Tickets had sold out, and people lined the streets for blocks, eager to secure seats for the play. Posters advertising it plastered every corner, and tonight, the prodigy who had created such a milestone would finally face their audience.

For a month, the dramatization of warriors from frozen lands, reliving different eras of history, had captivated the public. The audience had been moved by the events portrayed on stage, earning the production a storm of glowing reviews, and word of mouth had only increased its fame.

Because people were curious to meet the mind behind such a captivating story, the author had been invited to attend one of the performances.

That night was no different from the last: a crowd gathered in the theater, waiting for the show to begin. The heat inside, amplified by the approaching summer winds, pressed down on the masses packed shoulder to shoulder, impatient for the doors to open.

Meanwhile, Sigurd and Holger had slipped away from their grandparents, heading to the back of the theater where fewer people lingered—only the occasional trickster trying to sneak a view from the roof, or a scalper testing their luck reselling tickets.

“Really? You don’t want to see the play?” Holger asked as they walked side by side. “You were invited tonight to watch it.”

“I’ve already seen it dozens of times when I attended all the rehearsals months ago,” Sigurd replied, his eyes tracing the starry sky. “Besides, don’t forget—we lived most of what’s on stage.”

“I heard they made a few changes to the story.”

“They’re a bunch of sissies—they don’t like blood, looting, imprisonment, or wars. Funny, coming from a country that did all that and more, at least according to the books.”

The two continued walking, their part of the theater quieter than where the crowd had gathered.

As they neared the far end of the rear area, a young woman’s desperate voice echoed from near an alley. Her tone carried more frustration and anger than fear. They moved closer, careful not to draw attention, and heard her words:

“I know you’re lying. You always keep a couple of seats for the rich. I’m telling you—sell me one, I’ll pay the rest next month. I’ve already told you where I live—what more guarantee do you need?”

“Sorry, sweetheart, I only take cash,” the man replied, counting bills in a thick stack.

“You don’t understand. I need to see this play—I’m sure someone I know worked on it.”

“That’s what everyone says, darling: ‘I know that actor,’ ‘I dated the director,’ ‘that dancer was my girlfriend.’ Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

“Please! What do I have to do to get just one ticket? The show is about to start!”

“I’ll tell you what,” the man said, tucking the bills away and turning to face her. “We might reach an… ‘understanding’.” He stepped closer. “The play begins in half an hour. How about you give me what money you have, and you pay the rest with what’s under that skirt?”

The young woman glared at him, anger flashing in her eyes. He reached out, hands brushing against her curly brown hair. As his face drew nearer, she slipped her left hand into one of her coat pockets, fingers curling around the wooden handle of a long object.

“I’ll make it quick, so you can get in before the act starts,” the man pressed, inching closer. “What do you say? Deal?”

She tightened her grip on the knife hidden in her pocket, ready to strike—but before she could lift her arm, a hand grabbed hers, preventing her from drawing the weapon.

Startled, she barely had time to turn and saw the man’s hand caught in the grip of a young man standing behind her.

The man twisted, a grimace of pain and confusion spreading across his face as his arm was pulled back. From behind, the young man said:

“I think this lady isn’t that type. And I suspect you like this arm far too much for me to break it.” “Who are you? What do you want?”

The man’s voice trembled as he spoke.

“Just a passerby. Now leave—before I break something other than that filthy hand of yours.”

The young man finished the warning by shoving him hard to the side, sending him sprawling across the pavement.

The man scrambled to his feet and bolted down the avenue, running in blind panic until he vanished around a distant corner.

The young woman turned then to look at the one who had restrained her arm. He was a broad-shouldered man, black hair neatly combed, a half-grown beard framing a face that regarded her with quiet warmth. Seeing the danger gone, he released her, murmured an apology, and took a step back.

“Who are you people?” She folded her arms, studying them. “I’m grateful, but I think I could’ve handled that on my own.”

“With that attitude,” Sigurd said, lips quirking, “I think I already know who you are. You came to see the play, didn’t you?”

“Like anyone else,” she shot back. “And what do you mean, ‘you know who I am’?”

Sigurd didn’t answer. Instead, he watched her with a sly glint in his eyes as he reached up, gripped the brim of his cap, and lifted it from his head. A short mane of white hair spilled free, catching the warm night breeze. He finished the gesture by tapping his temple with one finger, as if pointing out something painfully obvious.

“Sigurd?” The question slipped out as she stared.

“I take it you’re Hjørdis,” Sigurd said.

“So that means…” Hjørdis turned sharply toward Holger. “Big guy!”

She sprang at him and wrapped him in a fierce hug.

“It’s good to see you too,” Holger said, returning the embrace as he lifted her clean off the ground, leaving her dangling a few inches in the air.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, laughing. “And why are you dressed and groomed like that? You look like a hound licked your head clean.”

“We had to look a bit more presentable than usual today,” he said, patting his hair.

“So you’re here for the play?” Her eyes lit up. “Do you know which one of us wrote it?”

“Well… yes,” Holger admitted, his voice straining as he fought back a grin.

“Don’t tell me—it was Rune. He’s the only one crazy enough to come up with something like this. Or maybe the captain, though someone else would’ve had to write it for him…”

“No,” Holger said, lifting a finger and pointing toward where Sigurd stood. A smile spread slowly across his face.

Hjørdis turned to Sigurd.

He shrugged, meeting her stare with easy confidence.

Her eyes went wide.

“No. That’s impossible. You?” She shook her head. “How? I thought the only thing inside that thick skull of yours was snow.”

“Well, that thick skull happens to belong to the grandson of a famous playwright,” Sigurd affirmed. “And he helped me get into the theater.” He gestured down the street. “Now, what do you say we go watch the performance so you can behold my masterpiece?”

“We’ve got a private box,” Holger added. “Though I don’t know if they’ll let you in without a ticket—even as our guest.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Sigurd reached into his coat pocket and produced two crumpled tickets. “The fellow from earlier invited us. Why don’t you two take these seats, and I’ll head up to the box?”

“You and your sticky fingers,” Hjørdis muttered, snatching the tickets from his hand. She turned to Holger with exaggerated poise. “Well then, big sir—would you care to escort this lovely lady to the performance?” Her voice mimicked the clipped, affected tone of the bourgeoisie.

“It would be my honor,” Holger replied, offering his arm.

Hjørdis dipped into a deep curtsy, lifting her skirt as she bowed, then slipped her hand through Holger’s arm.

Moments later, the three of them made their way toward the theater.

Inside, they took the seats they had agreed upon and watched a play that told the story of their lives up to that very day. Around them, the audience gasped, laughed, and wept—utterly unaware that some of the story’s protagonists sat among them, while the others watched from not so very far away…

***

Days passed, and the play continued its run.

Its success grew so great that those involved were finally allowed to make changes to the publicity—changes that had previously been forbidden.

Sigurd, for instance, requested that the posters be adorned with certain Norse symbols he’d once seen in a book. To anyone who truly knew how to read them, their shapes concealed a message:

“White hair awaits you at the fountain near the palace on Saturdays at noon.”

Before long, people began to arrive, searching for the author of that peculiar message—the one who sat waiting at the appointed hour by the fountain near Buckingham Palace.

On the first Saturday after the posters were altered, a man approached the fountain wearing little more than soot- and oil-stained clothes. He stopped when he saw the young man with white hair.

“Karl.”

That was all he said.

Sigurd rose at once, answered with his own name, and clasped the captain’s hand in a firm grip.

On the second Saturday, a group of rough-looking men strode toward the fountain. Among them, one stood out—not only for being the shortest, but for seeming far less aggressive than the rest.

He stepped forward alone, breathing hard as he studied the white-haired youth.

“You must be Sigurd,” he said. “Or am I wrong?”

“Are you Arvid or Rune?” Sigurd asked.

“Rune,” he replied, lips twitching. “And judging by that question, you still haven’t found Arvid.”

“No, not him—but the others, yes.” Sigurd flashed a grin at his companion. “So who are the men tagging along with you?”

“My father’s goons. He’s a mobster, but don’t worry—they bark more than they bite. What matters is that I’ve finally found you.”

“That’s what truly matters.”

They traded details—where, when, how to meet again.

So it went for the next week. The group gathered at a café near the palace, day after day, until the third Saturday—when something happened that none of them were ready for.

***

“Are you going to tell me why you gave it that name?” Rune asked, lifting his mug of black coffee.

“I didn’t want people asking questions about it…” Sigurd said with a weary sigh.

“Good thing you brought it up—I’m curious too.” Karl spoke around a mouthful of brioche, tearing into the bread with enthusiasm. “I don’t mind it, but I’m not sure it fits our story.”

“You should tell them. It might even make them laugh.” Holger sliced a piece of tart and popped it into his mouth.

“I know they’ll laugh. That’s exactly what bothers me.” Sigurd took a long pull from his ginger beer, setting the glass down with only a thin crescent of yellow foam clinging to the rim.

“Just spit it already.” Hjørdis spoke with half a muffin still between her teeth. “I hate being left in suspense.”

“…When I showed the manuscript to my grandfather, he read it for hours without stopping. When he finally came out of his study, he looked at me with this grave expression and said the story had fascinated him—but that it needed a proper name. I suggested several, but he said none of them had the impact a great work ought to have.

“A couple of days later he hired a historian, who told him the title should be something Viking-related. I tried to explain that Norse and Viking aren’t the same thing, but he wouldn’t listen. Anyway—while digging into our culture, he discovered we had a deity who granted immortality to the gods.”

“Idunn,” Rune said at once.

“Her. I told him she was a goddess of youth, not reincarnation. I even suggested using the valkyrie Brunhilde or something along those lines—but once he read about Idunn, he decided she was perfect, and there was no talking him out of it.

“So he rewrote the story. Said Karl had been blessed by the goddess Idunn, and that by eating one of her apples he could return to life alongside his companions-in-arms, across different places and eras. Because of that, the group took a name in her honor—to identify themselves. And that’s how it ended up in the book.”

“The Apple Eaters,” Karl said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “I thought we were 'the Sons of the Wolf'. Though it’s been several lifetimes since anyone called us that.”

“In Japan, they knew us as the Yatagarasu Unit,” Holger added. “Agnar liked that one—it symbolized the three-legged crow.”

“In Nueva Granada we were just ‘the insurgents.’” Hjørdis rolled her eyes. “What a dull name.”

“That’s what leadfoot’s soldiers called us,” Rune put in. “Truth is, we never really had a name. But back to the play—that’s why they went with eplaæturnar. I suppose if it sounds exotic, I don’t mind it.”

“I like it too,” Karl said. “Sounds like a band of raiders.”

“Fruit raiders, maybe,” Hjørdis added, laughing at her own joke.

They kept talking, laughing, and demolishing the desserts they ordered. Their noise drew irritated looks from a few of the other patrons, but aside from that, the mood they created was warm and lively.

After several minutes, the clock struck noon. Sigurd rose, left payment for his food, and headed toward the fountain across from the palace. He would wait there for the last member of their group to arrive. The others promised to keep watch from where they were, in case anything went wrong.

At the fountain, Sigurd scanned the corners and nearby streets, alert for anyone watching from a distance. His last encounter with Arvid had not ended on good terms, and the idea that Arvid might choose not to approach him directly seemed far from impossible.

He had waited only a few minutes when he heard frantic footsteps—a young woman running, her voice breaking as she cried out in distress while drawing closer and closer. Behind her came three men, their faces twisted with anger.

She stumbled just a few yards from the fountain. One of the men seized her by her reddish hair and yanked her upright, cursing as she squeezed her eyes shut in terror.

Sigurd surged forward. Before he could reach her, one of the three stepped into his path and blocked him.

“Get lost. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Did she do something wrong?” Sigurd asked, craning his neck to glimpse the girl over the man’s shoulder. “Why are you treating her like that?”

“She’s been very bad. Owes us money, and we’re just collecting.” The man sneered. “Why don’t you run along? Go back to your little house and cover that hair with a hat—you look like a senile old man.”

The mockery was still echoing when Sigurd’s expression hardened. His hand clenched, and a heartbeat later his fist smashed into the man’s jaw.

The man howled and collapsed to the ground, shrieking obscenities as he clutched his face with both hands.

His companions, who had witnessed the act, abandoned the girl where she lay and headed for Sigurd. One by one, they slipped retractable knives from their pockets and leveled them at him.

“That was stupid,” one of them muttered.

Sigurd shifted into a fighting stance, fists raised to his chin, legs planted firm and slightly apart.

One of the men lunged—but his arm was caught in a crushing grip. As he turned to see who held him, a young man drove his forehead into the man’s face. The impact was brutal. Blood poured from his nose and mouth.

The second tried to move. He didn’t even manage a step before something cold and metallic pressed against his throat. His body went rigid. His breath hitched and stopped.

“Move,” Hjørdis said quietly, the knife steady in her hand, “and I’ll slit your throat like a chicken.”

The man let his knife fall and raised his hands.

Hjørdis pulled the blade away, then kicked the back of his leg. He went down hard, only to be met by more kicks—hers and Rune’s alike.

Meanwhile, Karl laid into the man who had been headbutted, fists rising and falling without mercy.

Seeing this, Sigurd relaxed his stance and walked over to the man he’d struck earlier. He planted himself beside him and kicked him again and again, snarling with raw anger, telling him not to mock his hair.

When it was over, the three men staggered away, faces smeared with blood, limping and leaning on one another just to keep moving as they fled the scene.

“What a nuisance,” Sigurd muttered, checking his watch. “And it’s barely noon. Where’s Holger?”

“He stayed behind to pay for the food,” Rune said with a shrug. “Besides, we were more than enough.”

“This city’s crawling with more scum every day,” Hjørdis added. “You’re not safe anymore, not even in public.”

“I think you should all head out,” Sigurd said. “I need to be alone in case you-know-who shows up. Right, Captain? …Captain?”

Sigurd turned to Karl, who stood frozen in front of the girl as she struggled to rise. The look on his face was unlike anything the others had ever seen—a tangled mix of shock, fear, and confusion. All the while, the girl kept her eyes fixed on the ground, as if hoping no one would see her face.

“This is impossible…” Karl whispered, doubt heavy in his voice. “Arvid?!”

At that, everyone’s gaze snapped to the girl on the ground. Their expressions mirrored Karl’s earlier disbelief—wide-eyed, stunned, unwilling to accept what they were seeing.

“What are you saying?” Rune demanded. “How could this girl be Arvid? I mean… you know. Arvid is a man.”

“I can see it,” Karl said. “Their glow. The same glow I see in all of you—it’s on her.”

The girl remained silent, head bowed, as the others bombarded Karl with the same questions over and over. Are you sure? Couldn’t you be mistaken? How is this even possible?

Finally, Hjørdis had enough. She strode forward, grabbed the girl by the arm, yanked her up, and demanded an answer.

“Listen to me. I’ll ask you once, and I expect an answer. Are you Arvid?”

“I…I…” the girl whispered, her voice trembling.

“Don’t make me repeat myself. You—are you Arvid?” she pressed again, this time in Icelandic.

“…Y-yes,” the girl replied in the same language. “I am Arvid.”

Hjørdis stared at her for several long seconds, anger and frustration etched across her face. Then she shoved her away. The girl fell back to the ground.

Karl hurried over and helped her up, though once she was on her feet she gestured that she was fine.

Not long after, Holger caught up with them. They explained what had happened, and his reaction mirrored the others’ shock when he learned what had become of Arvid.

With far too many questions and nowhere suitable to ask them, they decided to move somewhere more private. They headed toward a lot near the docks, where rows of abandoned warehouses loomed over the water.

Once there, Karl and Holger forced open the door of one of the warehouses and motioned for Arvid to go inside. The rest followed. When everyone was in, they shut the door behind them, making sure no one was watching.

“What is this place?” Arvid asked, eyes roaming over the dim interior.

“Smugglers use it sometimes,” Rune said. “Mostly at night. We shouldn’t have any trouble staying here for a while.”

“I see.”

“Now,” Hjørdis said, sitting down on a crate and fixing Arvid with a hard stare, “I think you owe us an explanation.”

“I don’t even know… where to begin.”

“Why not start with the last time we saw each other?” Karl suggested. “You know. When we were floating in the infinite darkness.”

“Yes,” Arvid said after a breath. “That’s probably the best place to start.”

She inhaled slowly, then continued.

“When we separated, I thought it would be like every other time—that my body would dissolve, pass through the dark vortex, and I would be reborn. But this time…it was different.

“My body twisted. There was pain—intense pain—and a sensation like a voice speaking directly inside my head. When it ended, everything seemed the same again. I broke apart and passed on to the next life.

“Some time later, I was reborn in a place I can only describe as run-down. A kind of back room, filled with dust and vermin. I still don’t know how I survived being born there without falling gravely ill. 

“At first, I thought everything would be as before, but as the days passed, I realized that my body was different, the way I went to the bathroom, my hair, and even the way they treated me was different from past lives.

"After a few months, I understood that my mother in this life was a prostitute who worked in a brothel in the lower sector with other women, and I was her first child. She didn't treat me badly, but she was far from being an affectionate mother. 

“When I turned three, they started dressing me in clothes that didn't look like boys' clothes of this era, dresses, bows, and that sort of thing. That's when I realized that my body was not the same as before; I was no longer a man.

"At five, I learned to speak fluently, and I noticed how they referred to me as 'she.' I insisted that I was a boy, but they took it as a joke or that I was simply bored. I refused to accept the fact that I had become a girl, but over the years, my behavior stood out too much in the lower neighborhoods. I was more aggressive than the rest; I didn't like playing with dolls, I wasn't afraid to get dirty or of vermin. In essence, I was like any child from our land.

"This displeased my mother, who insisted that I should behave well to someday marry a wealthy man and get her out of that life she was in. That only increased my desire to rebel. Once, when I was eleven, some ruffians wanted to fight me; apparently, the way I dressed and the shortness of my hair had convinced them that I was a man. I took them at their word and faced them, but the problem was that my body was not as strong or aggressive as it used to be. The punches, kicks, and even the thirst for blood diminished so much that I could barely defend myself.

"I returned home with a bruised face, and one of my mother's colleagues helped me heal. Besides that, she changed my clothes, gave me women's garments, obviously, and made sure to apply makeup to hide the bruises. That was the first time in this life that someone had been so kind to me. She also told me that women shouldn't fight; we had another talent, beauty, charm, tears; all of these were weapons we used to make our way in the world. Thanks to this, I decided to behave like a girl, although deep down, I knew I was still a man.

"So, my appearance and attitude changed; I wore dresses, took care of my appearance, my weight, and my manners, in addition to using the name my mother had given me, Amelia. Everything was a bit better after that day; I studied when I could, helped the other women in the establishment, and tried not to anger my mother. That was until that day a few years later.

"About three years had passed; I had already turned fourteen, and I woke up one morning screaming and sweating profusely. I felt my entrails twisting as if a tiger were tearing my belly from the inside.

"My mother came into my room and looked at me, at first she thought I had a fever, but when she lifted the sheets, she knew exactly what was happening. I had bled for the first time. It was something I knew was going to happen sooner or later, I just wasn't prepared for it.

"She comforted me and told me that I had turned into a woman and that I should be proud of it while she hugged me, I had so many feelings in my head that I just didn't know what to think.

“A couple years ago I returned from shopping for dinner and ran into some men in the place. They were threatening my mother for a debt that she had not paid in a long time. I suspected that she was doing something strange and borrowing money, but what I didn't know was that she had started using opium and that addiction had led her to borrow money from very bad people.

"I wanted to help her, but before I could say a word, she pointed at me and said that they could 'settle the debt with me'. The leader of the collectors looked at me curiously, he approached and then grabbed me.

"He... looked at me and asked me how old I was, if I had already been with a man, and if I found him attractive... I didn't answer," Arvid continued with a broken voice, "but my mother did. She told him my age, that I was a virgin... that she would be happy to help her pay her debt and after that his men grabbed me and took me to one of the rooms of the brothel.

"Then…then…he grabbed me by the arms so tightly that I couldn't do anything but scream. I remember that at that moment I hoped that something would happen, that one of you would miraculously come help me, that all of this was just a dream and that I was still floating in the infinite darkness.

"I remember how I screamed your names, begged for help, I did it in every language I knew, but nothing happened. That guy tore my clothes, violently penetrated me, thrusting again and again until he got tired. He gave me several punches to make me stop crying, and when he finished, he said he would forgive my mother's debt for a little longer, but if I wished, I could pay it myself.

“After that, he left. I stayed there for what I believe were hours, looked at the ceiling, put the remaining shreds of my clothes back on, and wiped away the tears. I think I cried so much that my body couldn't keep shedding tears. I tried to get up, but I felt too much pain. It was very difficult to walk to the bathroom, even more challenging to clean the blood flowing from my groin... and other fluids...

“When I finished, I went to the hallway; there was my mother, who looked at me with sadness and hugged me tightly. She told me through tears that I had done well, that I had defended her and that this was normal, that it was our life, and I had to learn to live it. I felt like I was dead inside, so I just hugged her weakly.

“Days passed, and those men returned. Sometimes I managed to escape, other times I wasn't so lucky, but they have been following me since then. Every time my mother incurs a debt, they come back for me. I think I've become fond of the boss because he doesn't seem to care much about money, but rather about women. 

“The last time they took me was in an alley last winter. That night, I almost decided to end it all by jumping off a bridge, but then I remembered you, the infinite darkness, that maybe this happened for a reason, and I want to find out what it is before dying again. I don't know if my next life will be worse than this." Arvid concluded, squeezing the fabric of her skirt with her fingers.

Thus ended Arvid’s story.

They all stared at him, faces caught in a tangle of emotions—sorrow, pain, compassion.

Holger stepped forward and wrapped her in a crushing embrace. He broke down, sobbing openly, words of apology spilling out between ragged breaths. She held him just as tightly, crying with him, murmuring that none of it had been his fault.

Everyone else reacted differently to what Arvid had told them.

Karl paced back and forth, fingers tangled in his blond hair, muttering fragments of despair under his breath. “No, no…” Then, louder, “This can’t be happening.”

Hjørdis remained seated atop the crate, one hand pressed over her mouth, her gaze fixed anywhere but on the others. Disgust and grief warred across her features as tears slowly gathered in her eyes, which she stubbornly refused to let fall.

Rune said he didn’t feel well and needed some air. Moments later, he was already halfway up the stairs leading to the roof.

Sigurd withdrew in silence and began savagely kicking the wooden crates scattered across the floor, cursing fluently in Icelandic with every blow.

It took them several minutes to truly absorb what they had heard. After half an hour, they finally seemed ready to move on. Arvid drew a breath and continued.

“A few days ago, I saw the notice they’d posted on the construction boards. I knew one of you had been involved when some peolpe explained me what the play was about, but I’d never been able to see it myself. Money, mostly.” Arvid’s mouth twisted faintly. “When I read that message, I knew I had to reach the source. The problem was that his men thought I was trying to escape. They chased me—and that’s when I ran into you.”

“We should’ve cut their balls off,” Sigurd growled.

“Or gouge their eyes,” Hjørdis added flatly.

“Or both.” Holger’s voice was calm, disturbingly so.

“They’re just thugs he sends to do his dirty work,” Arvid said, shaking their head. “Only he and his closest partners actually collect the debts.”

“Then let’s cut off his balls and gouge his eyes,” Sigurd said, lips curling into a feral grin. “What did you say his name was?”

“I don’t like saying it out loud. On the streets, they call him ‘Dónovan the Slippery’.”

“Then it’s settled.” Karl clapped his hands together with a sharp crack. “We find this Dónovan, and we gouge his eyes, cut off his balls, and anything else we can get our hands on before he bleeds out like a freshly gutted fish.”

“It’s not that simple,” Arvid said. “One of the reasons I’ve never managed to get away is that he controls half the businesses in the city. He keeps men watching everyone who owes him.”

“So he’s some kind of mob boss?” Rune asked. “My father knows every don in the local families. I’ve never heard that name.”

“That’s because he’s not a mobster. He’s one of the owners of the railway industries. The bastard knows how to cover his tracks, but anyone who really knows him can tell he’s only a step away from becoming a true crime lord.”

“So we can’t just walk up and kill him?” Hjørdis asked.

“Only if you want to die for nothing. He’s always surrounded by armed men, and he sticks to places where he’s well known. He’s very careful about staying alive.”

“Then we just need more muscle,” Sigurd said with a shrug. “A few more people and the right weapons, and we’d take him down.”

“I’m telling you it’s pointless!” Arvid snapped. “Don’t you understand? You’ll only get yourselves killed.”

“So what?” Karl shot back, voice edged with grim humor. “We die, we come back, and we try again. You know how this works.”

“Don’t you have people you care about in this life?” Arvid asked, voice breaking. “Don’t you want to live peacefully in this city? Why would you risk so much just for me? After the way I treated you… after everything I’ve done…”

The five of them exchanged glances. It lasted only a few seconds. Then they all looked back at Arvid.

“I’m just a mechanic,” Karl said. “The shop owner practically raised me, and only because I learned fast and made myself useful. Before I met the rest of you, I was just surviving one day at a time.”

“I work at an apothecary,” Hjørdis went on. “My father’s a miserly old man, and I think the mercury’s finally rotting his brain. He won’t miss me much.”

“I grew up in a mob family, like I told you,” Rune said. “But my father always favored my older brother. To him, I’m just a nuisance. He saved me a couple of times when people tried to kidnap me—but he raised me with fists and shouting. I won’t be much of a loss.”

“Holger and I each have a grandfather in high society,” Sigurd said, glancing sideways at his friend, “but aside from them, there might not be many who truly care about us. Our lives are comfortable, sure—but we’re still Nordics at heart. Isn’t that right, Holger?”

“Without a doubt,” Holger replied.

“If a friend is in danger, we rescue them. If they’re threatened, we defend them. And if someone’s hurt them, we take revenge.” Sigurd turned to the others as he finished, and they nodded, resolute. “And I think I speak for all of us when I say—we want vengeance.”

Arvid parted her lips, but no words followed. Her mouth trembled into a strained smile before she wiped away her tears and rose from where she had been sitting.

“I suppose the old me would’ve done the same for my companions,” she said, the words edged with something brittle. She glanced down at her palm, then curled it into a fist. “I think I miss that feeling.”

“That settles it, then.” Sigurd stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. His grin was sharp, eager. “Let’s make that bastard regret being born in the same place as us.”

“We’ll need weapons,” Rune put in.

“Right,” Sigurd said. “You want a bow, like always, don’t you?”

“I can’t anymore…” Arvid shook her head. “I’m not able to use a bow—not like before. My arms aren’t strong enough to draw the string. I’ve tried, but I still can’t get used to this body. It’s like I lost a part of myself when I was reborn.” Her gaze lingered on her hands, unblinking.

“I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Sigurd’s voice dropped, the excitement draining out of it.

“It’s fine. I think it’s only natural. What surprises me more now is how well Hjørdis fights.”

“Watch your mouth,” Hjørdis shot back. “I think more than just your arms changed when you reincarnated.”

She turned away and headed for the door, wrestling it open with some effort. When she finally slipped through, the narrow gap forced her thin frame to squeeze through uncomfortably before she disappeared outside.

Arvid watched her go, frowning in confusion. Across the room, Karl caught the moment and flashed a knowing smile, lifting his arms in a gesture of understanding toward his companion.

“Do you think you could use another kind of weapon?” Rune asked. “A crossbow, maybe?”

“I’m not sure,” Arvid admitted. “Crossbows are hard to reload—slow, too. And I’d still need a lever to draw the string.”

“What about a rifle?” Karl asked. “In your previous life, you swore you were good with that sort of thing. The rest of us struggled to learn, even with proper training.”

“That’s true,” Sigurd added. “I’ve seen what they’re like in this world. Smaller now, and much faster to reload. Your aim didn’t wither away in this reincarnation, did it?” He smirked. “As far as I know, a woman’s eyes can be just as sharp as a man’s.”

“I haven’t practiced in a long time,” Arvid said after a pause, “but I think I can give it a shot.”

“Perfect,” Karl said. “Let’s get what we need, then we’ll track down that bastard.”

“We still need to deal with the numbers,” Rune warned. “There aren’t enough of us to just walk in and kill them all.”

“Don’t worry.” Karl’s grin widened as an idea clearly took shape. He slung an arm around Rune’s neck. “Something just occurred to me—and you’re going to be the star of it.”

“I… don’t really like the sound of that,” Rune muttered, stiffening slightly.

“Your father’s a mobster, right?”

“Yes… why does that matter?”

“And he’d do anything to save his poor, helpless son from danger. Am I right?”

Rune frowned. “Where are you going with this?”

Karl held his gaze, confidence and suggestion woven into his expression. He raised an eyebrow and kept staring until Rune’s eyes widened in sudden realization. Slowly, Rune looked down at the floor and let out a quiet breath.

“Oh… I get it now.”