The night was warm, as late spring had grown accustomed to being. A few clouds drifted across the sky, veiling the stars along the horizon, but none carried any promise of rain in the hours to come.

Along the deserted streets near the railway workshop by the station, a group of some twenty men moved in silence. Their expressions were grim, their hands clenched around an assortment of weapons—everything from daggers to heavy wooden clubs.

They advanced like a column of soldiers toward the massive workshop looming at the far end of the street. That was when they saw them: six figures stepping forward, standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way.

“Who the hell are you?” one of the men barked, anger flaring in his voice.

“Easy,” Karl said, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “We’re not here to stop you. We know why you’ve come, and I think we can help.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” another man snapped, tightening his grip on his weapon. “Leave now—unless you’d like to limp away.”

“You’re here for Pip, aren’t you?” Karl went on calmly. “Your boss’s son.”

“And what’s that to you?” someone shouted. “Move!”

Karl slowly reached into his pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper, and tossed it toward them. One of the men picked it up hesitantly while the rest kept their eyes fixed on the blond-haired youth.

He unfolded the paper. It was a letter. Tucked inside were a pair of cufflinks—ones the young man they were searching for had worn not long ago.

“I imagine you received a similar letter,” Karl said. “So did we. That’s why we’re here—to save our friend, Pip.”

“Our boss got a letter,” one of the men said after a pause. “But it had a watch inside. Both belonged to Pip. He wants us to rescue him.”

“Same here,” Karl replied. “We were about to do just that when you showed up. So why don’t we join forces? I doubt a few extra hands—or a dozen—would hurt.”

“How do we know you’re not lying?” someone growled. “We don’t even know you.”

“I think they’re telling the truth,” another man cut in. “I’ve seen young Pip leave with them a couple of times.”

“Yeah…” a third added slowly. “Isn’t that white-haired fellow the one from the fountain a few days back?”

“That’s him. Just don’t mention his hair—the last one who did lost a few fingers. Anyway,” Karl said, clapping his hands together as he looked them over, “shall we go rescue our friend?”

“That girl,” one of the men sneered, nodding toward Hjørdis. “Can she fight? Or is she afraid of breaking a nail?”

Laughter rippled through the group—then died instantly.

Something whistled through the air from where Hjørdis stood and slammed into the ground inches from the speaker’s foot. He stumbled backward, collapsing onto the pavement, staring in shock at the knife quivering beside his left boot.

“Yes, queridito,” Hjørdis said as she strolled over and plucked the blade from the ground. “I can fight.” She flashed him a wink and a smile. “Possibly better than you.”

The men watched her in silence as she returned to Karl’s side. After a moment, one of them cleared his throat.

“Better too many than too few, right, lads?”

A chorus of rough agreement followed. Their leader stepped forward and clasped Karl’s hand firmly.

“So,” he said, “you got a plan?”

“We go in, kill their men, get the boss’s son, and get out,” the man replied flatly.

“Not bad,” Karl said. “But ours might be better than not bad. Care to hear it?”

He gathered them close and laid out the strategy they’d prepared. The men listened, interrupting now and then with questions, which Karl answered without hesitation. When he finished, he spread his hands.

“That’s the gist of it. Any other questions?”

“I’ve got one,” a man said, pointing. “Why are those two wearing hoods and covering their faces?”

“Well,” Karl said lightly, “one of them has some truly awful burns. Honestly dreadful—you wouldn’t want to see them. The other is…a bit unhinged. If you take off the hood, he get the urge to bite ears.” He leaned in with a grin. “Want him to bite your ears? They look very chewable.”

“N–no,” the man stammered, backing away.

With the plan settled, they moved together toward the enormous workshop, slipping into position and readying themselves to strike—unaware of what awaited them inside.

***

Three men stood guard at the rear entrance of the workshop, gazing up at the night sky as they smoked, exhaling clouds of smoke that unraveled in the dry evening wind.

“I’m telling you,” said the one in the cap, “that bastard were clean touched in the head.”

“Doesn’t signify now,” replied the man with the scarred face. “Didn’t they sack him? You won’t clap eyes on him again.”

“I know. It’s just… the things he come out with at the pub t’other night. Sheer lunacy. If only you’d heard him.”

“What sort of things did he say, then?”

“All manner of rot. Worst of it as I recall was him saying he’d murder every last whore in the city, rip the kidneys from their bellies, and cut their throats without so much as a qualm.”

“Sounds like a bloody brute what drank himself witless. He didn’t spout aught else, did he?”

“When he left the pub, I heard him mutter something more. ‘From hell, from hell,’ he says. Then off he went, gone into the alleys like smoke.”

“Just as I said—a poor devil with drink up to his hat.”

“Oi… look there.” The man with the tattoo on his neck pointed toward the street across from the workshop.

Hjørdis stood there, swaying as she walked, stumbling closer to the three men.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she slurred, smiling the way a drunk might. “A fine night, ain’t it?”

“Miss, I think it best you keep clear of this place.” The man with the scar across his face lifted a hand, uncertain.

“What? But I’m lost…” She stepped closer until she stood right in front of him. “Won’t you help a poor lady find her way home?”

“Well… just now we—”

He broke off as Hjørdis brushed her fingers along his cheek, tracing the scar stitched with thick, ugly sutures that ran from his cheekbone to his nose. She pressed herself against him, letting her breasts graze his chest, her neckline deliberately open from his angle. The other two stared, rapt.

“I do love a man with scars,” she said, her voice low. “Makes you look hard. Strong. Perhaps you ought to see me safely home.”

“Well…”

“Don’t look at him,” the man in the cap snorted.

“Aye, he’s a lazy great lump,” added the one with the neck tattoo. “Come along with me, miss. I’ll see you right.”

“Clear off—she’s spoken for,” the scarred man snapped.

“Oh, come now—there’s no call to squabble over me,” Hjørdis laughed softly. “I daresay there’s enough of me to please you all. But first—would one of you be so kind as to help me look for my purse? I reckon I dropped it in that alley yonder.” She pointed across the street.

All three men nodded and followed her. On the way, each touched her in a way that set her teeth on edge. The scarred one grabbed her backside over the dress. The man in the cap tangled his fingers in her curls and sniffed them. The one with the tattoo looped an arm around her neck.

She kept smiling, pliant and sweet, until they stepped into the dark mouth of the alley.

Inside, everything changed.

Iron-hard arms snapped around their throats, crushing their air and stealing their voices. Other hands locked down their limbs, pinning them in place. The pressure didn’t relent until their eyes rolled back and their bodies went slack, light as discarded coats.

“Looks like they’re not moving anymore.” Karl let the man with the neck tattoo drop to the ground.

“You sure?” Holger asked, releasing the scarred one.

Hjørdis drew a knife and flicked it into the man’s left hand, pinning it clean through to the pavement. He didn’t so much as twitch.

“I don’t think they’ll be going anywhere for a while,” she said calmly. “If they’re still alive.”

“I thought we were just knocking them out,” Holger muttered.

“He grabbed my ass. He earned it.”

“Didn’t seem like there was much to grab,” Sigurd said as he let go of the man in the cap.

“Shut up. Next time, you can be the bait.”

“Don’t complain—you were the one who wanted this. ‘I’ll seduce them with my feminine charms. It’ll be easy.’ Ring a bell?”

“Whatever. Let’s just go.”

They left the three men gagged and bound, hands and feet tied, at the far end of the alley. Hjørdis shrugged out of her dress, tied her hair back into a ponytail, and revealed a white short-sleeved shirt, trousers rolled up to the knee, suspenders, and a brown vest.

Before they left, Sigurd plucked a cigarette from one man’s coat and scooped a dropped matchbox off the ground. He lit up, took a drag, then joined the others, a medium-sized instrument case slung across his back.

“Thought you quit smoking,” Holger said.

“Only when you’re watching,” Sigurd replied, walking beside him. “I started again after we ran into each other. Tonight’s special—let me enjoy it.”

“As you like. If this goes well, you should quit.”

“Maybe I will. Though things rarely go well for us.” He shifted the case on his shoulder.

They reached the back door and peered through the windows into the building.

Sure enough, the man they were after stood inside—Donovan the Slippery. He talked business with several others while his bodyguards stood a few yards away, watchful.

“There he is. What now?” asked one of Rune’s father’s men.

“We stick to the plan,” Karl said. “What we do next is—”

The back door exploded inward under a single kick. The crash drew every eye inside—and from Karl’s group—to the man standing in the doorway, one leg still extended.

“All right. I’ll say this once.” He hefted a wood-splitting axe. “Give Pip back to us, and we won’t kill a single one of you.”

Karl’s group straightened, staring in disbelief as the man Karl had shaken hands with not long ago casually threw the entire plan into the gutter.

Inside the workshop, men snapped into a defensive stance—some raising their fists, others drawing knives and pistols. Dónovan slipped behind two of them, using their bodies as cover.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sigurd demanded, eyes fixed on the man with the axe.

“Trust me,” the man said, confidence hard as iron. “The young master is here. We can finish this quickly.”

“Who are you people?” Dónovan barked. His voice carried over the room. “What have you done to my men? Answer me!”

“Your men are fine. They’ll wake up with a headache.” The axe dipped slightly, then rose again. “You won’t be so lucky if you don’t give Pip back.”

“Pip?” Dónovan frowned. “Who is that?”

The man snorted and flicked a card onto the floor—the one with the watch wrapped inside. “Don’t play dumb.” He tightened his grip. “We got a letter. Said you had the boss’s son and wanted to negotiate. So we came to negotiate.”

“I never sent any letter,” Dónovan said, baffled.

“Someone did. Someone using your company seal.” The axe came up, both hands firm around the haft. “So here we are. Are you giving Pip back the easy way… or the hard one?”

Both sides locked eyes, weapons clenched, the air growing heavier with every second of unbearable silence. Then one of the men near the table stepped between them, palms raised.

“Gentlemen, please—just a moment. I’m sure we can reach an agreement.”

“Move, or we shoot,” one of the men outside the workshop snapped, pistol leveled.

“If you’ll allow me to introduce myself,” the man went on, forcing a thin smile, “I’m one of Mr. Dónovan’s partners. I came only to clear up a matter regarding a payment. I know nothing about this Pip you’re talking about, so if you’ll excuse me, my men and I will take our leave, and there will be no—”

The gunshot swallowed the rest of his words.

The man collapsed, blood bursting from his skull and splashing across the floor in a vivid red smear.

Chaos erupted instantly.

Fists slammed, boots lashed out, gunfire cracked, blades sliced, teeth sank into flesh. The violence didn’t escalate—it detonated.

Karl charged into the workshop, barking orders for his companions to follow the others and make sure Dónovan didn’t escape. Then he drew his axes and waded into the fray, steel carving through anyone who came at him.

Just as he’d said, the other five joined the attack. Among their enemies weren’t just hired thugs and bodyguards—workshop employees rushed them as well, wielding wrenches, hammers, anything they could grab.

Holger barreled into several of them, his blows dropping men unconscious where they stood. A few leapt onto him, but he caught them midair and slammed them into the ground, leaving them broken and still.

Hjørdis—now dressed in far more practical clothes—slipped toward distracted foes. Her knives flashed. Throats opened. Eyes were pierced. Bellies were split, forcing her victims to clutch their wounds as they collapsed, fully aware they were dying.

Sigurd started with punches to the nose, but when the numbers grew beyond what his fists could handle, he snapped open the case he carried. Inside lay two sabers, similar to fencing blades in shape, but stripped of elegance and wickedly sharp, their edges catching the faint glow of the workshop lights.

He gripped them tightly and went to work, thrusts and slashes striking vital organs with brutal precision. Blood sprayed. His opponents staggered back—then fell, lifeless.

Rune and Arvid took the stairs, drawing their weapons as they climbed.

Rune carried an assortment of explosives: small bottles of cheap alcohol with cloth wicks stuffed into their mouths, and crude bags with fuses, packed with gunpowder and other incendiary mixtures.

Arvid drew two pistols. One resembled the rifles used in the New Granada—compact, but built on the same principles. The other was heavier, more metallic, with an elongated barrel and a chamber designed to seat individual rounds.

They joined the fight, and men were hurled through the air by explosions, riddled with pellets, or set ablaze, running and screaming as burning alcohol clung to their bodies.

In the midst of the clash, Arvid realized Dónovan was nowhere among the attackers. She looked up—and spotted a man fleeing in the distance, a briefcase clutched to his side, papers spilling out behind him as he ran.

She knew it was him. And she wasn’t about to let him get away.

“He’s escaping!” Arvid shouted, already on her feet, sprinting along the workshop’s second level.

“Wait, Arvid—we don’t know who else is up there,” Rune called, struggling to follow.

Arvid didn’t hear him. She kept running, reloading the long-barreled pistol as she went.

She crossed the upper level, searching for a clearer view of where Dónovan had gone. The man lived up to his nickname—he knew how to vanish when it mattered most.

As she moved, she felt something cling to the sole of her boot. A sheet of paper. Looking ahead, she spotted more—scattered pages, a few loose bills strewn across the floor. She remembered the briefcase, the way papers had flown from it as he ran.

The trail was obvious.

And she followed it. 

As she walked through the corridors, she became aware of the heat thickening around her, rising with every step as she descended the stairwell toward the basement. The boiler room had to be close.

She kept going. In the darkness, desperate screams reached her ears, coming from somewhere near a reddish glow. She broke into a run.

Just as she was about to cross the threshold into the boiler area, a violent stroke slammed into her left leg, forcing her back with a sharp cry of pain.

She snapped her weapon up, finger tightening on the trigger—and then she saw her attacker.

They were barely half her size. A delicate, grime-smeared face stared back at her, wide with terror. Small hands trembled around the handle of a soot-blackened metal shovel.

Just a child.

Arvid froze as the realization hit. Her grip loosened, her finger slid away from the trigger, and she lowered the gun while struggling to push herself upright.

“Who…?” She swallowed, blinking hard. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Stay back!” the child shouted, swinging the shovel clumsily through the air.

Arvid took a step back and lifted her gaze past the child. Dónovan was there, wrestling with a door, fumbling through a ring of metal keys. She tried to rush toward him, but the shovel whooshed past her face as the child swung again, forcing her to halt.

The door finally gave way. Dónovan slipped through and vanished into the darkness beyond.

Fury flared in Arvid’s chest. She moved to follow—

—and realized she was surrounded.

Children. A crowd of them. None looked older than thirteen. Each clutched some kind of tool—wrenches, rods, makeshift weapons. Their faces were drawn and exhausted, eyes hollow with fear. Still, they closed ranks, barring her path.

“Kids… listen to me,” Arvid said, her voice tight. “Please, let me through. That man—”

No answer. They stepped forward in unison, improvised weapons raised, watching her like cornered animals.

Arvid’s mind raced. All she could think about was reaching that man—making him pay for every scrap of suffering he had caused.

But there were too many of them. Far too many to get through without hurting someone. She didn’t want that. Not them.

And yet time was slipping away.

Her thoughts went blank.

She tightened her grip, both index fingers settling on the triggers. She was a breath away from drawing, from leveling her weapon at the child with the shovel—

“Wow. What is this, a daycare?” Karl said, grabbing Arvid’s hand.

Her finger jerked off the trigger as she turned. The captain stood there, his body marked with cuts, blood streaking down from his forehead. Despite it all, he gave her a crooked smile before looking toward the children.

“So the rumors were true,” Rune said, stepping up beside Arvid. “I’d heard that bastard supported child exploitation policies. Seeing it with my own eyes… yeah. That explains everything.”

“And what else would you expect from scum?” Hjørdis added, taking her place next to Rune.

“First women, then children,” Sigurd said from Karl’s left. “That bastard deserves a hell built just for him.”

“It’s truly vile,” Holger muttered, standing beside Hjørdis. “I haven’t wanted to kill someone this badly in a long time.”

“Guys…” Arvid said, her voice low. “What do we do?”

“We stick to the plan,” Rune replied. “You remember what we were going to do if there were too many men and he was right in front of us.”

“Yes… yeah. I remember.”

“Then we do exactly that—just without counterattacking. Agreed?” Rune asked, producing a small spherical object with a fuse protruding from it.

They all answered without hesitation.

Rune struck a match and lit the fuse, then lobbed the bomb several yards over the children’s heads. They watched it sail past in confused silence.

It detonated midair, erupting into a thick cloud of smoke that swallowed the room and choked the light.

Hands grabbed at the children, shoving them aside as they lashed out blindly, swinging at anything that moved.

The group formed a living shield around Arvid, their bodies absorbing the blows as they pushed through the crowd. Tools and makeshift weapons slammed into legs, torsos, arms—anywhere they could land.

Arvid could do nothing but raise her arms and keep moving forward, watching as her companions endured the pain for her sake.

At the far end of the room, the door Dónovan had fled through stood open.

Arvid broke into a run.

“Don’t worry about us!” someone shouted behind her.

She nodded once and plunged down the stairs in pursuit of Dónovan.

The sub-basement beneath the boiler room lay in near-total darkness. The coal furnaces spat flame, bathing the space in a dull red glow that let Arvid move without stumbling. She advanced several yards before hearing footsteps—splashes in shallow puddles left by dripping steam pipes.

She tightened her grip on her weapons and slowed, scanning the shadows for any sign of Dónovan.

A gunshot cracked through the dark.

Something tore through her hair as a pellet whistled past her head. She staggered back and dove behind a stack of metal pipes.

“Who are you?” Dónovan shouted. “Why are you coming after me? What did I ever do to you?”

Arvid stayed silent, peering over the pipes to pinpoint his position.

Another shot rang out. It struck a nearby pipe, rupturing it in a hiss of scalding steam. She ducked back down.

“Damn thieves,” Dónovan snarled, the click of a reloaded pistol echoing faintly. “You just want to rob me, don’t you? I won’t let you. I won’t! Do you hear me?”

Another shot exploded overhead, slamming into the pipe above her. Arvid’s heart hammered in her chest. She forced herself to breathe, weapon clenched tight, listening to Donovan’s ragged voice echo through the blackened depths of the basement.

It was then that Arvid caught the telltale sound of metal skittering across the floor. Pellets, she guessed—he must have dropped them and was scrambling to gather them up. The noise bought her a heartbeat. She leaned out over the top of her barricade once more, brought both pistols up, and sighted the spot where Dónovan stood.

He saw her. In a rush, he finished loading his weapon and swung it toward her—but luck had already abandoned him. Arvid fired first. Her pellet struck one of the pipes beside him, and the line ruptured with a shriek. Steam blasted outward, searing the right side of his body. He screamed and dropped his pistol. The second shot punched into his knee.

Dónovan collapsed, howling, cursing the air as pain wracked him.

Arvid seized the moment. She stepped out from cover and strode toward him. As she walked, she reloaded the long-barreled pistol, stopping only when she stood over him, staring down with open disdain.

“Wait… wait, please,” Dónovan begged, clutching his leg as blood poured through his fingers. “I don’t even know what I did to you. We can make a deal.”

“A deal?” Arvid crouched so he couldn’t look away from her. “You think you can give back what you took from me?”

“That voice… don’t tell me you’re—”

“I’m Amelia. Do you remember me?” Her eyes bored into him. “Do you remember everything you did to me?”

“Amelia… yes… I—I’m sorry. I was a fool. I never should have hurt you. I swear, I regret it.”

“You think an ‘I’m sorry’ fixes anything?” Her voice cracked, tears spilling free. “You raped me! You hurt me! You hunted me! You made me feel worthless! You made me wish for death!” She sucked in a ragged breath. “And now I see it wasn’t just me. You did this to those children too. You’ve got them enslaved here. You must have threatened them, forced them to attack us.”

“They’re just workers,” Dónovan protested weakly. “Everyone uses them. We feed them. You know how poor some families are—”

The gun barked again. This time the bullet tore into his shoulder.

Donovan writhed, his screams rising into raw, animal agony.

“I’ve met a lot of people,” Arvid said coldly as she reloaded, “but you’re the foulest piece of filth I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Please… I’ll do anything… don’t kill me,” he sobbed. “I don’t want to die.”

She pressed the muzzle of the pistol to his head, studying him with grim calm. Donovan could only stare at the barrel, tears streaming down his face.

Arvid set her finger on the trigger and drew a deep breath.

Just before firing, memories flooded in—everything she had lived through, all of it converging on this moment, as if it were the final step of a long, brutal journey. One memory rose above the rest.

Rosa.

In Donovan’s face, Arvid saw the same expression Rosa had worn when Arvid shot her in a past life. The realization froze her hand. She couldn’t pull the trigger.

She stepped back, heart pounding. Maybe this was something she wasn’t meant to do. Maybe it was part of her punishment for what she had done before—and maybe, just maybe, if she didn’t repeat the same sin, she could be forgiven. Maybe she could become who she once was.

Arvid turned away and started toward the stairs. From somewhere behind her, she heard Dónovan thanking her over and over.

Then she remembered the children on the level above.

The third shot rang out—aimed at the knee he still had.

Donovan screamed louder than before, his voice breaking into a howl so distorted it barely sounded human.

Arvid walked away with a faint smile, listening as he hurled every curse he knew after her.

In the darkness, she bumped into a crate. Inside it lay the briefcase that Donovann had been carrying earlier. She opened it, and the sight within wiped the smile from her face, replacing it with shock and disbelief. She snapped it shut and took it with her, resuming her climb.

Halfway up the steps, an explosion thundered through the structure, shaking the floor so violently she nearly fell backward. She caught herself, scrambled upright, and hurried on until she reached the boiler room.

There she took in the scene: her companions sat on the floor, nursing scrapes and bruises, clothes torn, eyes hollow with exhaustion.

In front of them were the children—now bound hand and foot—struggling uselessly against their restraints.

“Well, look who finally showed up,” Sigurd said with a crooked grin. “Knew you hadn’t rusted as much as you claimed.”

“I hope you made him suffer,” Hjørdis added, flexing her hands. “Holding back against those kids without hurting them was a nightmare.”

“Yeah,” Karl chimed in. “So where’d you get him in the end—the eyes or the balls?”

“I… didn’t kill him,” Arvid said, her expression hard.

A loud, unified “What?!” erupted from the group, startling the children into stunned silence.

“You didn’t kill him?” Rune snapped, disgust plain on his face. “We’ve killed people worth far more than that piece of shit. Why?”

“I shot him three times,” Arvid said evenly. “Both knees and the shoulder. He won’t get far. And he’s not escaping this place.”

“So you’re killing him,” Sigurd mused, rubbing his chin. “Just not with your own hands.”

“I think it’s… part of the ‘test’.”

“Test?” Holger echoed.

“I’ll explain later. Right now we need to leave. I heard an explosion while I was coming up. Does anyone know what caused it?”

“I think it came from the floor above…” Rune said, glancing at the ceiling.

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, another explosion roared overhead. The ceiling buckled, collapsing inward as something crashed down from the level above.

Moments later, one of Rune’s father’s men came racing down the stairs at the far end of the boiler room. He took in the scene, chest heaving, and shouted,

“We have to get out—now!”

“What happened?” Rune demanded, pushing himself to his feet.

“Young Pip!” the man yelled. “He’s here! Hey—everyone! Get over here, I found Young Pip!”

The rest of the men climbed down and ran to where Rune stood, shoving their way through the crowd of children with little care.

“Young Pip—thank the stars you’re alive.” The man with the axe ran his hands over Rune, checking him for injuries. “Your father will be relieved. We’re leaving. There’s no time—this place is about to blow.”

“Wait… what do you mean, blow?” Rune asked.

“No time to explain.” The axeman glanced upward. “There was an accident up there. One boiler exploded, then another. I reckon the rest will follow, so move!”

“No… I’m not leaving without my friends. And we can’t abandon these kids.”

“They’re just workers. There are thousands like them across the city. We can’t take them all—it would take too long. Come now, or we’ll have to take you… by force.”

Rune stepped beside Arvid and fixed his gaze on the axeman, who met it without blinking. The stare stretched on, taut as a drawn wire. At last, Rune spoke.

“Then you’ll be carrying a corpse.” Rune lifted Arvid’s gun and pressed it to his own temple.

The men froze, stunned. Rune’s finger rested on the trigger, his eyes never leaving the axeman’s face. After a few steps back, the man raised a hand.

“Easy. Calm down.”

Rune didn’t lower the weapon. Instead, he turned his head just enough for the others to hear him.

“We all go—or you go without me. Decide. Now.”

“All right,” the axeman said at once. “We get it. Just lower the gun.”

“Children first,” Rune said. “Help us get them outside. Two trips should be enough. Now move!”

No one argued. One by one, the men hurried to the children, lifting whoever they could—over shoulders, in both arms, piggyback—straining to carry them to the stairs and up.

When Rune finally lowered the gun, he passed it back to Arvid. She took it, slid it into its holster, and stared at Rune in disbelief. She hadn’t even noticed when Rune had taken the weapon—let alone imagined he’d use it like that.

“Come on! No time to waste!” Karl barked, already running for the stairs with two children perched on his shoulders.

“Take the smallest ones first,” Holger called, hoisting four at once.

They spread out, each man lifting as many children as he could manage and hauling them up to the upper level.

As they moved through the workshop, Rune noticed that Arvid carried only one child. In his free hand, he still held the briefcase he’d found in the basement.

“What’s that?” Rune asked. “Why don’t you drop it and grab another kid?”

“Could be important,” Arvid said, breathless. “Besides, I’m not as strong as I used to be.”

“Excuses. I saw Hjørdis carrying two under her arms and one on her shoulders.”

Arvid didn’t answer. He kept running with the others until they reached the first level—and there they saw what the axeman had meant.

The boilers had ruptured. Coal and steam filled the air, the heat climbing fast as the structure began to glow and wooden beams caught fire.

They sprinted for the back door and set the children down in the street outside the workshop. After a single heartbeat to draw breath, they turned back inside.

That was when the third explosion hit—stronger than the last two. The blast shook the building; the door groaned, half-collapsing, while burning beams fell across the windows, sealing them shut.

Holger and Sigurd rushed to the entrance beam, gripping it to keep the doorway from collapsing entirely. The metal scorched their palms—not enough to burn, but enough to warn them how little time remained before the place became a towering fireball.

“Run!” Holger shouted.

“Go—we’ve got this,” Sigurd added.

Arvid didn’t slow. She set the briefcase down beside the child he’d rescued and rushed back inside with the rest.

They descended again to the boiler level, scooping up the remaining children. By then, none were left behind. They fled at a dead sprint, never looking back.

Climbing the stairs was harder now. Flames licked along the supports, the structure buckling, every step heavier under the children’s weight.

For Karl, it was worse. The bodies scattered across the workshop—remnants of the fight moments earlier—dragged him back into the cold numbness that always followed slaughter. His limbs felt stiff, unresponsive.

At the first level they pushed toward the door as fast as they could, but exhaustion and wounds dulled their pace.

Then something cracked overhead.

A section of the roof gave way. Karl shouted for them to move, but it was too late. Heavy wooden beams crashed down onto Arvid and Hjørdis.

Karl dropped the children he carried and ran to them, straining to lift the timbers. They didn’t budge—the weight was immense.

Seeing this, Holger locked eyes with Sigurd.

“Did you leave the letter where I told you?”

Sigurd held his gaze.

“Yes. On the table in your grandfather’s room.”

“Good. Now go. I can handle this.”

Holger braced himself, feet set, both arms heaving upward as the beam seared his skin. Slowly—agonizingly—it began to rise. Sigurd felt the weight lessen and didn’t hesitate. He ran toward Karl and the others.

Rune emerged with two more children, set them with the rest outside, then turned back again—heading in to retrieve the ones Karl had been forced to leave behind.

As this unfolded, Sigurd and Karl strained to lift the fallen beams. They pushed themselves to the brink, managing to relieve some of the crushing weight pinning Arvid and Hjørdis. The two twisted free, braced their arms and legs, and together heaved one of the beams aside. Hjørdis broke free first. She scrambled to her feet and helped move the timber trapping Arvid, who emerged with two children tucked under her arms.

Without wasting a second, Hjørdis scooped the children from the floor and sprinted for the door. Karl, Sigurd, and Arvid followed—until it happened.

A fourth explosion rocked the building. Before any of them could react, one of the support beams gave way and collapsed onto Karl.

Arvid and Sigurd stared in disbelief, but they kept running. The captain had died instantly. There was nothing they could do for him.

At the doorway, Rune managed to push the children he carried through the opening and staggered out into the street, where he collapsed from exhaustion.

Holger saw this as the weight of the doorway’s structure slowly crushed him. Before Hjørdis could reach the exit, it collapsed inward, sealing the way out and ending his life.

Hjørdis froze, staring at the blocked doorway, her breath coming in ragged gasps, tears streaking her face as she screamed in desperation.

“No—no!”

The others gathered behind her, taking in the door buried beneath rubble. For a moment, they were certain there would be no escape—that they would be burned alive along with the few children still inside.

Despair tightened around their hearts as the fire devoured the workshop.

That was when Sigurd noticed one of the windows that hadn’t collapsed with the doorway. Flames licked at the boards covering it, but he ran to it anyway. He set the children down, tore off his coat, and used it to beat back the worst of the heat. One by one, he ripped away the burning planks until the opening was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.

“Hjørdis—jump!” Sigurd shouted.

“What?” She blinked at him, dazed.

“Drop the kids and jump, damn it—now!”

She didn’t argue. Hjørdis set the children on the floor, took a running start, and hurled herself through the window. Once she was out, Sigurd told Arvid to help him pass the children through, one at a time.

It was painstaking work. They had to be certain each small body cleared the frame without getting stuck.

Hjørdis caught each child and carried them to the others outside, then ran back to the window. After six throws, the last child was finally safe.

Sigurd turned to Arvid and motioned for her to jump.

She tried—but halfway through, the window frame gave way. It collapsed onto her back, trapping her between the blazing workshop and the open air.

Sigurd lunged forward, trying to lift the structure with his bare hands. His skin burned and blistered as he shouted curses through clenched teeth. Arvid, tears streaming down her face, struggled to free herself, but the frame wouldn’t budge.

Hjørdis heard the cries and rushed back to her companion’s side.

Arvid looked at her and begged her to leave, to save herself—but Hjørdis didn’t listen. Like Sigurd, she threw herself against the fallen frame, heedless of the flames searing her hands. It lifted a few inches. For a brief, fragile moment, all three of them glimpsed hope.

Then the blinding glow of the fire swallowed everything, followed by the roar of an explosion that consumed the workshop in an instant—ending their lives where they stood.

Outside, the men shielded their eyes and dropped low, trying to protect Rune and the children from the blast. By sheer luck, the flames didn’t reach the street, and none of those outside were caught in the explosion.

Minutes later, the London Fire Brigade arrived. They helped the survivors move to safety while working to contain the blaze and keep onlookers at bay.

***

Days passed, and the story appeared in every paper.

“Several Dead in Railway Workshop Explosion.”

Rune read the headline from his hospital bed as he recovered from his injuries.

His men told him what had happened after he lost consciousness. He thanked them quietly and asked to be left alone.

A few hours later, one of his father’s men arrived carrying a briefcase. Rune recognized it at once—it was the same one Arvid had been holding when she came up from the basement. The man explained that one of the rescued children had given it to him, asking that it be delivered to the friend of the woman who had saved them. He’d pointed to the young man lying unconscious on the floor.

Rune thanked him warmly and accepted the case. Inside, he found thick bundles of cash, an array of priceless jewelry, and what appeared to be property deeds. There were documents as well—important ones—several bearing the signature of the late Donovan.

“What do you plan to do with it?” the man asked.

Rune considered the contents, then smiled faintly, the expression lighting up a face wrapped in bandages and gauze.

“I can think of a couple of ideas.”

***

The newspapers feasted on the story in the days following Rune’s discharge from the hospital.

They began by publishing the obituaries of Jonathan Yorkshire and his close friend, the young playwright William—the author of Eplaæturnar.

Their grandparents refused to speak to the press. Between themselves, however, they knew their grandsons had died as heroes. The boys had told them as much in the letters they left behind—one for Jacques, placed on his bedroom table, and one for Oswald, resting in his study.

They both mourned their losses, yet they felt pride for the sacrifice of their grandchildren.

Another revelation came in the form of documents sent anonymously—papers that exposed the fraudulent contracts Donovan the slippery had signed, as well as the debts he had failed to pay to the families with whom he had made agreements.

As for the children they had saved—

A letter arrived at the local orphanage, informing its administrators that a certain anonymous benefactor wished to donate a substantial sum for the upkeep and expansion of the institution, on the condition that they take in all the victims of the factory fire and provide them with a proper education.

In just a few days, the children found a new home in the now-renamed orphanage, S.H.A.H.K., honoring the names of those who had sacrificed themselves so they could live.

Rune, in addition to investing the money Donovan had left in the briefcase, claimed the slippery man’s properties through less-than-legal means using the certificates he had obtained. He sold them and sent the proceeds to the families Donovan had defrauded—including the brothel where Arvid had been born.

During a brief visit there, Rune learned that his friend’s mother had died in one of the opium dens. Yet the woman who had helped Arvid when he had been beaten years ago hugged him and expressed her gratitude, telling him she was glad Amelia had found friends who loved her.

In this way, Rune ensured that the deaths of his friends had not been in vain.

Over the following months, his body weakened from the infections he had contracted during the battle inside the factory, compounded by the burns and smoke inhalation he had suffered while escaping the workshop.

He died in a hospital bed barely eight months after being reunited with his companions.

The nurses who cared for him told his father that, before closing his eyes for the last time, Rune’s expression was that of someone who had died happy and at peace, a smile playing across his face, devoid of any fear.

***

The infinite darkness—that was what Rune saw when he opened his eyes again. In that void, he found his friends waiting, welcoming him in the language they had always used there.

Almost all of them looked as they had when they died, except for Arvid, whose spectral form resembled his shape in Iceland, though he wore the clothes he had on the day he died in London.

As they floated together, Rune recounted the months following the fire at the workshop: how he had exposed Donovan’s crimes, helped the children they had saved, checked on Sigurd and Holger’s grandparents to make sure they had read his letters, and reassured Arvid that the woman who had helped him in his youth was safe and grateful. He also told them that both his mother and Donovan were dead.

Arvid brightened slightly at the news, apologizing for how he had behaved during his time in the Nueva granada—an apology he hadn’t had the chance to offer in his previous life.

The group agreed that he had suffered enough and that it would serve as a lesson for his past misbehavior. They then spoke of what they should do in their next lives, vowing to reunite sooner next time, as the world seemed to grow more dangerous by the day.

On top of that, they decided their group would be called “the Apple Eaters” in the language of the country where they were reborn. Sigurd wasn’t thrilled, but his companions convinced him after seeing how much the people of London had loved the name, leaving him no choice but to accept it.

Once more, they began to fade into the infinite darkness. Rune, Sigurd, Karl, Holger, Hjørdis, and finally Arvid—the order in which they passed through their respective whirlpools of blue-green water toward their next lives.