Helga had seen chaos before. As a child, she had watched her quiet village buckle beneath the march of raiders and soldiers from warring territories. Men on the road to conquest, dragging fire and steel behind them. She had seen homes torn apart, rooftops caving under flame, the air thick with smoke and ash as firelight painted the sky in shades of amber and ruin.
Yet every time, the invaders were driven back. Bloodied, broken, their numbers thinned by the brutal efficiency of the Badger Guard. Her grandfather, whom she affectionately called Pop-Pop, had been among them. A ferocious fighter whose name carried weight. His strength was spoken of with reverence by allies and with dread by those foolish enough to stand against him.
But never had she imagined that same kind of destruction coming for Caerleon—not like this.
She moved quickly down the fractured sidewalk, her boots striking the pavement in measured rhythm as she clutched her cloak tightly around her, the hood pulled low over her brow. Her gaze darted from alley to alley, windows to doorways, every movement cautious, every shadow a threat. She prayed she wouldn't cross paths with one of Norsefire's patrols. Not when simply being outside could be cause enough for disappearance.
Her thoughts clung to Pablo and his family. To Elio, their son. She had already checked on those she could: old friends, acquaintances, even Pierre, the elven candy maker who had welcomed her with the kind of smile that was becoming increasingly rare. Despite their differences, he'd been grateful for her visit, though behind his eyes, she had seen the same fear etched into everyone now—a fear that didn't need words.
The streets, once alive and familiar, now resembled the skeletons of a city long abandoned. Storefronts were shattered and looted, scorched walls bearing the black fingerprints of fire. Dried blood stained the steps and sidewalks like old rust, grim reminders of violence long since passed. Helga pulled her cloak higher, shielding her nose and mouth from the smoke curling through the air, thick with the scent of oil, ash, and something far more human.
This wasn't the Caerleon she remembered.
And it certainly wasn't the Caerleon she wanted.
Her teeth clenched, jaw tight beneath the shadow of her hood, as a slow-burning anger began to rise within her—not a rage that screamed, but one that smoldered, steady and sure. She didn't know when this would end, or how. But one truth took root in her chest as clearly as breath in her lungs:
When it was over, someone would be made to answer for it.
Helga soon reached the restaurant, and like every other building on the street, it was boarded up tight—the windows sealed, the signage barely visible behind nailed planks. She pulled down her hood and knocked briskly on the heavy door, casting a glance over her shoulder as she waited.
A few tense moments passed before the door creaked open just a sliver, a single eye peeking through the gap. Recognition struck in an instant. The door swung wide, and Edda stood there in shock, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Helga?" she gasped. "Per Dio, what are you doing here?" Her head snapped left, then right, scanning the street with frantic urgency. "Come in, quickly—quickly!"
She pulled Helga inside without another word and shut the door firmly behind them, sliding three locks into place before turning to face her.
"I just wanted to check in on you," Helga said softly, brushing back a loose strand of her auburn hair as she adjusted her cloak. "With everything happening… I needed to know you were all right."
"Oh, you are such a kind soul, Helga Hufflepuff," Edda murmured, stepping forward and cupping Helga's face in her warm hands. She kissed her on the cheek. "But you shouldn't be out there alone, tesoro mio. These animals—they're snatching people from the streets like it's nothing. No warning, no reason. It would break my heart if they took you too."
"You don't have to worry about me," Helga said with a faint grin, her eyes glinting with quiet resolve. "I'm a little harder to kidnap than most. And like Pop-Pop always said—" her grin widened just a little, "a badger never goes quietly."
"Edda, amore, who was that at the—" Pablo stepped in from the kitchen, a towel still slung over one shoulder. He stopped dead in his tracks. "Helga? Bambina, is that really you? Santa Maria..." His brows knitted. "Not that it isn't good to see you, but you shouldn't be here."
"I know," Helga said, moving to him and taking his hand with a smile that tried to lift the weight around them. "But I was worried. And besides, where else would I get Mama's special pie if anything ever happened to you two?"
"Oh, bambina, you're gonna make an old man cry," Pablo said, wiping at one eye, though his smile was genuine beneath the sorrow. "It's terrible, what's happened out there. When I came to Caerleon, I thought I'd left behind the darkness of my time. I'd survived the worst of it, or so I believed. And now... it's like I never left."
"Don't worry, Pablo," Helga said gently. "I'm sure things will get better. They have to." She paused, lifting her head and sniffing the air. "Wait... what's that smell?" Her eyes brightened. "Something smells amazing!" Without waiting, she turned and hurried toward the kitchen.
Both Pablo and Edda went wide-eyed in unison.
"Bambina,aspetta—there's something you need to—!" Pablo rushed after her, but it was already too late.
Helga stepped into the kitchen, only for the warmth in her face to drop away the moment her eyes landed on the figure by the stove. A dwarf, broad-shouldered and stocky, his skin pale beneath the warm glow of the hearth fire—stood hunched over a simmering pot, sipping stew from a ladle, smacking his lips thoughtfully.
"Could use a bit more salt, lad," he muttered, glancing toward Elio with a faint grin. "But I'll give ye this, ye've got talent. Must've got it from yer Ma an' Da—"
The dwarf paused, turning slowly as if some unseen instinct had whispered danger in his ear.
Their eyes met.
"Oh, blow me down," he muttered, the words barely out before he roared like a charging bull and hurled the ladle straight at her.
Helga's gaze narrowed. She ducked to the side, the ladle whistling past her ear and slamming into the wall, splattering crimson stew across the pristine white tile. She lunged forward at the same time as the dwarf, both of them colliding with a crash. He grabbed her cloak, twisting and flinging her in a tight arc, sending the kitchen table skidding across the floor and scattering herbs, vegetables, and cooking knives in all directions.
He slammed her against the wall, face twisted, teeth bared. "Ya came to the wrong bloody place, lass!"
Helga snarled, teeth gritted. Without hesitation, she slammed her forehead straight into the bridge of his nose. A crack followed, sharp and wet. The dwarf howled as black blood streamed down his lip. She surged forward, arm drawn back, and drove her fist into his face. The dwarf staggered, but before he could regroup, she was on him again, her stance tightening, arms up like a seasoned boxer.
She ducked low, her fists slamming into his ribs with the precision and speed of someone who'd spent years learning how to make punches count—two to the body, two to the jaw. The dwarf swung wildly, but Helga was faster. Every strike landed like it was forged in iron, blood smattering the tiles beneath them.
She grabbed him by the collar of his coat, drove a knee into his stomach so hard his breath left him in a wheeze, then seized him by the neck and slammed him against the wall with a ferocity that lifted his boots from the ground. Her grip tightened around his throat as she hoisted him up, pressing him against the wall until his boots barely scraped the floor.
He kicked and writhed. A puppet strung up by sheer fury. His face flushed red, veins bulging at the temples. Desperately, he drove his fists into her face—once, twice—strikes that would've dropped any ordinary fighter. But she didn't so much as blink. Not even a twitch.
"Helga, basta!" Edda cried out, rushing in. "He's a friend, tesoro! Let him go!"
"Please, bambina!" Pablo added, hands raised in alarm. "He's not the enemy!"
Helga's eyes widened as the words broke through the haze of fury. Her grip slackened, and she let go. The dwarf dropped to the floor, coughing and clutching at his throat as he tried to catch his breath.
Elio darted forward, dropping to his knees beside him. "Gunnar!" he cried. "Gunnar, are you okay?"
The dwarf panted, then grinned through bloodied lips as he looked up at Helga. "Aye, lad, I'm fine. Just got me lungs relocated, that's all." He coughed again, then chuckled. "By the forge, lass... ye hit like a bloody cave troll. What in the hells have they been feedin' ye?!"
Helga turned sharply to Edda and Pablo. "Do you know who he is?" she asked, her eyes wide. "He's Nemesis—he's one of them!"
"Yes, bambina, we know," Pablo said gently, both hands raised in a calming gesture. "We found him outside, near the back of the store. He was hurt—badly. We couldn't just leave him there. We brought him in, we tended his wounds. He hasn't brought us harm."
"But if they find him here—" Helga began.
"We understand," Edda interrupted softly, stepping beside Pablo. "But it's not in our nature to abandon someone in need, not when they're bleeding and barely breathing. Whatever he was… he was still a man in pain."
Gunnar, still wiping blood from the edge of his lip, gave a one-shouldered shrug as he rose to his feet and brushed dust from his coat. "But the lass is right," he said. "If those Norsefire bastards catch even a whiff o' me in here, they'll torch the place and hang the lot of ye. I can't stay—not without bringin' ruin down on your heads."
"Gunnar, we've already spoken about this," Pablo said firmly, folding his arms across his chest. "You're not strong enough to leave. You can barely stand without coughing up blood. You stay. Just a few more days."
"I appreciate the sentiment. More than you know," Gunnar muttered, his amber eyes drifting down to his scarred, calloused hands. "And I'm grateful for your kindness, I truly am. But the power that was given to me… it's fading fast. Whatever fire Nemesis once carried—it's all but burned out. And when there's nothin' left, I reckon I'll be claimed like the rest of us."
His eyes lifted, landing on Helga. "That being said, ya seem to know a lot about us, lass."
Helga's tension lingered, but her tone softened, though uncertainty remained beneath her words. "My friend... her brother works for the Clock Tower," she said carefully. She noticed the faint flicker of rage behind Gunnar's eyes, the way his fists tightened at his sides. "But before you get angry, he's not one of the bad ones—or at least, I hope he's not. He told us about you. About Asriel Valerian. I don't know everything, but I know the Tower wronged him."
"The Tower wronged all of us," Gunnar said darkly. "And now the ones who survived—we're the few left with the power to make them answer for it."
Helga met his gaze. "And what about the ones who didn't know? The ones who were just... following orders? The people who had nothing to do with what was done to you?"
"Lass," Gunnar growled, stepping forward, "we've all been crushed under the heel of someone 'just followin' orders'. Look around you—these streets, these bodies, these burning homes. You think men with any conscience left in them could do this?" His tone dropped, quiet but cutting. "There are no innocents anymore. Sooner you stop pretendin' otherwise, the better."
"Alright, that's enough," Edda said firmly, stepping between them. "Helga—like it or not, he is our guest. We took him in, we gave him food and shelter, and I will not see more blood spilled under my roof." Her eyes searched Helga's face. "So, I ask you—not as your elder, but as your friend—keep your fists to yourself. Please, tesoro. Can you do that for me?"
Helga sighed, her shoulders easing as she looked at Edda. "Only because it's you," she murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
"Bene," Edda said, returning the smile with a glimmer of relief. "Now, let's clean this place up. Where I come from, a messy kitchen is a mortal sin and I—"
She was cut off by a sharp knock at the front door.
Every gaze snapped toward it. The room fell still.
Pablo's eyes widened, and for the first time, Helga saw fear flicker across his usually steady face—not panic, but something deeper, something that knew the weight of who might be on the other side.
"Elio," Pablo said, "take Gunnar and Helga upstairs. Lock the doors. Don't come out until I say. No matter what happens, stay hidden."
"Wait—what's going on?" Helga began, but before she could finish, Elio had already taken her hand.
"Come, Helga—quickly," he said, urgent and hushed.
She let herself be pulled, her boots thudding softly against the floorboards as Elio dragged her toward the staircase, Gunnar close behind them, his heavy steps slower but no less alert. The three of them climbed the stairs in silence, the creak of the wood beneath them loud against the quiet tension that now filled the air.
Once they were out of sight, Edda shut the door to the stairwell and turned the key in the lock. She stood there for a breath, her hand still resting on the knob, then slowly turned to her husband.
"I'll clean up what I can," she said quietly, already moving to gather the scattered items.
Pablo gave a solemn nod, ran a hand down the front of his shirt to smooth the wrinkles, and whispered, "Santa Maria, proteggici." He drew a steadying breath and walked toward the door.
****
Pablo swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trailing down his cheek as he reached for the door. His fingers hovered over the knob for a moment before finally turning it. The hinges groaned as it creaked open and there she was.
Astrea.
Clad in full Norsefire uniform, the glossy carbon plating of her light armor gleamed in the hallway light, layered seamlessly over kevlar and reinforced straps. A massive chainsword, nearly four feet in length, lined with wicked steel teeth, was slung across her back, a smaller version resting against her hip. At her side stood her hound, a monstrous thing cloaked in black fur and muscle, its eyes gleaming and its ears alert.
Her expression, dark and unreadable for the briefest moment, shifted into a sudden and disarming smile.
"Hey, Pablo. How's it going?" she said casually, as though she hadn't just brought a weapon of war into his home.
Pablo offered a nervous smile, his words laced with strain. "Astrea... buonasera. Good to see you. What brings you to my humble restaurant? I'm afraid we've been closed since the lockdown."
"Oh, I was just in the neighborhood," she said, stepping forward slightly, her auburn ponytail swinging down past her shoulder, nearly reaching her thigh. "Thought I'd check in. See how my favorite little spot's holding up. You don't mind if I come in for a spell, do you?"
Her smile widened as she lowered her voice. "Can't be too careful these days. All sorts of lawbreakers about."
Pablo hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Of course. Please, come in."
She stepped inside with the ease of someone who never waited for permission, her sharp brown eyes scanning the dim restaurant, reading everything. Every shadow, every creak in the floor, every shift in the air. Shadow padded beside her, nose low to the ground, ears twitching with every sound.
Edda stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a broom in her hand, her knuckles white around the handle. Her expression mirrored Pablo's. The same polite mask stretched tightly over something fraying underneath.
Astrea wandered further in, her gloved fingers brushing lightly across the edge of a table. "It's a shame, really. All this chaos. Lockdowns, riots, little rebellions." Her tone remained light, conversational. "I really do miss your pasta. It's the only thing I look forward to when I'm on duty."
Pablo flinched slightly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're kind to say so."
"But don't worry," Astrea added, turning to face him, her smile cold beneath the warmth. "You have my word, as a servant of justice. The ones responsible will answer for this. They'll face the full weight of the law."
"I've no doubt," Pablo replied. He tried to laugh, but it came out brittle.
Astrea's gaze lingered on him a beat too long. She raised a brow. "You alright? You seem… nervous. Is something wrong?"
"Nervous? No, no, not at all. You must be imagining things." Pablo cleared his throat, his eyes flicking toward Edda. "Though, I have to say, your new look is quite intimidating."
Astrea laughed lightly, rubbing the back of her head. "Yeah, I suppose so. Being promoted to Captain of Norsefire. Well, it's been a dream come true." A shadow crossed her expression, just for a moment. "I only wish Captain Clegane could see me now. Maybe share a drink, tell me how proud he is." She paused, then added softly, "He always believed in me."
"You're Captain of Norsefire?" Edda asked, sharp with disbelief and something dangerously close to outrage. "The one leading those—"
Her words cut off as she caught sight of Pablo frantically shaking his head, eyes pleading.
Astrea's eyes narrowed just slightly. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I am," she said, turning her gaze to Edda. "And I'd say we've done a rather brilliant job cleaning up these streets. When I was reassigned here, I thought Caerleon would be different. Calmer, more reasonable than Camelot. But I see now, it's the same rot. Just a different root."
Astrea sniffed the air and licked her lips, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Mmm, something smells good."
Without waiting for permission, she made her way toward the kitchen, sliding past Edda, who pressed her back against the wall, clutching her broom tightly as though it were the only thing grounding her.
Pablo trailed behind, stopping just at the threshold. He cast a stern, uneasy glance at Edda. A silent warning. To which she answered with a narrowed gaze of her own, sharp and steady.
Astrea paused as she stepped inside, her eyes sweeping across the disarray. Chairs knocked askew, herbs scattered, utensils glinting where they'd fallen across the tiles.
"Whoa. What happened here?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Shadow moved beside her, the hound settling into a low crouch, his eyes fixed and a faint growl vibrating in his throat.
Astrea let out a soft chuckle. "Got a little too passionate with the cooking, huh?"
"It was Elio," Edda said quickly, stepping forward with a strained smile. "Pablo and I were showing him an old family recipe and... ah, you know how bambini are."
Astrea tilted her head. "Oh, perfectly understandable. When I was a kid, I was a little—"
She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes catching a smear of dark, inky residue on the floor. Her expression shifted, brows tightening slightly as she crouched down. With two fingers, she swiped the black substance, then rubbed it slowly between her thumb and forefinger. Pablo and Edda stiffened.
"Squid ink!" Pablo blurted a touch too loud. Astrea's gaze flicked up to him.
"Spaghetti al Nero di Seppia," he continued as he gestured broadly. "A delicacy from my hometown. My mama's specialty. That's what I was trying to teach Elio. Old family tradition."
Astrea looked again at the smudge on her fingertips, then rose to her feet.
"Sounds exotic," she said. "Maybe I'll have to try it sometime."
"Ah, we're all out," Edda added quickly, brushing at her apron. "Poor boy spilled the whole pot. We were cleaning up when you knocked. Missed a few spots, clearly."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
Astrea's eyes dropped again, tracing the faint trail of black across the floor. Droplets, small but distinct, leading subtly toward the closed stairwell door. Her smile dimmed as she exchanged a glance with Shadow. The hound's lips curled back, baring sharp teeth without making a sound.
Pablo and Edda stood frozen, the pounding of their hearts loud enough to drown thought.
Then Astrea's posture eased. She smiled again, wide, warm, and utterly false.
"Well," she said lightly, stepping back from the kitchen, "looks like you've got quite a bit more cleaning to do."
She turned, walking toward the entrance, her footsteps calm, measured. Shadow followed at her heels like a soldier returning from battle.
"I'm sorry for the intrusion," she said, reaching for the door. "Hope you both have a lovely evening."
Her hand paused on the brass knob.
"Oh, and just a friendly reminder..." Her words dropped a register, laced with quiet malice. "I don't take kindly to those who offer comfort to the enemies of justice." She looked over her shoulder, her smile still intact, though her eyes had gone cold. "To me, they're just as guilty. Maybe worse. And I promise you—I'll make sure they suffer the same fate."
Her gaze lingered on Pablo.
"But I trust you," she said sweetly. "You're smarter than that. You'd never be so foolish, especially with a son to think of."
Her smile lingered just a second longer, then she opened the door and stepped out into the night, closing it softly behind her.
Pablo and Edda exhaled in unison, the silence that followed heavy as stone. Pablo's knees buckled slightly beneath him, and he gripped the edge of the nearby table to steady himself, his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out the room. He turned to Edda, eyes wide, searching.
"Do you think she knows?" Edda asked. She looked down at her hands and realized she'd been clutching the broom handle so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"Calmati, amore," Pablo said gently, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Even if she suspects, she has no proof. I believe for now, we are safe."
Edda's brows drew together, the worry not yet leaving her face. "Maybe Gunnar was right. Maybe we should let him go. If he stays—Dio mio, who knows what that woman and her beast might do? To him or to us."
"No, amore," Pablo said, more firmly now. "If we turn him out, we are no better than the monsters we fear. The only reason I'm standing here, the only reason our son sleeps under this roof, is because someone once showed mercy to my family. When soldiers came to our village, and everything we had was burning."
His jaw tensed. "I will not send a man to die alone. Not even if death knocks on this door tomorrow."
Edda looked at him for a long moment before her expression softened. A faint smile touched her lips.
"I know, amore mio," she murmured, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "That's why I married you."
****
Upstairs, Gunnar and Helga pressed themselves against the door, their shoulders tense against the wooden frame as they strained to hear. Every creak, every distant shuffle below sent a fresh ripple of dread through the silence. Gunnar's grip tightened around his battle axe, the blackened hilt webbed with glowing lines that pulsed faintly, the embers tracing through the metal like veins ready to ignite.
Beside him, Helga's fingers curled into fists, the runes etched into her amber bracelets beginning to glow with a slow, otherworldly hum. She cast a glance toward Elio, who laid still beneath the bed, his wide eyes staring back at her, filled with worry.
None of them spoke. They all braced for the crash. The door kicked in, boots stomping up the stairs, blades and wands raised, Norsefire charging in for blood.
But the seconds ticked by. Then minutes.
Only silence.
Bit by bit, the tension in their muscles eased. Gunnar stepped back first, the battle axe vanishing from his hands in a hiss of blackened smoke and flickering embers. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand back through his thick hair before lowering himself onto the edge of one of the beds with a heavy grunt.
"By the forge…" he muttered, rubbing at his brow. "It's like the bloody Battle of Lorgar all over again."
Helga turned toward him; brow raised. "Wait, you were at the Battle of Lorgar? Wasn't that like, three hundred years ago?"
Gunnar gave a low chuckle, flashing a grin full of memory and mischief. "Aye. Thirty of us. Just thirty dwarves, against near a thousand orcs. And we held." He tapped his chest with pride. "I'm old, lass. Very old. Us Durin-folk, we live long. Not immortal like those smug, knife-eared bastards, but long enough to see the rise and fall of men who thought themselves gods."
Helga sat upon the bed across from him, her hands resting lightly on her knees, her expression curious but tempered with something softer.
"I've seen more battles than I care to count," Gunnar went on, his gaze distant now. "Carved my name into blood and bone, left bits of myself on fields I'll never return to. The battlefield was my home. Anger, rage. They were easy company. Killing came as natural to me as breathin'."
He paused. "Then I met her. And for the first time, I had somethin' more to live for than just killin'. Somethin'... worth surviving for."
Elio slipped out from beneath the bed, his wide eyes flicking nervously toward the door. "Is it over?" he asked. "Are we safe?"
Helga gave him a soft smile as she patted the space beside her. "It's alright, Elio. They're gone for now. I'm sure your mama and papa are fine, but let's stay up here just a little longer. Just in case."
The boy nodded and climbed up beside her, his small hands wrapping around hers with quiet trust. Helga gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze.
Gunnar chuckled as he massaged his jaw. "You're a force o' nature, lass. Haven't been walloped like that since I made the poor choice of challengin' an erumpent to a contest o' strength. Gods, to be young and dumb again."
Helga let out a breath of laughter. "Sorry about that," she said, gesturing sheepishly to her own face. "You know…"
Gunnar waved a hand. "Ach, think nothin' of it. You charged in without hesitation, facin' someone you didn't recognize, because you were protectin' the people who matter. That's no recklessness, lass, that's courage."
Helga's smile faltered slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. She looked at him carefully. "Gunnar, right?" she asked, drawing his gaze. "The Sword of Damocles. The blade of vengeance. That means you're like Asriel. You've made a pact, and your target is the Clock Tower." She paused. "What happened? What did they do to you?"
For a moment, Gunnar didn't answer. His amber eyes widened faintly at the question, then dropped to the floorboards. He clasped his hands together, rough palms pressed tight, fingers steepling with quiet tension.
"After I walked away from the Iron Hills and the wars, I came here to Caerleon. With me wife, Lydia." His voice was low now, almost reverent. "I built her a wee hut in the woods outside the city. Simple place, but it was home. I promised her my days as a Berserker were done. No more blood. No more steel."
Helga leaned in slightly, listening in still silence.
"I became a woodcutter. She kept the home, tended the garden. We'd always wanted a family. We waited, and waited... season after season." He paused. "Never did come, but we were happy all the same."
His breath hitched slightly, eyes narrowing as old memories pulled at him.
"But then," he murmured, "she got sick."
"I'm sorry," Helga said quietly.
Gunnar drew a slow, sharp breath. "Aye. I lost her. And the winters after were long, cold, and cruel. Until one day... I found her."
Helga blinked. "Her?"
Gunnar's face shifted into a smile, soft, mournful, but genuine. "Me Abigail."