CHAPTER 21: "EVIL KNOWS NO LOYALTY" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

BY WILLIAM WARNER

CHAPTER 21: "EVIL KNOWS NO LOYALTY" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"

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The makeshift briefing room smelled faintly of dust and mildew, the air stagnant from years of abandonment. The chalkboards were cracked, their surfaces still bearing faint ghostly marks of equations scrawled by long-gone teachers. Broken desks lined the corners, and faded motivational posters clung to the walls by sheer will, their colors dulled to sepia. A projector hung from the ceiling by a single bolt, swaying slightly every time the wind rattled through the broken windows. It was surreal—teaching mysticism in a place once meant for arithmetic and history.

Charlie and Erika Kirk sat at a battered oak table, the tarot deck spread before them like puzzle pieces waiting to be assembled. Their armored gloves looked awkward against the delicate cards, and Charlie muttered a curse when one slipped from his grip and fluttered to the floor. Emily and I watched from across the table, guiding them patiently, though I could feel how clumsy it all seemed.

“In order to get a proper reading,” I said, leaning forward, my voice calm but weighted, “you have to tune out emotion. Feelings will tempt you toward answers you want instead of the truth the cards reveal. Bias leads to lies.”

Emily gave me a small, knowing glance. She could sense the struggle behind my words, because I was no better. I too had let my heart cloud my interpretations, twisting fate to suit my hopes instead of seeing what lay plain before me.

She picked up one of the cards—The Lovers—and let it spin between her fingers before setting it back down. Then, almost abruptly, her gaze wandered away from the table, traveling across the dusty shelves that still held old paperbacks and children’s readers. She frowned faintly.

“Is this… a school?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. My brow furrowed as I looked at her. “Why?”

Instead of answering, she reached into the pouch at her hip and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. She pressed it into my hand with a softness that caught me off guard. I blinked at the embossed cover before realizing what it was.

Her yearbook.

I turned it over, flipping open to the first page, and froze at the handwritten names and signatures, the scrawled well-wishes from classmates of another time. My chest tightened. “Didn’t even know they still taught elves in the future,” I muttered with a half-smile. “Why are you giving me this?”

Emily’s eyes held mine, steady, calm, but vulnerable. “I just want to make sure you remember me.”

For a moment, the noise of the room fell away. The clumsy shuffling of Charlie and Erika’s hands on the cards dulled, the creaks of the old building vanished. I reached out under the table, brushing my fingers against hers, and gave her hand a subtle squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered, low enough that only she could hear.

Her lips twitched upward, hidden beneath her visor, but I knew the smile was there.

Meanwhile, Charlie and Erika, oblivious, had lined up their spread and leaned over it like gamblers weighing odds. Erika squinted. “We asked if we’d retire on the beach.”

Charlie tapped the card at the center. “It says maybe. What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

I chuckled under my breath. “A ‘maybe’ answer usually means the universe hasn’t decided yet. It’s up to you.”

Charlie groaned. “That’s not helpful.”

Before I could respond, Anna’s voice cut across the room like a knife. “Is it really, though?”

Emily’s head turned sharply. “Problem, Anna?”

Anna crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe, her sharp posture framed by the flickering light from the broken ceiling lamp. Her eyes narrowed with thinly veiled resentment. “You told us not to get attached to mortals. Yet here you are—literally teaching them tarot cards. Isn’t that the definition of attachment?”

I let out a long breath, forcing calm into my voice. “First off—watch the jealousy. Second—you’ve misunderstood. Attachment isn’t the same as involvement. We can guide them. What I warned against is obsession, dependency, impulsive reaction.”

Anna’s lips pursed. Her jaw tightened, then finally she exhaled sharply. “Fine. Whatever. Deathskull is ready to speak with you.”

Emily and I exchanged a glance. The air between us carried the weight of unfinished intimacy, but there was no time. I rose from my seat, sliding the yearbook carefully into my belt pouch.

As I walked past the table, I turned to Charlie and Erika one last time. “Remember, biases themselves aren’t bad. It’s how you use them. That’s the key.”

Charlie’s grin returned, and he chuckled knowingly. He understood more than he let on.

Emily fell into step beside me as we followed Anna into the hall. Her pace was brisk, almost impatient, but her energy felt more like annoyance than urgency. Anna was clingy, overeager, her presence heavy as she marched through the corridors of the abandoned school. Her suit clinked faintly with every stride, and her hair bounced like she wanted our eyes to notice.

I glanced at Emily, then back at Anna. My thoughts betrayed me, unfiltered. Anna’s body is her only saving grace. But even that doesn’t hold a candle to Emily’s figure—perfect, unmatched.

A mischievous smile tugged at my lips. My hand drifted to Emily’s lower back, giving her a playful pat on the glutes. She gave me a sidelong look, half amusement, half warning, and shook her head subtly. Still, the gesture broke some of the tension.

We walked behind Anna, my gaze following her swaying steps for a fleeting second before snapping back to Emily. She was the anchor. The reminder of where my loyalty truly lived.

Together, the three of us exited the building, the rusted door groaning shut behind us as the night wind swept across the camp.

The meeting with Deathskull awaited.

Emily and I followed Anna through the base, her hurried steps echoing faintly against the cracked pavement of Brimwald’s abandoned streets. The air was sharp with the smell of burnt ozone from our engines warming up, and distant chatter of soldiers preparing for departure drifted across the camp. We rounded a corner, and there—looming like a metallic sentinel—stood Deathskull beside the parked Drakkar Commander, its hull reflecting the pale, flickering glow of Brimwald’s dying sun.

“So,” I called out the moment we approached, not bothering to hide my impatience, “you finally made up your mind?”

Deathskull slowly turned, his golden skeletal frame gleaming with an eerie coldness. His optics flickered red, scanning me as if weighing whether or not I deserved an answer. His voice rumbled like a low metallic growl.

“I have,” he said at last. “We’ll attack the mining world of Abraxas. That’s where Anubis has sent his Trolls to raid. We fight there.”

He then raised one hand, signaling to the gathered troops and crew. His voice, amplified through his external speakers, cut across the entire camp.

“Alright, everyone. Pack the ships. Let’s move out.”

His command sparked a flurry of activity—soldiers snapping to attention, loaders carrying crates, and droids aligning the cargo ramps.

“Wait,” I said, taking a step closer. “Aren’t we going to travel by portal?”

Deathskull turned his head, the motion stiff and deliberate, like a predator unwilling to waste energy on prey.

“It’s too far,” he answered flatly.

Without another word, he lifted one plated boot and kicked the Rus spy drone off a nearby crate. The ancient relic tumbled across the ground with a hollow metallic clang, rolling until it rested at my feet. The act was done with such disregard, a mocking gesture that contrasted sharply with how carefully everyone else had been treating the cargo.

His heavy frame lumbered up the boarding ramp of the Drakkar Commander, the faint hiss of hydraulics and the weight of his steps reverberating like a warning. He disappeared into the shadows of the ship without another glance.

I crouched, reaching down to pick up the drone. In my hands, it felt almost like a toy—lightweight, deceptively fragile—but I knew what it represented. Its design was far older than anything we had salvaged from the war, carrying whispers of forgotten architects.

Emily leaned closer, brushing her dark hair behind her ear. “What’s with the toy?” she asked softly.

I turned it over in my hands, examining its intricate etchings and faint green circuits that pulsed like fading veins of light. “This,” I said, my voice low with conviction, “is a piece of history. Something that shouldn’t be wasted.”

Emily’s green eyes studied me carefully, but she nodded. Together, we ascended the ramp, the drone tucked securely under my arm.

Behind us, commotion erupted. Charlie and Erika were sprinting toward the ship, weaving between crates and crew. Charlie waved his arms frantically as though trying to flag down a lifeboat.

“I don’t trust AI as a pilot!” Charlie shouted, his voice cracking in panic. “They’ll leave without us, Erika!”

Erika puffed beside him, trying to keep pace. She threw him a glare. “I thought you said progressives were the worst pilots?”

Charlie stumbled but kept running. “I redact what I said! Let’s go!”

They scrambled up the ramp just as the ship’s engines began to hum, the vibrations thrumming through the steel beneath our boots. Charlie nearly tripped on the threshold, but Erika yanked him forward before the ramp hydraulics sealed shut behind them with a hiss.

I chuckled under my breath, shaking my head. “They’re going to get themselves killed one of these days,” I muttered.

Our fleet lifted from Brimwald, the rumble of the thrusters echoing like thunder through the hollow city below. Through the bridge windows, the landscape shrank into a blur of smoke, then into the pinprick silhouette of a fading world swallowed by the stars. Brimwald became just another speck in the endless dark.

I turned to Emily, the weight of the drone pressing against my chest. “I’m going to analyze this in the lab,” I told her. “I need to know exactly what we’re dealing with before Deathskull decides to toss it into a furnace out of spite.”

Emily rested her hand on my arm, concerned, flickering across her face. “You want me to come with you?”

I shook my head. “No. Stay here. Keep an eye on Deathskull. I don’t trust the way he’s moving pieces around. Someone has to watch him closely.”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright. But don’t take too long. Something about him…” Her voice trailed off, but I could finish the thought myself.

Something about him was changing.

I tightened my grip on the drone, its circuits flickering faintly like a dying star. “I won’t,” I said, turning toward the lower decks. “Just… keep him from doing anything stupid while I figure out what this little piece of history is hiding.”

The ship shuddered, engines cutting through the void. I walked down the corridor, the drone whispering secrets through its quiet hum, while Emily remained behind on the bridge, her eyes locked on Deathskull’s cold, towering figure.

The lab was one of the only pristine rooms aboard the Drakkar Commander. Sterile white lights hummed overhead, casting everything in an unflinching glare. Signs plastered on every bulkhead warned NO FOOD OR DRINK in thick black lettering. Rows of benches, sealed instruments, and delicate glass canisters lined the walls like a surgeon’s toolkit waiting for command.

In the center of it all floated the Rus Drone.

At first glance, it resembled the body of a centipede—segmented, jointed, armored with tiny overlapping plates of green alloy that shimmered faintly as though alive. When powered on, its many segments lit in a ripple, and the thing lifted into the air with a low hum, floating with a fluid, serpentine grace. Each shift of its body gave the unsettling impression that it was slithering, though it never once touched the ground.

I pulled it closer under the console’s scanners. My hand hovered just above its plating, the faint buzz of static passing into my fingertips. “Let’s see what secrets you’ve been hiding,” I muttered, initiating the uplink.

Streams of data cascaded across the monitor like a waterfall of ancient knowledge. The archives were vast—far more expansive than I expected. I leaned in, scrolling line after line, absorbing fragments of their history.

The Rus Vikings.

The files painted a chilling picture. They weren’t just outcasts; they were architects. The original founders of Vikingnar itself—before civil war, before exile, before Deathskull. They had survived their banishment, forging new colonies in the dark, building fleets of ships that rivaled our own. Their secret society was not unlike our own Vikingnar, yet different in a crucial way: their reliance on AI.

But unlike Deathskull, their machines had been deliberately restrained. Nerfed. De-powered. A warning etched into code: never let the creation outgrow the creator.

And then another revelation—records of strange allies. The Rus did not stand alone. They marched alongside warriors clad in ornate armor, futuristic Samurai with gleaming helms and plasma-edged katanas. A legion that combined Viking ferocity with Eastern precision, moving as one.

I sat back, staring at the drone as if its segmented body might unfurl and explain the mysteries itself. “Why would Deathskull treat this as rubbish?” I whispered. “Unless… he’s afraid.”

I dove deeper, scouring files until something odd caught my eye. An audio file.

No labels. No metadata. Just… sound.

I clicked play.

The room filled with a strange dissonance—clanging hammers striking anvils, metallic machinery grinding like teeth, and beneath it all, faint piano music. A somber melody threading through the chaos.

I frowned, leaning forward, straining to catch a pattern. Was it noise? Or something more?

That’s when I heard the door hiss open behind me.

Anna.

She stepped in silently and shut the door with a soft click. Dressed in her black and navy leather jumpsuit, she looked sharp, almost predatory, her dark hair framing her face. Purple glasses caught the sterile light, casting violet reflections across her eyes.

“You look stuck on something,” she said, her tone half curious, half teasing.

I exhaled, rubbing my forehead. “I can’t tell if this audio file contains a message or not.”

Without hesitation, she crossed the room and slid into the seat beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushed mine. She leaned in, her scent a subtle trace of spice and leather. Her gaze locked on the screen.

“It looks like… Morse code,” she murmured.

A spark lit in my chest. “That’s what I figured.”

I grabbed a pencil and scrap paper from the desk. Together, we played the file again, pausing after each burst of clanging. I scribbled down dots and dashes, my handwriting frantic, while Anna’s voice calmly interpreted the spacing. Slowly, word by word, the hidden phrase revealed itself.

BEWARE OF NIHILISM.

The message was simple. Too simple. Yet the weight of it pressed on the air like a thundercloud.

Anna frowned, biting her lower lip. “What do you think they mean by that? That’s… kind of scary.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But if the Rus went out of their way to encode this, it must mean something more.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the lab. Then the ship jolted suddenly, a shudder through the hull that rattled instruments on the counters. Turbulence from solar flares, most likely, but enough to send Anna tumbling lightly against me.

She didn’t pull away.

Whether intentional or not, she lingered there, her shoulder against mine, her eyes searching mine with a warmth I hadn’t expected. Then, without warning, she kissed me.

It was soft at first, a spark of hesitation. But I kissed her back, instinctively, pulling her closer. My hand slid down to her waist, gripping the supple leather of her jumpsuit. She responded with a quiet sigh, pressing harder, her lips eager, hungry.

Her chest medallion pulsed faint violet as my fingers found the zipper, sliding it down. The glow bathed her collarbone as she pushed the instruments aside. I cleared the table with a sweep of my arm—tools and papers clattering to the floor.

Anna crawled up onto the table, her boots creaking as she shifted. I gripped her legs, tugging at the black thigh-highs wrapped tightly around her. She laughed breathlessly as I yanked her closer. My hand cracked lightly across her rear, her gasp sharp but playful.

The rest blurred into instinct and heat, an intimacy we both surrendered to in the quiet sterility of the lab.

When it was over, silence returned—broken only by the faint hum of the drone floating nearby, its many eyes glowing faintly like a silent witness.

Anna slipped off the table, zipping her jumpsuit halfway back up. She rested her arms around my shoulders, pressing her lips softly to my ear.

“Don’t worry, Willy,” she whispered. “I’ll keep this a secret. And besides… Emily is tolerant of me. Way more than you think.”

I managed a weak nod, though guilt tightened my chest.

She hugged me close. My hand rested almost automatically on her backside, a quiet admission of the pull she had over me.

“I guess,” I thought to myself, “I had a secret admirer all this time.”

And yet, the message on the paper still sat there on the console, staring back at me like an accusation:

BEWARE OF NIHILISM.

Anna straightened her jumpsuit, her violet medallion still faintly glowing as we stepped into the dim corridor outside the lab. The hum of the ship’s engines vibrated through the metal walls, steady but heavy, like a warning drumbeat.

She glanced at me, her voice quieter now. “We should tell the others what we found. That message… it’s not something we should ignore. Better to make a plan while there’s still time.”

I nodded, tucking the paper with the Morse code into my pocket. “Agreed. The last thing we need is Deathskull twisting this into something else.”

As we walked, her steps slowed. She looked at me with a faint smile. “By the way… my full name is Anisia Martinez.”

I tilted my head, surprised. “So, which name do you prefer?”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “I prefer Anisia.”

“Oh good,” I said with a small chuckle, “it’s easier to remember.”

For a moment, the heaviness of the drone, the code, and even Deathskull faded. Just two people, walking side by side down the metallic corridor of a ship headed to the unknown.

The private briefing room was dimly lit, its steel walls lined with glowing panels that hummed faintly, giving the space an air of secrecy. Anisia and I stepped inside, and the others quickly filed in (Cole, Hanna, Elizabeth, Jimmy, Pete, Rick, Mathew, Valrra, Emily, Hailey, Charlie, Erika, Kyle, Krystal, and Emma) who decided to join this meeting., filling the oval-shaped chamber with the quiet shuffle of boots and the low creak of chairs. The weight of the coming war sat on everyone’s shoulders, and yet there was still a flicker of relief that we could speak without Deathskull’s looming presence.

Droid L-84 lingered near the far side of the room, his chrome plating catching the light. My eyes instinctively narrowed at him, though I said nothing. Before the thought could even shape into words, his voice rang out, calm and calculated.

“There’s no need to feel distrust by my presence. Deathskull doesn’t know I’m here.”

I let the words hang for a beat, studying him, before turning my gaze to the group. My voice cut through the tension.

“For some reason, Deathskull is so dismissive of the Rus Viking Legion. But they’re no longer a damned legion. They’ve become a thriving galactic civilization right under our noses. And the Rus left us a message—‘beware of nihilism.’”

Emily leaned forward, brows furrowed, her green eyes sharp beneath the glow of the panel lights. “What the hell does that mean?”

Valrra’s hand hovered over the table, a faint shimmer of psychic energy pulsing from her fingertips. “Maybe they’re trying to warn us specifically of a growing enemy within Vikingnar. The only question is—who?”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. It felt as though everyone was afraid to breathe, to give shape to the suspicion coiling in the room. Then Droid L-84 spoke, his voice firm, unflinching.

“We already do know. It’s our dear leader—Deathskull.”

Murmurs rippled through the room, a sharp edge of disbelief mixed with recognition. I raised a hand to steady them, shaking my head.

“I wouldn’t be too sure to jump to conclusions just yet. He’s been… strange, yes. But maybe he just needs updates in his programming.”

L-84’s head tilted, his photoreceptors glowing faintly red. “I wouldn’t be so certain. Deathskull deliberately discarded some of his old programming and uploaded fragments into my chip. I forgot to mention this earlier.”

The words slammed into me like cold iron. My grip tightened on the table. “But Deathskull helped me escape the Wraith. Without him, I’d still be chained there.”

“That brings me to my second point,” Droid L-84 replied. His voice dropped, heavy with implication. “We don’t know what the demons did to him during your capture. Perhaps they corrupted his mainframe in some capacity.”

The room fell still again. I drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and let the reality sink in. L-84 wasn’t wrong. There were gaps in Deathskull’s behavior—his lack of philosophy, his rigidity, his sudden dismissals. All of it gnawed at me now with sharper teeth.

At last, I spoke. “I’ll have a word with the Senate. We’ll consider suspending, or even removing, Deathskull as Emperor until we know what’s happening to him. But this will have to wait until after the mission on Abraxas. Deathskull needs us to extract an ancient weapon called the Sphere—before Anubis can get his paws on it.”

The weight of my words anchored the room. One by one, nods of agreement followed—Cole’s jaw tight with resolve, Hanna’s hand gripping her sword hilt even while seated, Elizabeth whispering a meditation under her breath, and Jimmy slamming his fist lightly against the table in solidarity.

The uncertainty still lingered, a stormcloud over our heads, but for now, the path forward was set.

On a lighter note, my eyes caught something I didn’t expect—Emily and Anisia chatting at the edge of the group, a faint smile on Emily’s face as if Anisia had said something clever. It struck me as odd, but maybe it wasn’t strange at all. Anisia had her way with people, weaving herself into the rhythm of a group with disarming ease.

Our fleet descended upon Abraxas, its pale-blue curvature swelling in the void until it consumed the viewport. The planet’s surface shimmered faintly with a sheen of frost, a telltale sign of its Ice Age. Yet amidst the tundra and glaciers, streaks of vibrant purple vegetation stretched across valleys and forests like living veins. The hue was unnatural to our eyes—alien and mesmerizing—casting a haunting glow against the planet’s pale skies.

Breaking the atmosphere, the beauty gave way to devastation. Vast black scars slashed across the land where machines had torn deep into the crust. The mining facility stood as an ugly citadel of industry—smokestacks spitting dark fumes into the frigid air, leaving plumes that clashed with the natural sky. Pockets of forests struggled to survive at the edges, standing like sentinels against extinction. The land between was littered with black ash fields, barren stretches where nothing could grow, scarred by the constant output of extraction and fire. Herds of native beasts, thick-furred and long-tusked, wandered the ice flats, confused and displaced, their migration paths severed by mechanical walls.

From orbit, the facility appeared almost alive with activity—hundreds of drones moving in synchronized waves across trenches, scaffolding, and armored hangars. As our fleet aligned for descent, energy signatures flared across the surface. Alarms rang through the bridge as crimson streaks of plasma lit up the skies, followed by the concussive thrum of shock cannons.

The Trolls and Jackals were ready. Their weapon emplacements bristled like thorns around the mining city, and the moment our fleet entered low atmosphere, a storm of fire greeted us. Plasma bolts tore through clouds, burning trails of ozone and smoke. Shock cannon bursts rippled like violent thunder, slamming against our shields, making the whole ship quake under the impacts.

Pilots shouted over comms, maneuvering in desperation. Two of our ships took direct hits, spiraling into the ash fields below in roaring balls of fire. The others scattered, weaving through flak fire as the battlefield turned into a maelstrom of energy. Our main vessel rattled under the strain, warning lights flashing red across the consoles, the shields dropping percentage by percentage with each strike.

Forced into a defensive formation, the fleet pulled back, scanning for possible landing zones. The mining complex’s defenses stretched farther than anticipated—cleverly embedded into cliff faces and subterranean bunkers. Every approach was met with unrelenting volleys.

It became clear—direct descent was suicide. We would never breach their fortress from the skies.

Instead, the order was given. We would land on the outskirts.

Engines roared as the fleet banked hard, pulling free from the web of fire and steering toward the planet’s frozen plains. Snow and ice stretched endlessly across the horizon, unmarked except for distant black ridges. The turbulence shook us as we descended into the gale, cutting through storm clouds until our landing struts met ice. One by one, our ships dropped into formation along the frozen edge of a glacier.

The silence that followed was crushing compared to the chaos above. Only the wind howled, carrying flecks of frost and ash. In the distance, the mining city glowed against the horizon, a bruise of industry and fire against the cold. The ashen fields separating us seemed to stretch for eternity, broken by jagged rock, ruined trees, and the skeletal remains of beasts who had wandered too close to the machinery.

There would be no quick strike. No swift landing at the heart of the enemy.

We would march.

Miles across the wasteland, in the shadow of an enemy already aware of our presence. Every step forward would bring us deeper into their web.

Inside the bowels of the mining facility, the air was thick with molten fumes and the stench of scorched stone. Great chains rattled against the ceiling as Troll slaves, hulking and deformed, dragged buckets of glowing liquid metal across the obsidian floors. Their mandrill-like snouts twitched and steamed under the heat, their backs scarred from lashings, their eyes glazed with obedience—or terror.

At the center of the chamber stood Anubis, his jackal head illuminated by the shifting light of the forge. His tall frame cast a jagged silhouette, the gleam of his teeth curling into a cruel grin. He raised his clawed hand, gesturing to the molten streams being guided toward the pedestal.

“Pour it all,” he commanded, his voice a guttural growl that reverberated off the iron walls. “Every last drop goes into the Sphere. The Arckon device will drink its fill.”

The slaves obeyed, tilting massive cauldrons until rivers of melted gold hissed and steamed as they cascaded into the bowl-like base of the artifact. The “Sphere,” a blackened orb the size of a bowling ball, absorbed the molten metal hungrily. Its surface cracked and flared with radiant veins of light, until a golden aura surged outward in a ripple that made the chains overhead rattle and the very air hum with power.

The moment the device’s glow stabilized, the heavy doors at the far end of the hall screeched open. Maladrie entered first, her boots clicking against the metal floor, her posture dripping with arrogance. Teresa and Nicholas followed reluctantly, their faces pale against the glare of the forge. Floating behind them was a leviathan of machinery—a massive levitating construct of steel and bone, humming with necrotic energy. Twin sarcophagi were embedded in its frame, each held upright with cables and pulsating conduits. One of them, disturbingly, already contained a body—a pale, lab-grown demonette suspended in fluid, her features lifeless but expectant.

Anubis tilted his jackal head, ears twitching, as his golden eyes burned.

“What is this contraption?” he snarled.

Maladrie’s smile was poisonous. She stretched her arms toward the machine as if unveiling a masterpiece.

“It’s the gift I promised you. The machine of rebirth. With this, we can forge an army that transcends death itself.”

She slinked closer, her voice dropping to a silky murmur.

“But before we begin, I must ask you all… what do you truly desire, before we step into the new universe?”

There was a tense silence. The Trolls paused their labor, their chains rattling faintly as they looked on. The glow of the Sphere bathed the room in liquid gold.

Teresa broke the quiet, her voice bold and unwavering despite the tremor in her eyes.

“I desire King William.”

The words hit the chamber like a dropped blade. Maladrie froze, her expression twisting from surprise to amusement, then to contempt.

“Do you, now?” she hissed, her grin stretching unnaturally wide. A low, guttural laugh poured from her throat, echoing maniacally through the chamber.

“You think you can claim him? Foolish child. You’ll have to get through me first.”

Before Teresa could respond, Maladrie moved like lightning. Her hand lashed out, nails gleaming with venom, and raked across Teresa’s skin. The woman collapsed instantly, her body twitching as the toxin paralyzed her.

Maladrie flicked her dark hair back with a sharp whip of her head, her boots striking hard against the floor as she strolled toward Teresa’s fallen body. She nudged her cruelly with the toe of her thigh-high boot, sneering down at her with disdain.

With a snap of her fingers, the Troll slaves dropped their tools and lumbered forward. They scooped Teresa’s limp body into their massive arms and carried her toward the empty sarcophagus. Nicholas’s eyes widened in horror, his breath catching as the machine’s cables hissed and shifted to accept its new occupant.

He started forward, but Anubis’s clawed hand shot out, gripping his shoulder with a crushing force.

“Do not interfere,” Anubis growled, his teeth glinting in the golden light. “Watch, and learn where loyalty leads.”

Teresa’s body was lowered into the sarcophagus, her chest rising faintly with shallow breaths. Maladrie raised her hand, and the machine came alive. Green and violet arcs of energy surged from the conduits, enveloping Teresa in a cocoon of light. Her soul screamed as it was torn from its vessel, spiraling into the waiting shell of the demonette.

Moments later, the transformation was complete. The sarcophagus cracked open, releasing a hiss of vapor. Out stepped the new demonette, her every detail an uncanny mirror of Maladrie herself—dark, flowing hair, curling horns, obsidian eyes burning with malice, her body draped in a leather bikini and black thigh-high boots that gleamed under the forge’s glow.

The original Maladrie spread her arms wide, basking in the spectacle.

“Behold, dummies—and Anubis. I present to you my clones! With this machine, we can create a legion of ourselves. An immortal, supernatural army, birthed from human souls. All it requires…” she smirked, glancing at Nicholas, “…is a willing sacrifice.”

The clone stepped forward, her gaze locking onto Nicholas with a wicked stare. She raised a hand, finger pointing directly at him as if marking prey.

The real Maladrie snapped her fingers. The Trolls surged toward Nicholas, their massive hands clamping down on his arms as he struggled violently. His screams echoed through the chamber, raw and terrified.

Anubis’s laughter filled the air, a booming, heinous chorus of satisfaction.

“Perfect! Perfect! Feed him to the machine!”

Nicholas thrashed, his cries drowning in the sound of chains, machinery, and Maladrie’s cruel chuckles. His fate was sealed as he was dragged toward the sarcophagus, the machine’s conduits already hissing in hungry anticipation.

Evil knows no loyalty—and Nicholas was about to pay the price for betraying Vikingnar.

Meanwhile, the ground rumbled beneath our boots as a massive theropod dinosaur stood before us, its muscular frame towering like a living relic of a forgotten age. Its head bore a flamboyant crest, streaked in fiery reds and yellows, making it appear as though the creature wore a crown of flame. Its golden eyes widened with sheer panic at our sudden materialization, the beast’s nostrils flaring as if we had trespassed into its kingdom. For a brief moment, time seemed suspended between our group and the ancient predator. Then, without hesitation, the theropod bolted, its talons tearing furrows into the blackened earth as it thundered into the conifer forests. Its massive tail whipped the air behind it like a banner of retreat, vanishing into the haze.

Only then did we take in the world around us. The air smelled acrid, heavy with sulfur and ash. The terrain stretched out like the scars of an old wound, an endless volcanic ash field scattered with patches of vibrant purple conifers, their needles glistening with dew despite the choking fumes. The land was a strange balance of life and death—one half trying to cling to nature’s resilience, the other consumed by the scars of industrial exploitation.

Beyond the rolling haze, in the distance, rose an ominous silhouette—a sprawling city of iron and stone, churning with mechanical life. Its smokestacks coughed clouds of black soot into the skies, strangling the horizon with filth. Conveyor belts, massive cranes, and jagged towers spoke of function, not beauty. The sight immediately struck me with a familiarity I detested, for it reminded me of King Alle’s philosophies: nature stripped bare, resources consumed with no regard for harmony.

I clenched my jaw, recognizing the same ideology pulsing here, only this time under Anubis’ grip. He wasn’t simply content to rule; he was determined to hollow out worlds like carcasses, devouring them until there was nothing left. Or was it? We needed to investigate further.

Turning to my companions, I signaled each of them to power on their armor. The sound of humming servos, mechanical locks, and energy cores coming alive filled the air around us. Visors flickered with blue, crimson, and purple light as one by one they disappeared behind the armored glow. With our preparations complete, we left the frigid mountains behind us, stepping into the poisoned valleys below.

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CHAPTER 21: "EVIL KNOWS NO LOYALTY" "VIKINGS WAR IN VALHALLA"