The Final Crusade: Vinterholm

He appeared from the Outlands like an apparition.

A wisp of a boy, barely sixteen, with wild, shaggy black hair and eyes that burned an eerie, bioluminescent green. The Outlanders all had glowing eyes—though no one knew why—but his were the color of phosphorescent algae, unnatural against the pallid gloom of the town. He was lean, all wiry muscle and restless energy, wrapped in tattered layers of scavenged fabric and reinforced leather, stitched together with the careful, obsessive precision of someone who had never owned anything new.

Kylo Starrk—if that was even his real name—moved through the bleak streets of Vinterholm with an impish, childlike grace, like a fox cub sniffing at the edges of a hunter’s camp. His face was something out of a ghost story, too beautiful for a boy, with a delicate sharpness that suggested far-off bloodlines—China, Japan, maybe Korea—though no one in this frigid Nordic town would have recognized the distinction. His skin was tanned from a life spent beneath the pale northern sun, the rough weathering of someone who had never known shelter except what he could find or make.

The tavern was called The Iron Hearth, a squat, brutalist structure of reinforced concrete and salvaged metal, its windows smeared with years of filth, its neon sign flickering weakly against the encroaching twilight. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of smoke, damp wool, and the ever-present tang of oil and old machinery. The people of Vinterholm drank quietly, hunched in their coats, speaking in low murmurs like they feared something listening from the shadows.

Kylo pushed through the heavy door, his presence drawing every eye in the room. He didn’t belong here. He looked too alive, too untouched by the weight that pressed down on everyone else. He grinned, showing too-white teeth, and moved with a strange, loose-jointed energy, like a creature that had never been properly tamed.

“Evening, folks,” he said, his voice smooth and light, with a sing-song lilt that didn’t match the grim air of the room. “Name’s Kylo. Lookin’ for someone.”

The bartender, a broad-shouldered man with a cybernetic arm and a face like cracked stone, wiped a glass without looking up. “We don’t have what you’re looking for.”

Kylo chuckled, unfazed. He hopped onto a barstool, perching cross-legged like a bird. “You don’t even know who I’m looking for.”

Now the bartender looked up, his one human eye squinting as the cybernetic lens whirred, scanning Kylo with a cold precision. The rest of the tavern’s patrons stared, their expressions caught somewhere between suspicion and unease.

Kylo leaned forward, grinning. “I’m looking for Erik.”

The room went still. Conversations died mid-sentence. Someone set their drink down too hard, the sound sharp in the silence.

The bartender’s grip on the glass tightened. “Don’t know him.”

Kylo tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “Really? ‘Cause word out in the snows says he’s been making trouble. Big, nasty kind of trouble. The kind that makes people real quiet when his name comes up.”

A few men at a nearby table exchanged glances. A woman near the door shifted in her seat, gripping the edge of the table like she wanted to leave but didn’t dare.

Kylo let out a soft whistle. “Wow. Y’all are really bad liars.”

The bartender exhaled through his nose. “You need to leave.”

Kylo blinked, then held up his hands, palms out, still grinning. “Hey now, no need to be unfriendly. I’ve got good manners, see? Please and thank you and all that. But if you don’t wanna talk, I get it.” He hopped off the stool, his movements oddly light, like he wasn’t quite bound by the same gravity as the rest of them.

As he moved toward the door, he paused, turning back with a playful glint in his eerie green eyes. “You know, Outlanders have a saying: ‘If you don’t talk about the monster, it’ll come knocking just to hear its own name.’”

The bartender’s expression didn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.

Kylo laughed softly, shaking his head. “Sleep tight, folks.”

And then he was gone, vanishing into the cold, neon-lit streets, leaving behind only the whisper of his name and the unsettling afterimage of those glowing green eyes.

The cave was small, barely more than a hollow in the frozen earth, hidden beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient pine. The only sound was the wet, rhythmic tearing of flesh, the faint snap of bones as Kylo Starrk devoured his kill.

A rabbit, skinned messily with his own hands, its meat still warm from life. His sharp teeth—too white, too perfect—sank into it with careless ease, blood dribbling down his chin as he chewed. His glowing green eyes shone in the dim light, casting an eerie luminance over his sharp, beautiful features, a face too delicate for a boy raised in the wilderness. He ate like an animal, but there was a strange grace in it, an unspoken ritual, as if this was as natural to him as breathing.

His black leather-clad form was curled against the cold stone, his attire a patchwork of scavenged practicality and something more refined, something subtly out of place. The sleeveless black shirt he wore had a deep hood, drawn halfway over his head like a monk’s cowl, shadowing his wild black hair. Over it, a high-collared leather jacket, cut with a sharp, almost military precision, its seams reinforced, its edges weathered but undeniably crafted rather than cobbled together. It clung to him like a second skin, the way his black leather pants and worn boots did—clothing built for movement, for speed.

At his hip rested a sheathed light cavalry saber, the hilt worked in dark silver, the crossguard bearing the unmistakable crest of a boar’s head. A weapon too fine for an Outlander, its presence alone a whisper of a past that didn’t quite fit the wild boy who now gnawed on raw meat in a cave. The saber’s laser edge, when active, burned green—an echo of his eyes—but for now, it lay silent, its deadly hum absent, as if in hibernation.

There were other inconsistencies. A silver Catholic rosary hung from his belt, its crucifix glinting faintly in the dim light, pristine despite the grime that clung to everything else he carried. It was real silver, something that had no place in the possession of a feral boy from the Outlands. Nearby, tucked safely into the inner pocket of his jacket, was a small, ornate crest coin, its edges smoothed by time, its engraved sigil something ancient and noble—something that did not belong in this world of scavengers and cyber-rusted survival.

A silver signet ring—too big for his fingers—hung from a thin leather cord around his neck, pressed against his bare collarbone like a forgotten piece of a puzzle. The only thing about it that fit was the boar’s head etched into its surface, the same as the saber, as if marking him as something more than what he seemed.

The fireless cave was cold, but Kylo didn’t seem to mind. He swallowed another bite, licking his fingers clean, eyes flickering to the cave’s mouth where the howling wind carried whispers of the town behind him. Vinterholm didn’t want to talk about Erik.

That was fine.

Kylo grinned, stretching out like a lazy cat, licking a speck of blood from his thumb.

He’d find him anyway.

***

The alleys of Vinterholm were a labyrinth of metal and ice, narrow corridors choked with shadows and the distant hum of flickering neon. A lone smuggler hurried through them, shoulders hunched against the cold, breath pluming in the frigid air. His boots scuffed against the damp concrete, every few steps punctuated by a nervous glance over his shoulder.

But he never looked up.

Kylo Starrk moved above him like a phantom, darting across rooftops with a silent, prowling grace. His black-leather-clad form was a blur in the darkness, his movements weightless, effortless—scaling walls, slipping across the skeletal remains of fire escapes, leaping from ledge to ledge without so much as a whisper of sound. The smuggler would pause, sensing something wrong, only for Kylo to vanish the moment he turned his head.

A shadow in a world of shadows.

The smuggler pressed forward, ducking beneath a rusted archway where another man waited in the gloom. This second figure was stockier, his face obscured by a thick scarf, his eyes glinting like wet stones in the dim alley light.

"You look like you ran through hell," the second smuggler muttered.

The first smuggler wiped his brow. "Might as well have. We've got a problem."

The second man stiffened. "Erik?"

"Close." A pause. Then, a whisper like a curse: "Kylo Starrk."

The second smuggler swore under his breath, glancing around as if saying the name aloud might summon it. "He's here?"

"Started asking about Erik."

The second smuggler frowned. "Why Erik? That doesn’t make sense. He should be after—"

"The Spaniard," the first smuggler finished grimly. "Yeah. That’s what I thought too. Until I remembered..." He hesitated.

The second smuggler inhaled sharply. "The breach."

"Erik got into a data vault, grabbed a list of names he was never supposed to see. The Seven Kings of the Eye."

The realization settled between them like dead weight.

Kylo wasn’t here for revenge. He wasn’t hunting down Erik for some personal vendetta.

He was here to take the names.

The first smuggler exhaled, pulling his coat tighter. "We need to warn the commanders."

The second nodded. "We can’t let him—"

The second smuggler turned, just for a moment, reaching for his comm. It was all the time Kylo needed.

A whisper of movement.

A wet, slick sound.

When the second smuggler turned back, the first man was gone.

No scream. No struggle. Only the spray of blood on the damp alley wall, glistening under the sickly neon glow. The second smuggler froze, breath catching in his throat, fingers twitching toward the gun at his belt.

Slowly, painfully, he turned away from the blood.

And met Kylo’s eyes.

A pair of glowing green orbs gleamed from the darkness, full of impish delight, his wild grin too wide, too knowing. Kylo was right there, close enough that the smuggler could feel his breath—close enough that he never even heard him approach.

The smuggler opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Kylo’s saber ignited in a flash of emerald light.

Then, silence.

***

The hunter’s shop sat on the very edge of Vinterholm, where the town's neon and concrete bled into the frozen wilderness. It was a squat, reinforced structure, its walls made of salvaged steel and old world timber, its windows covered in thick iron grates. A sign half-buried in snow creaked in the wind, marked with the simple engraving of a rifle and a hatchet.

Kylo slipped inside without a sound, startling the shop owner, who jerked upright from behind the counter, reaching instinctively for the shotgun at his side. His weathered face, lined with years of hunting in the frigid north, tightened at the sight of the girlish-looking Outlander standing in his shop, bioluminescent green eyes gleaming in the dim interior.

Kylo raised a hand before the man could do anything regrettable, his expression an impish smirk. “Relax, gramps. Not here to bite.”

He reached into his jacket and flicked a few high-value credit chips onto the counter. “Just a friendly customer, here for a friendly purchase.”

The shop owner eyed the credits, then Kylo, then the credits again. With a long exhale, he relaxed, setting the shotgun back down. “Hells, kid… don’t sneak up on a man like that.”

Kylo chuckled. “Didn’t sneak. Just walked in real polite-like.”

The hunter snorted, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Yeah, well… if you’re buyin’, I won’t ask what for. Don’t tell me if it’s for murder. Best I don’t know.”

Kylo grinned, stepping past the counter, letting his fingers trail over racks of weapons—hunting rifles, sawed-off shotguns, cyber-enhanced crossbows. His eyes lingered on a few heavy axes, their edges honed to a razored perfection, before shifting to a case of revolvers, the type built for men who needed one shot, one kill.

As he browsed, he spoke casually. “So, about Erik…”

The shop owner visibly stiffened. His gaze flickered toward the door, as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“You keep askin’ the wrong questions, boy,” the hunter muttered, rubbing his knuckles together. “But since you paid, I’ll tell you this much.”

He leaned against the counter, voice lowering. “Erik’s one of yours. An Outlander. A vicious one. Man’s like a damned echo in the mountains. People say he’s a demon, say he’s some kinda spirit of vengeance.” The shop owner paused, shaking his head. “But I know different. Because I met him once.”

Kylo tilted his head, intrigued. “Oh?”

The hunter’s eyes went distant, like he was recalling something he wished he hadn’t seen. “I was out tracking, west ridge, when a big bastard of a mountain bear came at me. Broke my rifle in two before I even knew what was happening. I thought I was dead.”

Kylo nodded, silently urging him to continue.

“Then Erik came outta nowhere,” the shop owner murmured. “Didn’t shoot it. Didn’t stab it. He strangled the damn thing with his bare hands.”

Kylo’s grin widened slightly.

“After that,” the hunter continued, “he cut its heart out and ate it. Right there. No fire. No cooking. Just tore into it, blood dripping down his face.”

Kylo whistled softly. “That’s hardcore.”

The hunter gave him a long, measuring look. “That’s Erik.”

The shop went silent for a moment, save for the hum of a flickering light overhead.

“Where is he now?” Kylo asked.

The hunter sighed. “Has a cave up in the Frostfang Range. Left him the bear’s pelt as a thank you gift. Some folks say he liked it—he’s been spotted wearing it since.” He rubbed his jaw, watching Kylo closely. “Vinterholm and Erik, we got a silent understanding. He keeps the mountains clean. No bandits, no raiders. Nothing survives up there except him. He’s a beast, sure, but a beast of justice. So if you’re lookin’ to start something?”

The shopkeeper leaned forward slightly. “No amount of firepower will save you.”

Kylo, instead of being intimidated, laughed. A soft, delighted sound.

“Well,” he mused, reaching for a broad-headed axe and a magnum revolver, casually flipping the cylinder open before snapping it shut. “Good thing I’m no bandit.” He smirked. “Frankly, I think Erik and I are gonna get along just fine.”

The hunter squinted at him, finally unable to contain his curiosity. “What are the weapons for, then?”

Kylo turned, grinning like a fox, shouldering the axe.

“Oh, y’know…” He winked. “Murder.”

The shopkeeper stared.

Kylo laughed again, tossing a few more credits onto the counter before strolling out, whistling a tune, leaving only the hum of neon and the echo of his words behind.

***

The wilderness outside Vinterholm was vast and silent, a frozen labyrinth of towering pines and jagged cliffs, the air thick with the scent of snow and damp earth. The trees stretched high, skeletal in the dim light, their bare branches twitching in the wind like grasping fingers. The world out here was untouched, unbroken—a place for ghosts and predators.

And Kylo Starrk moved through it like both.

He leapt, twisting midair, grabbing hold of an overhanging branch and using it to swing himself higher before vanishing into the canopy. A heartbeat later, he reappeared at the base of a boulder, rolling seamlessly onto his feet before scaling the rock with practiced ease. His body was a blur of motion—vaulting over fallen logs, balancing effortlessly on unstable ground, flipping from one perch to the next like the world had never intended for him to be bound by it.

Not a single sound came from him.

Just beyond the treeline, a pair of merchants made their way along an old trade route, leading a small caravan of goods. They weren’t in a hurry, their voices carrying in casual conversation as their breath steamed in the cold. One of them, a burly man with a heavy fur-lined coat, paused mid-step, squinting toward the dark figures weaving through the trees.

"That one of those Outlanders?"

The other, an older merchant with a weathered face, followed his gaze. He caught sight of Kylo just as the boy twisted through the air, landing effortlessly on a thin branch that shouldn’t have supported his weight. For a moment, Kylo balanced there, unmoving, before he disappeared again, slipping into the wilds without so much as a broken twig.

“Looks like it.”

The first merchant exhaled, shaking his head. “They’re damn strange, aren’t they? Just…know how to move. It’s like watching a damn wolf walk through the snow. Ain’t learned, ain’t trained. Just…born with it.”

The older merchant chuckled, adjusting his pack. “It’s a lost art, y’know. Used to be more like ‘em, back before people stopped needing to live by their hands. The Outlanders—they never stopped. They hunt, they fight, they move like the land moves.”

“Like animals.”

“Like something between an animal and a man.”

They walked a few more paces before the first merchant spoke again. “What about the eyes?”

The older one glanced at him.

“You ever notice that? Those glowing eyes?” The merchant shifted uneasily, looking back toward the trees. “I’ve heard theories. Mutations, some kinda night vision thing, maybe even cybernetics from before the Collapse. But no one really knows why.”

The older man sighed, watching his breath rise in the cold. “Maybe it’s the same reason they see things different. The same reason they know how to move, how to kill.” He paused.

“And maybe…” his voice turned quieter, more solemn, “maybe it’s the same reason an Outlander can never really live among us without bringing trouble.”

They walked on, leaving Kylo to the trees, to the sky, to the wild.

And from the canopy, Kylo watched them go, eyes glowing softly in the dim light. He remained motionless for a long time, perched on the highest branch, staring after them.

He smirked.

Then, he was gone.

***

Kylo sat cross-legged on the frozen ground, fingers deftly weaving twigs and strips of bark into something precise, something meaningful. His glowing green eyes were half-lidded in focus, lips slightly pursed as he twisted a final strand into place.

The wind whispered through the trees, a cold and distant sound.

Then came the crunch of boots on snow.

Kylo’s head tilted slightly, but he didn’t look up. The scent of hot food reached him before the voice did.

“Boy,” the shopkeeper grunted.

Kylo froze. A muscle in his jaw twitched before he finally, slowly, lifted his gaze. The older man stood at the edge of the clearing, holding a steaming container in his calloused hands. His expression was gruff, irritated even, but something in his posture betrayed him.

Kylo exhaled sharply through his nose. “Unless you’ve got a name, you need to fuck off.”

There was an edge to his voice, not hostility exactly, but something more primal—something demanding civility in his own strange way.

The shopkeeper sighed. “Einar.”

Kylo blinked, considering this. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he grinned, his childish energy returning in full force.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He gestured toward the ground beside him. “Come on, Einar. You brought food, so sit. I’d feel weird eatin’ without ya.”

Einar hesitated, then let out a tired grunt before lowering himself onto a nearby log. He passed Kylo the hot meal—a thick, steaming stew in a metal bowl—and Kylo took it eagerly, blowing on the surface before digging in with enthusiasm.

As they ate, Kylo glanced at him between bites. “Your wife is the one who made this?”

Einar scoffed, shaking his head. “Aye. She didn’t like the thought of a kid starving in the woods.”

Kylo laughed. “You did?”

Einar shrugged. “Told her an Outlander’d be fine.”

“Well, she’s got better instincts than you.” Kylo licked a stray drop of stew from his thumb. “It’s damn good. Tell her I said thanks.”

Einar nodded, watching the boy for a moment before speaking. “You ask a lotta questions about other folks, boy. What about you?”

Kylo didn’t look up immediately, still focused on his food. When he finally did, his expression was unreadable. “What about me?”

Einar gestured vaguely. “You’re not like most Outlanders. Don’t dress like ‘em. Don’t talk like ‘em.” His eyes flickered to the silver rosary hanging from Kylo’s belt, to the signet ring on the leather cord around his neck, to the boar-crest saber at his hip. “That all tells me you weren’t born in the snow.”

Kylo hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t deny it. He took another bite, chewing slowly.

“I grew up in a house,” he finally said, voice quieter than before. “A big one. With walls, chandeliers, all that fancy shit.”

Einar frowned. “Where?”

Kylo’s fingers tapped the edge of his bowl, as if debating whether to answer. Then he did.

“Glacier Pointe.”

Einar blinked in surprise. “The Canadian city?”

Kylo nodded. “Had a good family. They were… different.” His tone made it clear he wouldn’t elaborate.

Einar studied him for a long moment. “So why’d you leave?”

Kylo smiled, but it was a sad thing, touched with something distant and unreadable. Instead of answering, he tilted his bowl up, drinking the last of the broth, before setting it down with a satisfied sigh.

“Damn, that was good.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve before flashing Einar a grin. “Tell your wife she’s got magic hands.”

Einar squinted at him, clearly aware of the deflection. But he let it go.

With a sigh, the older man pushed himself to his feet, dusting the frost off his coat. “Well, I did my part. Try not to die out here, boy.”

He turned to leave—

Then hesitated.

Glancing back, he nodded toward the twigs Kylo had been working with. “What the hell were you making, anyway?”

Kylo looked down at the half-finished object in his hands. He held it up for Einar to see.

A crucifix.

Einar raised an eyebrow. “Huh.”

Kylo smirked. “Was gonna pray. Then you showed up.”

The older man’s expression tightened. “Can’t say I figured an Outlander for a God-fearing type.”

Kylo laughed softly, turning the crucifix over in his fingers. “Yeah. Most don’t.”

Einar didn’t reply right away. His gaze lingered on Kylo a moment longer, then, with another grunt, he shook his head and finally strode off into the dark.

Kylo watched him go, still smirking—but there was something softer in his expression now.

Then, with silent reverence, he pressed his wooden crucifix to his forehead, closed his glowing green eyes, and began to pray.

***

Kylo knelt in the snow, his breath slow, steady, his hands clasped around the wooden crucifix he had just finished crafting. His glowing green eyes were shut, his expression eerily serene as he surrendered himself to the depths of his faith.

The world around him faded.

The biting wind, the rustling trees, the distant howl of a lone wolf—all of it became background noise, insignificant in the moment. His lips moved, silent, whispering prayers only he and his God could hear.

Then, footsteps.

Four of them.

They moved deliberately, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow without urgency, their presence creeping into Kylo’s world of quiet devotion. They came from all sides, encircling him like vultures, clad in black and red—the unmistakable garb of the Eye of Baphomet.

One of them stepped forward. “Kylo Starrk—”

Kylo shushed him.

A simple, casual gesture, two fingers raised from his clasped hands, as though scolding a misbehaving child.

The man froze mid-sentence, uncertain.

The others shifted, exchanging uneasy glances as the silence stretched, as Kylo remained still, lost in prayer.

The wind picked up, carrying flecks of snow through the air.

Finally, Kylo sighed. Slowly, deliberately, he stood, dusting the frost from his knees.

Only then did he open his eyes.

The green glow cut through the darkness, sharp and unnatural, alien against the muted colors of the winter forest. He turned his head slightly, scanning the four men who surrounded him, then clasped his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels like a child waiting for an explanation.

“Well?” he prompted, smirking.

The first man stepped forward again, jaw tight. “You killed our men in Vinterholm.”

Kylo tilted his head. “Yep.”

The others bristled at his complete lack of hesitation.

“You’re a problem,” the man continued, reaching for the hilt at his hip. “A threat.”

Kylo slowly lifted his hands, palms up, as if waiting for something. “And?”

The leader’s lip curled. Four blades ignited at once.

The air shimmered with red light as the men drew their laser-edged swords, their crimson glow casting long shadows against the white snow. The color reflected off their black and red armor, the insignia of the Eye of Baphomet barely visible beneath their cloaks.

Kylo exhaled softly. Then, without hurry, he reached for his own weapon.

The snap-hiss of his cavalry saber rang out as he drew it, the green laser edge igniting in the night—cutting through the heavy crimson glow of his enemies’ weapons like an emerald flare in the darkness.

For a moment, they all simply stood there, blades humming softly in the cold air, the snowfall beginning to pick up.

Then, the four men struck at once.

A blur of movement. Four blades came down in unison, meant to carve Kylo into four bloody pieces.

And somehow—he blocked them all.

His saber spun, flashing green, intercepting the downward strikes with inhuman precision. Sparks flew as energy clashed against energy, the force of the blows sending a shockwave through the snow.

Kylo grinned.

Before they could recover, he twisted his body, driving his boot into one man’s knee—forcing him to stumble just enough to create an opening.

That was all he needed.

In an instant, Kylo launched himself upward, planting his foot on the staggering man’s shoulder and using it as a springboard.

A split second later, he was gone— vanishing into the trees like a ghost, the green afterglow of his saber disappearing into the canopy.

The four cultists spread out, blades humming softly, eyes scanning the trees with narrowed suspicion.

Kylo was gone, vanished into the high branches, his green glow swallowed by the dark canopy. The snowfall thickened, whispering against the frozen earth, a quiet contrast to the tension that thickened the air.

One of the cultists, a man with a scarred jaw, turned sharply, eyes darting to the treetops.

There—movement.

His breath hitched. His grip tightened on his sword.

And then, Kylo wasn’t there anymore.

“Shit,” another muttered, shifting his stance uneasily.

They stared upward, watching, waiting—

None of them saw Kylo drop down like a phantom behind them.

The axe hit home before the first even realized what happened. A wet, thick sound—metal crunching through bone and brain—and Kylo’s first victim was already collapsing, his body falling limp into the crimson-stained snow.

Before the others could react, Kylo was gone again.

“Where is—?”

Another scream.

Another flash of green light and red mist.

The second cultist’s head came clean off. The axe slid through him like butter, the sheer force of the strike sending the severed head tumbling into the snow, staining it red as the body fell twitching beside it.

Kylo laughed softly, impressed. “Damn, good purchase.”

The remaining two whirled toward the sound.

This time, Kylo didn’t run.

The fight became close, brutal, personal.

Green and red streaked through the snowfall, illuminating the cold night in a way that would have been beautiful—almost festive—if not for the carnage they painted.

Kylo clashed blades with the third cultist, his saber meeting the red-edged sword in a shower of sparks. Back and forth, parry, feint, twist— Kylo moved with fluidity, his strikes weaving through their defenses like a viper.

One misstep.

Kylo cut through the third cultist, his green blade splitting through his ribs like paper, sending him staggering before collapsing into the snow like a broken doll.

The last man swung—fast.

Kylo dropped low, sliding under the crimson blade with inhuman grace, his body moving too quickly, too precisely for something that looked like a boy.

A final, decisive stroke.

The last cultist fell.

He hit the snow wailing in pain, hands clutched over the gaping wound across his chest. His body trembled, red soaking into white, staining the ground beneath him like a crimson halo.

Kylo stood over him, foot pressing down on his chest, watching with something akin to detachment.

His hands shook.

The cold night, the falling snow, the corpses—it all faded. The world blurred, the red haze of adrenaline enclosing around Kylo like a veil, isolating him in the moment of death.

The confession before the end.

Kylo took a slow, shuddering breath, staring down at his dying enemy, and then—

He whispered the mantra of the Eye of Baphomet.

His voice was low, reverent, the ancient words rolling off his tongue like scripture:

"Ego sum ferrum, ego sum judicium. Terra se inclinat forti, et infirmi devorantur."

I am the blade. I am the judgment. The earth bows to the strong, and the weak are devoured.

The cultist laughed weakly, blood bubbling at his lips.

“So…” he rasped, sneering up at Kylo through the pain. “Einar is about to learn.”

Kylo froze.

His expression changed instantly.

“…What?”

His voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes betrayed him.

The man grinned through the pain.

Kylo stepped back. “What the hell does that mean?”

No answer.

But he knew.

His stomach twisted, the adrenaline turning to ice.

His body moved before his mind did.

Kylo bolted into the trees, his breath short, fast, desperate—

Because if he was right—if they were going after Einar—

Then he was already too late.

***

Einar sat at the sturdy wooden table, arms folded as he watched his wife move about their small but well-kept home, which was built directly into the back of his hunter’s shop. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the warm space, a stark contrast to the cold world outside.

His wife, Astrid, had her hair tied back in a loose braid, her sleeves rolled up as she ladled stew into a bowl with practiced ease. She wasn’t a frail woman—far from it. The winters had hardened her like they did all survivors of Vinterholm, but there was a warmth in her eyes, a softness that made the brutal world they lived in feel just a little less cruel.

Einar sighed, leaning back in his chair. “The boy liked your cooking. Told me to pass along his compliments.”

Astrid scoffed playfully, setting the bowl down with a mock flourish. “Of course he did. I’m a miracle worker.” She smirked, hands on her hips. “Think we should start charging the Outlander folk for a taste of civilization?”

Einar chuckled, shaking his head. “He ain’t normal, though.”

Astrid quirked an eyebrow, sliding into the seat across from him. “Oh? Found yourself a little mystery, then?”

Einar rubbed his jaw, thoughtful. “Something about him. Can’t quite place it.” He paused, swirling the drink in his cup. “You ever meet someone and just… know they don’t belong? Not in the Outlands. Not here. Not anywhere.”

Astrid tilted her head, considering. “He seemed polite enough when you spoke about him.”

“He was,” Einar admitted, then smirked. “For an Outlander, anyway.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Oh, you mean the boy who casually threatened murder before inviting you to dinner?”

Einar chuckled. “He’s got an odd way of asking for respect, that’s for sure.”

Astrid waved a hand dismissively, grinning. “Well, you must’ve passed the test, seeing as you’re still breathing.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the kind only a long-married couple could have.

Then, Astrid leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “So what makes him so different?”

Einar exhaled, staring into the flickering lantern light. “Dunno. Maybe it’s just the way he moves. Or the way he talks. He’s got an edge, sure, but there’s something… polished about him. Even with all that wildness in him, there’s a kind of—”

“Grace?” Astrid supplied.

Einar snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

Astrid shrugged. “Sounds like he was raised somewhere fancy.”

Einar scoffed, but before he could respond, Astrid grinned wider, nudging him with her foot under the table.

“Look at you now,” she teased, mockingly dramatic. “Serving food to royalty!”

Einar snorted. “We don’t know that.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “Don’t we?”

Einar hesitated. His mind flashed back to the silver rosary hanging from Kylo’s belt, the intricate signet ring looped around his neck, the ornate crest coin tucked into his jacket.

Things an Outlander shouldn’t have.

Things that didn’t belong in the hands of a boy from the wilds.

Einar sighed, shaking his head. “I dunno, Astrid. He’s something… but I ain’t sure what.”

Astrid gave him a knowing smile, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Well, let me know when you figure it out, yeah?”

Einar chuckled, squeezing her hand back. “Yeah. I will.”

And for a brief, fleeting moment, all was right in their little world.

They didn’t know the storm was already coming.

The dot of light flickered red against Astrid’s chest.

Einar’s blood ran cold.

He moved without thinking, lunging across the table and tackling her to the ground just as the window shattered.

A plasma round tore through the space where Astrid had just been, superheated energy searing through wood and stone, leaving a scorch mark in the back wall.

Before Einar could even process it, something dark and fast vaulted through the broken window—a cultist, clad in the black and red of the Eye of Baphomet, daggers flickering with laser edges.

Einar rolled off Astrid, just in time to dodge the first brutal slash.

The assassin was fast. Too fast. His daggers carved through air as Einar ducked, weaved, twisted away. No weapon. No time. The only thing keeping him alive was years of instinct and raw, stubborn strength.

“Astrid! My rifle!”

She was already scrambling for it.

The assassin pressed the attack, blades singing through the air, one nearly catching Einar’s ribs. Too close. He stepped in, inside the cultist’s range, and slammed a fist into his throat.

The assassin staggered, choking, but recovered too quickly.

Another cultist burst through the door.

Then another.

Einar was outnumbered three to one.

A fist slammed into his gut, knocking the wind from him. A dagger sliced his arm, burning hot where it cut. He snarled, grabbing one of them in a grapple, forcing the bastard between him and the assassin as a human shield.

The third cultist kicked his knee out.

Einar collapsed, landing hard, barely rolling away before a dagger plunged into the floorboards where his head had been.

And then—

BANG.

One of the cultists jerked violently backward, a smoking hole in his chest, dead before he even hit the floor.

Astrid stood in the doorway, Einar’s heavy rifle braced against her shoulder, face set in grim determination.

Einar coughed, grinning despite the pain. “That’s my girl.”

The remaining two turned on her.

More movement—the front door burst inward as two more cultists stormed in.

Five against two.

Einar moved to shield Astrid, teeth gritted. They weren’t going to win this.

And then—

A flash of green light cut through the chaos.

The two nearest cultists staggered, their bodies collapsing to the floor in a spray of blood.

Einar looked up.

Kylo.

The boy stood among the bodies, cavalry saber burning bright, its green laser edge hissing against the cold air, illuminating his wild grin.

One cultist—the assassin—didn’t hesitate. He leapt at Kylo, daggers flashing.

Kylo met him midair.

Blades clashed, green and red sparking violently as the two fighters tumbled backward—

And then they crashed through the upper-level window.

Glass shattered around them as they fell.

Einar swore. No time to worry about that now.

The last remaining cultist turned back to him.

Einar, still on the floor, kicked the bastard in the chest, sending him staggering backward through the open door.

Einar hauled himself up, moving to the weapons rack by the door.

His hand closed around two axes.

With a deep breath, he stepped outside.

The snowstorm swirled around them, the cultist already regaining his footing.

Einar rolled his shoulders, gripping both axes tight.

His voice was low, full of promise.

“Alright, you bastard. Let’s dance.”

Einar rolled his neck, gripping both axes as he squared off against the remaining cultist swordsman.

The bastard was taller, leaner, faster—the kind of fighter who relied on precision and speed. His red laser-edged sword burned through the whirling snowfall, the humming glow reflecting off the frost.

Einar?

He was a wall of muscle and brute force.

The cultist lunged first, sword slashing out in a sharp, controlled arc.

Einar twisted aside, the blade missing him by inches as he brought his first axe down like a hammer.

Steel met laser. Sparks flared where they clashed, the force of Einar’s strike forcing the cultist’s sword downward, driving him into a low stance.

The bastard tried to recover, twisting the sword for an upward slash—

Too slow.

Einar’s second axe hooked behind his wrist, dragging him off balance.

The hunter drove a knee into his stomach, then—

One final, brutal swing.

The axe crunched through the cultist’s collarbone, cutting deep into the chest. A gurgled breath. A spray of red mist.

The body slumped into the snow, motionless.

Einar exhaled, rolling his shoulder. “Huh. That was quick.”

Then he turned toward the sound of distant fighting.

***

The snowstorm howled, but Kylo barely felt it.

His green saber flashed, clashing with the assassin’s dual daggers, a flurry of parries and slashes exchanged in mere seconds.

The assassin was fast. Uncomfortably so.

Red blades carved through the air, Kylo dodging and weaving between them, his movements fluid, unpredictable, damn near unnatural.

They were evenly matched.

But Kylo was laughing.

The assassin lunged—Kylo side-stepped, twisting around in a way that shouldn’t have been possible, snapping his saber toward the assassin’s exposed ribs.

Barely missed.

The assassin recovered instantly, pivoting with a spinning dagger strike.

Kylo ducked, sliding low, kicking his legs out to sweep the assassin’s feet.

Success.

The assassin crashed into the snow.

Kylo was on him instantly, his knee pressing down on his chest, his saber hovering over the man’s throat.

The assassin froze.

Kylo’s grin widened.

“Y’know,” he mused, “for an assassin, you really shoulda seen that coming.”

The green saber flashed.

***

Einar had barely stepped back inside when Kylo strolled in after him, grinning ear to ear.

Blood was splattered across his jacket, his saber sheathed at his hip.

And in his left hand?

The severed head of the assassin.

He tossed it onto the table with a casual thump, flashing Astrid a toothy grin.

“Got him!”

Astrid screamed.

Einar stared in horror.

Kylo’s grin faltered. He blinked, looking between them.

“…What?”

Einar ran a hand down his face. “Kylo—what the hell?”

Kylo tilted his head. “I—what? You said he tried to kill ya. I handled it.” He gestured vaguely at the head, still confused. “What’s the problem?”

Astrid backed away from the table, looking somewhere between horrified and nauseous. “You—you handed us a severed head!”

Kylo frowned, arms crossing. “Okay, well… technically, I handed it to Einar. You just happened to be standing there.”

Einar just stared at him.

Kylo sighed, running a hand through his messy black hair. “I thought this was, like, a warrior bonding thing? You know, ‘Here’s proof of my kill, now we drink’ kinda deal?”

Astrid still looked deeply unsettled.

Einar sighed. Deeply.

Kylo, realizing this was not the moment he thought it was, exhaled sharply.

“Okay, fine. No head trophies. Noted.”

He grabbed the assassin’s head again, casually tossing it out the window.

It thumped into the snow outside.

“…Better?”

Astrid just stared at him.

Einar groaned, rubbing his temple. “Kylo… just sit down.”

Kylo grinned again, flopping into a chair.

***

Einar moved methodically, checking the edge of his axes, cleaning his rifle, preparing for war. He had already accepted that he was being pulled into something far bigger than himself—far bigger than Vinterholm.

Kylo sat on the table, legs swinging like a child as he exhaled and finally, finally told the truth.

He started at the beginning—Glacier Pointe.

A fortress city carved into the Canadian tundra, fashioned after British nobility, draped in Cyber-Gothic excess with high towers and grand estates. It was a place where old wealth survived the collapse and remade itself in a world where law was a myth.

And somehow, Kylo Starrk—an Outlander—had been raised in one of its grandest estates.

He spoke about his family—good people, strong people. He didn’t give specifics, didn’t name them, but Einar could tell from the brief flashes of warmth in his expression that he had loved them. Deeply.

And then came the Eye of Baphomet.

They came in the night, moving like phantoms, their red blades cutting through servants and guards alike. They had come to kill everyone, to wipe his family from existence—but they hadn’t accounted for Kylo.

He fought.

And they underestimated him.

It was the only reason anyone survived.

Einar could see it now—the boy wasn’t just skilled. He had been forged in battle. His youthful energy, his impish humor, his childlike grin—it was all a mask. A thin, fragile thing that hid something raw and ruthless underneath.

Kylo’s voice darkened as he continued.

After the attack, he ran.

He ran to Mydnite City, one of the American Megacities, a place that swallowed people whole and spit them out as something meaner and sharper. There, he found the Steel Shoguns—a mercenary gang, a family of warriors.

For a while, they were his people.

They had promised to help him bring down the Eye.

But in the end, he had given his skills to men who were out only for themselves.

And then came the betrayal.

The Eye of Baphomet infiltrated the government, toppling the President of the Bald Eagle Collective—the last remnants of the American government. They installed their own puppet leader, one who immediately ordered the extrajudicial execution of the Steel Shoguns.

Kylo vanished after that.

Two years in the Outlands, gathering strength.

Einar paused in his work, looking up from his rifle as Kylo’s voice shifted.

For the first time, the boy’s glowing green eyes weren’t amused or playful. They were cold. Hollow.

“This isn’t about justice,” Kylo said, his voice quieter now, but heavier. “This is about revenge.”

Einar’s hands tightened around the handle of his axe.

“The Eye hurts people like you,” Kylo continued, his fingers tapping idly against the hilt of his saber. “People who just want to live their damn lives. They kill them, burn them, erase them.”

He exhaled slowly.

“If someone’s going to stop them, they need to be just as vicious.”

He smirked, but it wasn’t a real smile.

“I guess that’s my sacrifice.”

Silence hung in the room.

Einar turned, his gaze falling on Astrid.

She had finished cleaning up the mess, her hands red from scrubbing, her expression unreadable.

But she looked at him.

And in that wordless moment, she gave him permission.

Einar sighed, looking back to Kylo, gripping his axe like a promise.

“We’re in this now,” he said simply.

Kylo blinked. “Oh?”

“The Eye attacked me in my own home.” Einar’s voice was low, certain. “Same as they did to you.” He strapped his rifle onto his back. “They crossed the line. Doesn’t matter if it’s justice or revenge—they will be brought down.”

Kylo stared at him for a long moment.

Then, just like that, the mask slid back into place.

His grin returned, bright and wild, his entire demeanor snapping back into something playful and carefree.

“Bro’s trip!” he declared, throwing up his hands.

Einar groaned. Astrid sighed.

But neither stopped him.

***

The morning air was crisp and biting, the kind that settled deep into the bones and refused to leave. Snow crunched beneath Einar’s boots as he led the way through the wilds outside Vinterholm, his axes strapped securely to his back.

Kylo moved beside him, hands tucked lazily behind his head, perfectly at ease, as if they were on a casual stroll rather than marching toward a monster’s den.

Their journey had barely begun, yet the quiet expanse of the wilderness made conversation feel inevitable.

Einar exhaled, shaking his head. “Astrid’s staying with her parents while I’m gone.”

Kylo, balancing effortlessly on a fallen tree trunk, glanced over. “Yeah?”

“She’s probably better off there for a bit. Been meaning to get her to visit more anyway.” Einar adjusted the strap of his rifle. “They’re good people, even if her old man still thinks I’m a deadbeat.”

Kylo snorted. “He say that to your face?”

“Used to,” Einar admitted. “Before I married his daughter.”

Kylo smirked. “And now he just thinks it real loud?”

Einar chuckled. “Aye.”

The landscape began to change, the dense pines thinning as they approached rockier terrain.

Kylo broke away from the path, effortlessly scaling a jagged incline, his black-clad form vanishing into the rocks.

Einar sighed. “You gonna keep running off like a damned mountain goat?”

A laugh echoed down from above.

A few seconds later, Kylo reappeared, crouched on a high ledge, his bioluminescent green eyes scanning the horizon.

“I’m scoping,” he said, grinning.

Einar rolled his eyes. “I’m the guide here.”

Kylo hopped down with unnatural grace, landing light on his feet. “Yeah, yeah, you know the path.” He twirled a twig between his fingers. “But I know the best places to jump off shit.”

Einar groaned. “You’re a pain in the arse.”

Kylo grinned wider. “But you like me.”

Einar didn’t answer immediately. He adjusted his grip on his pack, glancing toward the distant mountains where Erik’s cave supposedly lay.

For the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him.

A purpose. A call.

“...Kinda,” he finally admitted.

Kylo beamed.

Then the air changed.

Einar felt it first—that subtle, primal instinct whispering in the back of his skull, telling him they weren’t alone. He slowed his pace, hand drifting toward his axe, scanning the terrain.

Kylo, who had been ahead, suddenly stopped.

His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly as if hearing something Einar couldn’t. Then, ever so slightly—he smiled.

Einar followed his gaze.

And froze.

The bodies came into view.

Suspended from the trees, their torsos split open like gutted game, entrails wound through branches like grotesque offerings. Their armor—black and red, unmistakable—was torn, slashed apart, their weapons still strapped to their corpses as if they’d never even had time to draw them.

One hung upside down, his skull caved in by what looked like a blunt rock. Another had his ribs cracked open, his body impaled on a sharpened branch.

But it wasn’t just brutality.

It was deliberate. A message.

Einar grimaced, exhaling sharply. “Erik.”

Kylo grinned, eyes flicking over the macabre display with what almost looked like admiration.

“Looks like we’re in luck,” he said, pleased.

Einar snapped his gaze to him. “Luck? This is what you call luck?”

Kylo gestured vaguely at the desecrated corpses. “I mean, he’s clearly not a fan of our mutual friends.”

Einar gave him a look. “Or maybe he’s just a savage.”

Kylo shrugged. “They shouldn’t have come into his territory.”

Einar shook his head, tense. “No one knows how an Outlander thinks. We have no guarantee Erik won’t cut us up and ask questions later.” He motioned at the hanging bodies. “This is a feral thing, Kylo. He’s a savage at heart.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, Kylo turned toward him.

His glowing green eyes locked onto Einar’s, the ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

Einar’s breath caught.

And he suddenly remembered—

He wasn’t just traveling with some kid.

He was traveling with one of Erik’s kind.

An Outlander.

A wild thing.

Kylo’s smirk widened slightly, but he said nothing.

Einar exhaled, shaking his head as he kept moving.

“Pain in the arse.”

Kylo just laughed.

The entrance to Erik’s cave was a jagged black maw cut into the mountainside, a place untouched by fire or man. The air grew still as they approached, the only sound the wind whistling through the trees and the soft crunch of boots against the frozen earth.

Then—

A thud behind them.

Einar’s hand went to his axe, muscles tensing.

Kylo, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch.

Einar turned slowly.

Perched on a thick branch above them, barely disturbing the wood beneath him, stood Erik.

Seven and a half feet of raw, feral power.

The bear pelt Einar had left for him draped over his shoulders, its massive skull resting atop his own head, thick fur blending with his tattered, pieced-together armor.

His muscular frame was painted in scars, his exposed arms and chest a map of old battles, of things that tried to kill him and failed.

But the most striking thing?

His eyes.

Glowing. Bright, unnatural blue.

They locked onto Kylo, squinting slightly, as if trying to place something long forgotten.

Then, in a low, guttural voice, he spat a single word.

“Child.”

Einar’s breath hitched.

His hands shot up in surrender, every instinct screaming at him to not make a move.

Kylo, in contrast, casually reached into his coat, pulling out several rosaries, their silver gleaming faintly in the pale light. Trophies from the members of the Eye killed so far.

Einar squinted.

“Where the hell did you get—” he began.

Kylo just grinned, rolling one of the beads between his fingers.

Erik’s eyes flicked to them.

For a long, unnerving moment, he stared.

Then, with an almost fluid motion, he leapt down.

The ground shook.

Standing at his full height, Erik loomed over them, his shadow stretching long across the snow.

Up close, the sheer scale of him was monstrous.

But then—he bent down.

Face to face with Kylo.

He was sniffing.

Taking him in.

Slowly, he turned his gaze to Einar.

And then, in a deep, rumbling voice, he finally spoke a full sentence.

“Big one smells funny.”

Kylo chuckled.

And to Einar’s absolute horror, Erik let out a booming, genuine laugh.

A sound like rolling thunder, echoing through the trees.

Then, just as abruptly, he turned away, marching into his cave.

Kylo grinned, beckoning for Einar to follow.

Einar stared at him, unmoving.

“…You want me to go into the murder cave,” he deadpanned.

Kylo nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. C’mon. He likes you.”

Einar slowly turned his gaze to the hanging corpses behind them.

Then back to Kylo.

Then back to the murder cave.

“…You sure?”

Kylo just laughed and walked in.

Einar groaned, running a hand down his face.

“Pain. In. The. Arse.”

And then, against all better judgment, he followed.

***

The inside of Erik’s cave was exactly as Einar had expected—brutal, primal, untouched by civilization.

A deer carcass lay in the corner, its flesh dried and salted, hung carefully like a butcher’s prize. The air was thick with the scent of earth, iron, and old fire. Bones—human and animal alike—were stacked neatly in an alcove, their arrangement unsettlingly deliberate.

But something else caught Einar’s eye.

Near the center of the cave, where the fire had long since burned out, three objects rested on a flat stone.

A small wooden axe.

Two carved figurines, simple and childlike.

Einar stared, realization settling in his gut.

“…A shrine,” he muttered under his breath.

Erik, who had been watching them silently, made no comment.

But Einar knew.

His wife. His children.

He swallowed, forcing himself to look away.

That was when Erik finally moved.

From beneath his furs, he pulled out a small silver cube, its surface coursing with thin lines of red energy—a holo-cube.

Without a word, he held it out to Kylo.

Kylo’s demeanor changed.

His usual impish energy was gone, replaced by something sharper, more focused.

He took the cube with careful hands.

The moment his fingers brushed against it, a projection flickered to life.

A holographic announcement.

At the top—the sigil of the Eye of Baphomet.

And below it, a list.

Names.

At the bottom, a single signature.

Malachai Voss.

The Dark Prophet.

The true architect of the Eye.

Kylo’s jaw tightened, his glowing eyes flicking over the information without a word.

Einar, still trying to process what he was looking at, reached into his coat and snapped a picture of the hologram.

Kylo shut the cube off.

He turned to Erik, about to hand it back.

But Erik refused it.

“This isn’t my crusade,” he rumbled.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Kylo, after a long pause, nodded.

Without another word, he slipped the cube into his jacket.

Einar watched the exchange, confused.

When they finally left the cave, hiking down through the frozen slopes, he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“…What the hell just happened?”

Kylo grinned but said nothing.

Einar narrowed his eyes. “How’d he even know what it was? I doubt Erik can read.”

Kylo shrugged. “You don’t get it.”

Einar exhaled sharply. “Then explain it.”

Kylo gave him a sideways glance, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“That’s the thing,” he said lightly. “You don’t understand how Outlanders think.”

Einar scowled. “Oh, don’t start—”

Kylo chuckled, stretching his arms.

“But Outlanders do.”

Einar frowned, glancing back toward the cave.

“…So he just knew?”

Kylo rolled his shoulders. “It’s an empathy thing. You wouldn’t get it.”

Einar rubbed his temples, muttering. “Pain. In. The. Arse.”

Kylo just laughed, leading the way forward.

***

The night was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood as the house settled in the cold. The fireplace crackled softly, casting long, flickering shadows across the modest but well-loved home of Astrid’s parents.

Einar sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped, gaze distant.

Astrid stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the snow drift lazily outside.

Finally, she spoke. “How long?”

Einar sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dunno.”

Astrid turned, leaning against the windowsill. “Figures.”

He huffed out a small laugh. “Not my fault I don’t have a schedule.”

She studied him. Her husband—a man who had spent years drifting, hunting, wandering without a clear purpose. And now, suddenly, he had one.

And it had green glowing eyes and a sharp, reckless grin.

Astrid folded her arms tighter. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

Einar looked up. “What?”

She exhaled. “Kylo. Him showing up now, of all times.”

Einar frowned.

Astrid hesitated. “It feels… fated.”

Einar leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I thought the same damn thing.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “So what’s stopping you from saying it out loud?”

Einar hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached into his coat.

He pulled out a rosary.

Astrid’s breath hitched.

It was old, worn with time, but unmistakable. The same shape, the same metalwork. Almost identical to the one Kylo wore.

She swallowed. “…Your grandfather’s.”

Einar nodded.

Astrid sat beside him, taking the rosary in her hands. “He never took this off.”

“Not once.”

They both stared at it.

Then, quietly, Einar said, “Erik called this a crusade.”

Astrid’s brow furrowed. “Kylo’s crusade.”

Einar shook his head. “No. Our crusade.”

Astrid exhaled. “You think Erik meant…”

Einar’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what I think. But it feels like something bigger’s moving.” He clenched his fists. “Like I’ve been meant to do something. Like I’ve spent my whole damn life waiting to answer a call I didn’t even know was coming.”

Astrid turned to him, searching his face.

“…You’re not crazy,” she said softly.

Einar looked at her.

Astrid gave a small, sad smile. “I feel it too.”

They both did.

Kylo didn’t just show up.

He was sent.

Astrid closed her fingers over the rosary before handing it back.

Einar swallowed hard, slipping it over his neck.

Then she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“You have to go.”

Einar nodded. “Yeah.”

Astrid exhaled, brushing a hand through his hair. Letting him go.

For now.

***

Einar stepped out of the house, his breath misting in the cold air.

Kylo was already waiting, leaning against the fence, arms crossed. His saber rested against his hip, his grin too knowing.

Einar gave him a look. “Shut up.”

Kylo laughed. “Didn’t say anything.”

They started walking.

Not just toward a fight.

Not just toward revenge.

But toward something bigger.

The final crusade had begun.