horse, but my mother had been luckier. I heard her shouting from the edge of the road. She was clinging to a wooden beam from the carriage, hanging over a terrifying drop, and all she screamed in her desperation was for me to help her. I stepped closer and reached out my hand—then I heard her say something that changed everything.”

“It’s your duty. You must correct your mistake and save your brother. He’s my son—my real son!”

“With those words, whatever affection I still felt for my mother, and the concern I’d had for my unborn brother, dissolved into nothing.

“I straightened up. I gave one last look to the woman who had brought me into this life, and I walked away. She kept shouting, her voice turning pleading now, trying to coax me back. I stopped listening and went on until all that remained was a single scream, fading into the distance, swallowed by the roar of rain and thunder.

“Afterward, I managed to reach the main road on foot. I gave a few coins to a farmer so he would take me back to the capital in his wagon. Not long after, I was reunited with my father. I told him what had happened. At first, he suspected me, but once his men confirmed the accident—and saw my injuries—he couldn’t place the blame on me. Besides, he knew that, like it or not, I was all he had left. So he grudgingly agreed to make me his next heir, informally, of course.

“Once I recovered, I saw Rosa again. She had been worried about me, but my father hadn’t allowed anyone near me until he was certain I wasn’t planning anything strange.

“The days passed, and I was able to spend time with Omari and with her.

“One night, we slipped out for a walk through the capital, and I told her what had happened—what I had done… or rather, what I had failed to do. How I had let my mother die, along with my brother, who had never even entered the world. I thought she would Hate me, fear me, or be angry with me. Instead, she simply stepped closer and held me. There was a deep warmth in her embrace as she whispered that it hadn’t been my fault, that everything I’d endured had clouded my judgment, and that the very fact I felt remorse proved I wasn’t a bad person.

“I started to cry and clung to her. After that, she cupped my face in her hands and kissed me fiercely.

"We spent that night together in a small inn, and I fell hopelessly in love with her compassion. When I woke beside her at dawn, I watched her sleep and thought that, at last, I had found someone who truly loved me in this life.

“A few weeks later, I was training with a bow at the house. My father disliked it—it was an outdated weapon compared to rifles—but I had proven how skilled I was with it. Still, I’m getting sidetracked.”Arvid paused for a moment to catch his breath, then continued.

“Rosa came to see me that day. I greeted her with joy, but her face was tight with worry as she confessed that she hadn’t bled in several weeks, that she felt nauseous and plagued by headaches.

“I knew what that meant. She was carrying a child—my child. Tears welled in my eyes, and I stepped forward and held her tightly. I told her I would make her my wife, that the baby she carried would have every comfort my family could provide. Naturally, she was overjoyed.

“I spoke to my father about it. He reacted with some displeasure, but he was under too much pressure from the conflicts between federalists and centralists to pay me much attention. He said that as long as I kept handling the family’s affairs, he didn’t care how many women I got pregnant. His words, not mine.

“The months went by, and little by little I was drawn deeper into the family’s murky dealings. I smuggled weapons, punished slaves, fought my father’s enemies—and killed more than one of them. All the while, I told myself I was doing it to protect the people I loved.

“Then the day came. Rosa went into labor. I learned from her mother, who had gone to her where the midwives were gathered, and I followed at once, filled with longing and joy at the thought of seeing my son.

“When I arrived, I was told the birth was over and that both mother and child were well. Yet no one would let me through. I couldn’t understand why. After shoving past them and barking demands, I managed to slip into the room where they were.

“What I found there is still hard for me to believe. Rosa lay there beside the midwives, exhausted and slick with sweat, cloths stained with blood around the lower half of her body. In her arms, however, rested a small figure, lit by the glare of the midday sun.

“I stepped closer and studied the child for a few seconds, and something felt wrong. His skin, his hair, his features—they didn’t resemble mine at all, but those of someone born on the slaves’ continent: dark complexion, tightly curled hair, larger than a criollo newborn.

“‘Is the baby another woman’s?’ I asked.

“She and the midwives fell silent. I looked at her face, and what I saw there could only be read as ‘I’m sorry.’

“My legs gave out for a moment. When I finally gathered the strength to stand, I left the place with my head bowed.

“At the doorway I ran into Omari. He looked exhausted, as if he’d sprinted several blocks, his face tight with nerves. The instant our eyes met, I knew. I knew whose child it was.

“I had been blind. I never saw them together—each of them always saw me separately, despite how much I wanted to spend time with both. Her desperation to sleep with me as soon as I recovered. The worry etched into her face when she told me about the pregnancy.

“It had all been there. She was just like my mother—an opportunist who only knew how to use her body to snare men and use her children as bargaining chips for a comfortable life. And he was a traitor who had done nothing but lie to me.

“That day I went home and found the rifles my father had told me to use. I practiced with them—reloading, cleaning the barrel, firing—again and again and again, until I knew I was ready.

“A week later, I told my father’s men that I needed their help. Together, we abducted Omari and Rosa and took them to the outskirts of the capital, where I knew no one would hear them scream.

“We beat him until he begged for mercy. Then I ordered both his arms cut off. To finish it, I shot him in the head while forcing her to watch.

“I was a little more merciful with her. I gave her a few lashes, then shot her in the forehead as she stared at me with eyes full of tears.

“I ordered the bodies disposed of.

“Not long after, I returned to the capital and told my father I was the new head of the family. He refused, of course, but my men persuaded him—with a bit of brute force. I think once they saw what I was capable of, they understood who was meant to command them.

“And that’s how it’s been for just over a year. At least until you came along and ruined my fun.” Arvid finished, glaring at the others.

“In hvað í fjandanum?” Sigurd muttered, disgust and confusion twisting his face.

“Yeah, man—what the hell?” Rune added, covering his mouth with his hand.

“What… what happened to the baby?” Holger asked, fear creeping into his voice. “You couldn’t have—”

“I sold that bastard cheap to a man on a farm,” Arvid said with a shrug. “From what I heard, one of his slaves had lost a baby not long before, so I suppose it was fate. He’s with his own kind now.”

“You talk as if they weren’t human,” Holger snapped, anger seeping into his words. “I was born a slave in this life. You have no idea how much we suffer.”

“That means nothing to me. Slaves, women, rich men, poor men—they’re all the same. I’m no different. I know I’m scum, but at least I admit it. In time, you might admit it too.”

Before anyone could answer, the crack of a heavy blow echoed through the room. Karl had charged forward and struck Arvid hard across the face. Arvid stayed frozen, head turned away from the impact, his cheek burning red.

A moment later, he spoke.

“Hjørdis broke my nose, and you slap me. Are you sure you two didn’t reincarnate into the wrong body?”

Karl didn’t reply. He only looked at him with disappointment and sorrow, then turned toward the stairs. “I’m going to help keep watch,” he said, and left the room.

One by one, the others followed him in silence, casting glances at Arvid, who remained slumped where he was.

The hours dragged on in Rune’s house. The clamor outside had died down, but the tension inside was so thick it weighed like lead in the air. No one dared speak except to announce a trip to the bathroom or to ask if anything strange was happening outside.

Near dawn, Sigurd finally spoke.

“I’m not doing it.”

“What are you talking about?” Hjørdis asked.

“I’m not going to war. At least, I won’t drag my tribe into this conflict. We’ve already lost too many, and I won’t let more die because of my whims.”

“You backing out of a fight? That’s new,” Rune said dryly. “What changed your mind—did Arvid’s story move you?”

“Shut your mouth. I just realized how blind I was, letting my emotions rule me. I won’t have other people suffer because of that. At least now I know you can defend yourselves—and given that you’re all missing a nail, I won’t feel too bad if you end up getting yourselves killed.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” Holger asked. “If Arvid’s family is as dangerous as he said, I’m certain they’ll hunt us down anywhere in the capital.”

“The bastard was cold-blooded enough to slaughter those two like animals,” Hjørdis said. “I doubt he’ll show us any mercy.”

“Did you hear what he said?” Karl asked.

“The cellar is right below us, and I’ve got sharp ears, Captain. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t tell me everything—at least not the whole truth.” She shifted her weight, arms crossed. “He’s right about one thing. He’s scum, and deep down you know he wasn’t lying.”

“So… what do we do now, Captain?” Rune asked curiously.

“I… I don’t know.” Karl ducked beneath the window, shoulders sagging. “I truly don’t. Maybe each of us should go our own way in this life. I can look after Holger, but the rest of you might be better off not following me.”

“What are you saying?” Holger demanded.

“You all saw how Arvid ended. You’ve seen how every one of our lives has turned out. Agnar understood what he had and chose to walk away from us.” Karl’s voice grew quieter, steadier. “I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I’ve come to see he made the right choice. Maybe if I can find some of that substance he drank, I could make it so you—”

“Enough.” Sigurd cut in sharply. “Listen to yourself. What happened to Arvid wasn’t your fault. You weren’t there. I wasn’t there. None of us were there to help him. Saying his fate is on you is no different from claiming it was our fault that you suffered in Germania, or in Japan—and it wasn’t.”

He took a breath, then went on, calmer but firm. “We don’t understand how this journey through lives works. We all do the best we can with what we’re given. I lived as a samurai in a good family, and Agnar envied me for that—but he made the right choices. He earned a better position than mine, found a wife, had a child, and chose to leave this journey behind. That was his decision.”

Sigurd jabbed a thumb toward Karl. “Stop being so arrogant. Yes, this whole mess began with you—but it ends when each of us decides it does. If we’re still by your side, it’s because we want to be. Not because we owe you anything.”

He straightened, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ve fought great enemies. I’ve seen lands beyond the sea and the tundra. I’ve eaten incredible food and had more fun than I can count with all of you. You might be a pack of idiots who only know how to fight wars, but you’re my pack of idiots who only know how to fight wars.” He finished by thumping his chest.

After a brief silence, a soft laugh drifted from the corner where Hjørdis stood. Hearing it, Sigurd turned to her. “And what, exactly, do you find so amusing?”

“I didn’t know you had a sensitive side,” she said. “I thought you were just a hard-ass who only knew how to fight.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. Not long ago we saw you crying after that punch to the face.”

“I wasn’t crying. It hit my eye—natural reflex,” she shot back, looking away.

A short pause followed, and then everyone burst out laughing, the tension in the room finally breaking.

A moment later, Rune spoke up. “Still, Sigurd’s right. I think I speak for all of us when I say that if we keep walking this path through lives, it’s because we enjoy it—both the good and the bad. Besides, it has its perks. I think we’re the only humans who no longer fear death.”

“I don’t think we’re the only ones,” Sigurd said.

“More people who don’t fear death? Maybe—but they’d have to be completely unhinged.”

“I mean people who can be reborn in other times, alongside their friends. I doubt we’re the only ones lucky enough.”

“I don’t know. We haven’t met anyone else like us, and I don’t think we will.”

“Are you confident enough to wager on it?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“If we ever run into another group with the same gifts we have, you buy me dinner. And I mean a proper one—fine cuts of meat, sides, sauces, plenty of alcohol, and something sweet to finish.”

Rune grinned. “I like it. And how do I win?”

“If we go through three more rebirths without finding anyone like us, I’ll pay for the meal. Deal?” Sigurd asked, extending his open hand with easy confidence.

“Deal.” Rune clasped it firmly.

“You’re a couple of hopeless idiots,” Hjørdis said flatly. “But still, I think Rune put it best—we’re in this because we want to be. We accept whatever good or bad comes our way. So, Captain…” She crouched beside Karl, lowering her voice. “Show us what comes next. We’re dying to see it.”

“Guys…” Karl began, tears welling in his eyes before he hastily wiped them away. He rose to his feet, shaking his head. “You’re all completely out of your minds. But if you truly wish to keep following this madman, then I suppose I have no choice but to lead you. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king—or so I’ve heard.” A warm smile spread across his face as he finished.

“If that’s the case, where are we headed now?” Holger asked.

“I might have an idea,” Sigurd said.

“Then say it,” Karl replied. “It’s not like we’re overflowing with options.”

“I mentioned before that Bolívar was trying to reshape the nation. Well, of all of them, he’s the one best suited to stand against the Spaniards. I think that if we join his ranks, we might actually make a difference.”

“You make it sound easy,” Rune said, unimpressed. “That man’s just a warlord, using the chaos to build military power.”

“Maybe. But the fact remains that the Spaniards don’t like him, and as far as I can tell, they’re the villains in this story. I’ve heard he’s in the Angostura region. If we head there, they might take us in. From what I know, they’re short on people—they supposedly even recruited a seamstress and a schoolteacher as spies. Or so the rumors say.”

“Angostura is a long way off,” Holger pointed out. “We’ll need to prepare for a dangerous journey.”

“My tribe can travel with us,” Sigurd added. “If we’re not going to fight, we’ll have to head farther north anyway. We can part ways along the road. Do any of you have family who might need help first?”

“My mother runs a fabric shop not far from here,” Hjørdis said. “She’s a good woman, and I’m all she has. I don’t want to leave her behind.”

“I’ve got no one,” Holger said.

“Neither do I,” Rune followed.

“My family’s in Spain,” Karl admitted with a shrug. “But I doubt they’ll miss me much if I disappear for a while.”

“Then all we need to do is take care of Hjørdis’s mother,” Sigurd said. “After that, we can leave. The rest is finding supplies and meeting up with my tribe to explain the plan.”

“Hey, guys,—I think we’re forgetting someone,” Holger said.

“That’s right,” Karl added. “What are we going to do about Arvid?”

“Maybe leave me alone and run off to die for the umpteenth time,” Arvid snapped irritably.

All five turned toward the cellar entrance. Arvid stood there, leaning against the wall, one arm braced at his side. He watched them with open annoyance, his bruised, swollen face twisted into a scowl.

“I heard some of what you were saying,” he went on. “You can go wherever you like. I’m staying here—where I know how to survive. Something tells me you won’t last long before you die again, and that doesn’t appeal to me right now. It’s not that I plan on living forever. I’m just tired of having weapons buried in my body.”

“Arvid…” Holger whispered.

“Jeremías. I already told you—Arvid is dead.”

“Are you sure about this?” Karl asked carefully. “I want us to stay together.”

“Well, I don’t. And to prove it, I’ll offer you a deal. It might even serve as an apology for Hjørdis—you know, for the… ‘misunderstanding’ earlier.” The last word carried a deliberate, suggestive edge.

“What kind of deal?” Hjørdis asked warily.

“I heard about the trouble with your mother. How about I buy the fabric shop? That way you can take her with you, no complications. I’ve been meaning to open a new place anyway—maybe I’ll turn it into a tavern or an inn. Honestly, I don’t care. What do you say? It’s not a bad offer, is it?”

Hjørdis stared at Arvid for several seconds. Then she slowly walked toward him, never once breaking eye contact. When she was only inches from his face, she raised an open hand and held it out in front of him.

“Sounds like a fair deal… Jeremías.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Arvid reached out and clasped her hand. Instantly, Hjørdis tightened her grip. Pain shot through him, forcing his knees to buckle as he bit back a scream behind clenched teeth.

“Looks like you’re the one who was reborn in the wrong body,” Hjørdis said at last, releasing him. “Not the captain. And not me.” She finished with a playful wink.

Arvid looked as though his words were lodged in his throat, straining to burst free in a flare of rage. He forced himself to draw a slow, steady breath, straightened his back, and felt his features settle into something calmer. Only then did he go on.

“Now that that problem is dealt with… I expect you to respect my decision and not come back for me.” His voice held, but only just. “I mean it. I don’t think I’ll end up going as far as Agnar did, but for now I need to be alone. So please—leave. I’m done fighting for other people.” He let his gaze drop to the floor, the final words slipping out like an admission.

After that, the group accepted their companion’s choice, though doubt clung to them. They spent the rest of the day at Rune’s house, waiting until they were certain no authority was keeping watch, and only then did they depart.

A few days later, just as he had promised, Arvid returned home and made the arrangements to purchase Hjørdis’s mother’s house. She accepted without much hesitation—the offer was generous, and it came from someone widely known, even if for the wrong reasons.

After that, the group bid Arvid a final farewell and set out for Angostura alongside Sigurd’s tribe and Hjørdis’s mother. They traveled in a caravan of wagons, rolling out beyond the capital together.

***

The journey proved easier than the return from the settlement, yet what weighed most heavily on them was the uncertainty surrounding their friend. Unlike Agnar, Arvid had not severed the bond that tied them beyond death, nor had he remained in a place where he was truly happy. The thought gnawed at them, leaving a constant, quiet anguish.

Several days later, the group reached Angostura, where—to their surprise—they were halted by armed men who demanded to know their intentions.

Given that the caravan included people of several ethnic groups from across the region, their motives were far from clear to the onlookers. An officer from the detaining forces examined them and seemed genuinely taken aback to find them almost completely unarmed; even the most peaceable merchants usually carried at least one weapon for protection.

Once the inspection ended, the group was escorted to an empty house, where they were questioned about who they were and what they wanted. Rune explained that they had come to aid Bolívar’s struggle, having heard he was operating in the area.

At first, the officer didn’t believe them. But after a long, individual interrogation of each member—one that revealed no contradictions—he finally accepted that they were telling the truth.

“There’s still something that troubles me,” the officer said at last.

“And what might that be?” Rune asked.

“What would your group actually contribute to the Liberator’s cause? From what I see, there are only five of you—not counting the woman you say is merely the young girl’s mother.”

“There were more of us before,” Rune replied. “But the tribe of the white-haired man had to return to their lands in the far north, so only the five of us remain. As for our usefulness…I believe we can prove it, if you’ll allow us.”

“Don’t get clever with me.” The officer’s tone hardened. “We welcome anyone willing to fight for freedom, but that doesn’t mean we hand our weapons to newcomers. By the way, the fair-haired young man who came with you—he’s Spanish, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. Is that relevant?”

“The Liberator is interested in having Spaniards fight alongside us. It helps present our forces as more diverse, and it’s useful when negotiations with the enemy become necessary.”

“He’s…an unusual Spaniard,” Rune said after a beat, “but he can fight. You have my word.”

“I’ll speak with the Liberator and tell him about your proposal—to test you, see whether you have what it takes to fight for the nation. Until then, you’ll remain confined here.”

“For how long?” Rune asked.

“As long as necessary.” The officer fixed him with a stern look.

The officer left the room with his escorts. A few minutes later, the rest of the group was led to the same place, the door barred shut behind them.

“That went better than I expected,” Rune said.

“What did he tell you?” Holger asked.

“That he’d consider what I proposed. I told him exactly what we wanted, just as we agreed on the way here.”

“‘He’ll consider it.’ That’s just ‘no,’ wrapped in suspense,” Hjørdis muttered, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

“Don’t worry,” Karl said, offering a faint smile. “We’ve come this far. I think we’ll figure out how to move forward. What do you think, Sigurd?”

“I just want this damned war to end,” Sigurd snapped. “What happens after that doesn’t matter much to me.”

They spent the rest of the night talking through their plans, in case they were accepted into the Liberator’s forces.

Meanwhile, back in the capital, Arvid stood at his bedroom window, watching the glow of the torches below and the moonlight tangled in the clouds beyond. A tear slid down his cheek as his fist slammed into the wooden sill.

“I’m alone…” he whispered to himself, blood seeping from his knuckles.