The field is chaos made honest.

Steel rings against steel, iron shouts are swallowed by war-cries, and the earth trembles beneath boots and tusks alike. Snow is churned to slush and stone, darkened by ash and the cost of holding ground. This is no place for hesitation. This is where truth is stripped bare.

My boar bellows beneath me, a living engine of muscle and fury, tusks driving forward as I guide him with knees and voice both. Axe heavy in my grip. Shield raised. Arrows glance off iron and hide, skittering uselessly aside.

This is where I belong.

Then something breaks from the Mountain.

At first it is only movement—wrong movement. Too fast. Too deliberate. A figure running across open ground where no one should be running, cutting through the chaos with the certainty of someone who knows exactly how close death is and does not slow for it.

Red.

Not bright copper. Not firelight.

Deeper than that. Iron-rich red, darkened by grit and sweat, braided tight so it will not foul a blade or blind the eyes. It moves with her stride, heavy and purposeful, unmistakable once seen.

I haul the reins hard without thinking. My boar skids sideways with an angry squeal as I pivot, shield lifting instinctively—not against her, but against everything else that dares aim her way.

She is armored.

Properly. Not ceremonial. Not borrowed.

Plate fitted for battle, scarred where blows have landed before. Runes etched along the edges, worn smooth by years of use. An axe in her hand—balanced, familiar, carried with no hesitation. She does not flee danger.

She charges it.

My chest tightens, sharp enough to steal a breath.

No.

That cannot be—

She closes the distance fast, breath steady despite the run, boots finding purchase where others slip. Iron Hills warriors part for her without question, recognizing the way she moves, the authority of someone who has stood a field and lived.

I know that gait.

I know that fury held in check by discipline.

Ríka

I have seen it before, years ago, in a place choked with screaming stone and clashing iron—Azanulbizar, where the world cracked open and swallowed the weak whole. I remember a dwarrowdam there, helm gone, axe red with work, standing her ground when veterans faltered.

I remember thinking the Mountain would hear her name again.

She reaches me and stops just short of my boar, planting her boots, lifting her head to meet my stare without flinching. Snow and ash streak her armor. Her grip on the axe is sure, unyielding. Her eyes burn with defiance and intent, fixed not on the chaos around us, but on me.

By Mahal.

It is her.

Ríkdâsha.

Of the Iron Hills field. Of Azanulbizar. Axe-wielder. Forgemaster. Line-holder. Survivor.

The realization hits like a hammer to the chest. She lived. She stands here now, in the middle of another world-ending battle, as solid and unbroken as the stone beneath our feet.

I bark a laugh before I can stop myself—short, sharp, edged with disbelief—and swing my boar closer so his bulk shields her flank from the press of bodies and blades. My shield angles instinctively, covering space she did not ask me to cover but does not refuse.

“Have you gone mad?” I snap, voice rough with iron joy and incredulity all at once. “Breaking from the Mountain like that.”

My gaze locks on her, fierce and searching, the din of battle falling away to a dull roar.

“That can’t be you,” I growl, shaking my head as if the motion alone might prove me wrong. “Ríkdâsha of Azanulbizar? From the Iron Hills field?”

Another enemy roar rises ahead, horns screaming challenge. My boar paws the ground, eager to charge, muscles coiling beneath me.

I lift my axe, eyes never leaving her.

“If it is,” I add, something like pride cutting through the chaos, “then by Mahal—you chose one hell of a moment to remind the world you’re still breathing.”

The horns sound again.

I grin like the battle just found its teeth.