I hear someone kick in a door, the boom of a shotgun, a scream cut short.
More gunfire erupts from somewhere deeper in the house.
The crack of rifles, the boom of shotguns, the shouts of men fighting and dying.
"Living room," Tor says beside me, his voice low and urgent. He's moving well for his age, his weapon up, his eyes sharp. "That's where she'll be. Freya always kept her prizes where she could see them. Liked to look at them. Admire her work."
The way he says it—flat, emotionless—tells me he's speaking from experience.
From memories he's spent decades trying to forget.
We move down the hallway, stepping over another body—one of Solveig's men, already down, his blood pooling on the worn hardwood floor.
A Raider nods at us from a doorway, his rifle smoking, and keeps clearing the room behind him.
The sounds of fighting echo through the house, but I tune them out.
There's only one thing that matters right now.
Getting to Dalla.
The living room door is closed.
Through the wood, I can hear voices—a woman's voice, cold and controlled.
Solveig.
And underneath it, barely audible, the sound of someone crying.
Soft, desperate sobs that tear at my heart.
Dalla.
I look at Runes.
His face is pale beneath his beard, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscles jumping.
His hands are white-knuckled on his rifle.
This is his daughter in there.
His little girl.
The child he's protected for twenty-seven years, now bleeding and bound and at the mercy of a madwoman.
But she's my woman. My family. My future. The mother of my child.
"I go first," I say quietly.
He doesn't argue.
I kick the door open and step through, rifle raised, ready to kill anyone who?—
I freeze.
Dalla is in the center of the room, tied to a wooden chair.
Her face is bruised, her lip split and bleeding.
