As the hours passed, the fire of strategy began to dim into silence. The room had grown cold—not from the chill of the air, but from the heaviness of thought. Kilian, Bjorn, and Mikkel sat together, yet increasingly apart, each locked in their own separate world of doubts and possibilities. The arguments had long since turned to whispers, and the whispers to silence. Outside the narrow gaps in the walls, the dull blue glow of morning pushed against the shadows.
Then came the sound of footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Certain.
Brozek entered the room without knocking. His towering frame barely seemed to move as he spoke in his usual, tender voice:"The day has come."
Kilian rose first, stretching his arms with the kind of calm that hid sharpness beneath its surface. He walked over to Bjorn, who remained seated, his eyes glassed with thought. Kilian placed a hand over Bjorn's shoulder.
"Let's go out for a walk," he said, voice low. "Get dressed. The winds blow hard in this area."
Bjorn blinked slowly, as if waking from some deeper layer of himself. "Sure," he said, and stood.
They left Mikkel behind, seated in thought, left to measure the weight of his own mind. As Kilian guided Bjorn out of the dim chamber and toward the stairs, every step they took sounded too loud in the silence, their boots scraping against aged stone. The staircase before them was steep and narrow, built in the cruel manner of old castles—as if constructed to break those who dared climb them.
"How deep are we underground?" Bjorn asked, his voice a mix of wonder and fatigue.
Kilian turned his head slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Not underground," he said, reaching for a great rusted door handle at the top of the steps. "But underwater."
Bjorn opened his mouth to respond, but the creak of the door drowned out his words. The heavy door swung open with a groan that echoed like a voice lost in time. Before them stretched a long hallway, cold and still, with four doors on each side and a single large one at the far end. The walls were lined with frost, and the silence held the gravity of old secrets.
Kilian led him left, stopping before one of the doors. He opened it slowly, revealing a wide chamber filled with what at first looked like frozen men. But as Bjorn stepped closer, he saw they weren't people—they were statues. Human-shaped, metallic figures, faceless and haunting.
"What are these?" he asked, his voice low.
"Medieval armors," Kilian answered, brushing a hand across one. "This place was once a castle, long before the Rapture. It flooded afterward. Time preserved it in ice."
"They look strong," Bjorn said, inspecting the thick plates and detailed rivets. "Why aren't we using them?"
Kilian chuckled. "Do you really want to run around with twenty-five kilos of frozen metal on your back, Bjorn? We're not at war with dragons."
Bjorn grunted in reluctant agreement. "I guess not."
He found his usual clothing bundled in a corner—what little he had left. His white camouflage jacket was gone, as were his fur-lined pants. He dressed quietly, his fingers numb from the chill in the air. Then, after some hesitation, he strapped on his old hunting mask. It was a crude thing, made of dull gray metal and shaped with shallow ridges across the cheeks. Worn only on hunts, it was his one remaining link to a time when things made sense.
The mechanical spear was still intact, its mechanisms dulled but functional. He strapped it to his belt, and looked up at Kilian.
"All ready to go?"
Kilian nodded. "Let's move."
They returned to the hallway and walked its full length, the air growing colder with each step. The great door at the end loomed larger with every breath they took, its edges frosted white, its frame groaning softly from the changing pressure outside. Kilian pushed it open, and a rush of wind filled the corridor, sharp and dry.
Bjorn stepped outside—and froze.
What lay before him was something beyond his ability to describe.
An endless sheet of ice stretched to the horizon in all directions, glimmering in the newborn sunlight. There were no mountains. No trees. No terrain. Just a vast plain of frozen water, flat and silent as death. The lake had consumed everything. The only structure that stood above it was the tower they now exited—likely the highest of the castle's spires, left poking from the frozen sea like a needle from glass.
The sky was clear, painfully blue. But the real shock struck when Bjorn looked up.
There, far above, hung a second sun.
But it was wrong.
Not golden or bright, but black—its edges faintly glowing, its body like a void burning against the sky. It hovered silently, its existence unacknowledged by the world around it. And somehow, Bjorn knew it had always been there. Watching.
Questions surged. What was this place? How was it hidden beneath water and yet now atop a mountain of ice? What was that dark sun?
But he shoved the thoughts aside.
Not now. Not yet. Not when so many things still hung in balance.
For now, it was just him, Kilian, and the ice.
And whatever lay ahead in the deep, frozen reach of the world.
"Whether we survive or die… thank you, Kilian."
Bjorn extended his hand, firm and wordless. Kilian took it, the gesture exchanged in silence, as if any words would only dilute its weight. There was no need for more. Whatever it was they had agreed to—be it alliance, sacrifice, or shared madness—it was sealed in that moment.
"Should we get back inside?" Kilian asked. "The others will be waking soon."
"Sure thing," Bjorn replied.
The door of the submerged tower creaked open, letting in the faint blush of morning. Pale light slipped across the stone floor, catching on damp patches of moss and frost. As Bjorn stepped inside, the cold gloom of the chamber was broken by something warm: familiar faces, the soft sound of breath, the faint shuffling of limbs beneath layered blankets.
His people. His family.
Bjorn moved slowly through the room, careful not to wake anyone too quickly. He left Kilian behind at the threshold, still slouched against the outer wall, half-shaded by his oversized black hat. The door closed behind Bjorn with a hollow sound, as if separating two worlds.
"You finally awake?" Arne's voice met him like a flame catching the edge of frozen paper. He stepped forward, arms crossed, smile stretched across his face like an old scar he wore proudly.
"I see you were keeping close watch on everyone," Bjorn said, giving him a nod.
"As close as I could, dear friend." Arne's smile softened. There was warmth there, but it flickered—like something underneath still unsettled.
"So… when are we departing from our freak—should I even call them friends? Let's say… folks?" Arne asked, voice dropping low enough not to wake anyone.
Bjorn didn't answer immediately. He walked to Anna's side instead. She was curled beneath furs, her face pale from the cold. He knelt down, brushing the back of his freezing hand across her cheek. She shivered at his touch and murmured something faint and breathless.
"Is it already morning, Arne? Has Bjorn woken up?"
Her eyes weren't yet adjusted to the dark, but her body knew. She smelled the faint scent of him—metal, ice, and pine bark—and knew.
Slowly, she sat up and wrapped her arms around him. No scream, no joyous cry—just quiet, firm embrace.
"Never do that again," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
"Will try, dear. Will try." Bjorn said softly, his voice carrying a weariness that no rest could mend.
She pulled back, looked into his face for a long moment, and frowned. "You're freezing. Move away."
She pushed him lightly and stood, stretching her arms. Her presence filled the room with a strange, maternal command. Then, seeing the others still deep in sleep, she clapped her hands and called out:
"It's morning. Get up, y'all."
As voices stirred and blankets shifted, Arne moved toward the door, instinctively reaching to shut it. But something made him glance sideways. There, barely visible in the slit of light, stood Kilian.
Hat low over his face. Arms crossed. Head bowed.
Was he watching over them? Arne thought. A chill ran through him, uncertain whether it was respect, fear, or suspicion. He closed the door quietly.
Inside, Bjorn moved among the waking, greeting them one by one. His voice was calm. Too calm. His face bore an ease that Arne didn't trust.
Something was wrong.
Arne made his way back to Anna, who was folding her bedroll with practiced efficiency. He leaned in close.
"This seems a bit out of his act, don't you think?" he whispered.
Anna didn't look up. Her fingers worked steadily. "He's never this lightheaded," she replied. "Not after something like that. Not after… Olaf."
Arne's eyes narrowed. "Could they have done something to him? Brainwashed him? Or maybe he just… forgot?"
Anna paused. Then slowly shook her head. "I don't think so. I think all this really shook him. He's our leader—but he's lost something. His pride. His direction. And, worst of all, the trust of those he loves most."
She glanced across the room. Astrid was sitting with Ingrid and Sigrid, helping them pack. Not once had she looked in Bjorn's direction.
"Astrid hasn't looked at him since she woke," Anna said. "She must be mad. Confused. Furious. Bjorn made the promises—safety, survival. And now? Olaf's gone."
Arne remained quiet, eyes low.
"She doesn't blame him," he said finally. "Astrid's the smartest woman I know. She understood the danger. I think… I think she just doesn't know how to talk to him right now. And Bjorn? He's just giving her space."
Anna gave a small nod. "Maybe. I hope you're right."
But then her voice dropped, a shadow cast beneath her words. "But the children… that's a different story."
Arne looked across the room. Erik sat silently, hugging his knees. Ingrid and Sigrid whispered among themselves, their expressions pale and unreadable.
Yes. The children would not forget.
And neither, Arne feared, would Bjorn.