The factory loomed like a skeletal giant in the twilight, its broken windows staring out at the wasteland like empty eyes. Vigdis and her crew had approached cautiously, their movements quiet and deliberate. The building was half-buried in sand and debris, its metal walls streaked with rust, but it stood intact—a rare sight in the ruins. Intact meant shelter. Intact meant loot.
Inside, the air was stale and thick, heavy with the smell of oil and decay. Their boots echoed faintly on the cracked concrete floor as they fanned out, weapons at the ready. Vigdis’s axe rested across her shoulder, her fingers wrapped tightly around the haft. She felt the weight of her crew’s trust on her shoulders as keenly as she felt the blade’s edge.
There were six of them—enough to watch each other’s backs, but not enough to overwhelm the space. Most of them were young, lean, their bodies hardened by years of survival. Some were grizzled veterans, their eyes always scanning for threats. They were family, in the way that only shared hunger and desperation could forge.
"Looks clear," whispered Runa, the youngest of the group, a wiry girl with quick hands and a knack for picking locks. She was crouched near a doorway, her knife gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Vigdis nodded, stepping forward. "Then let’s move. Stay tight. We don’t split up until we know what we’re dealing with."
The others murmured their assent, their voices low and tense. They’d scavenged together for months, and Vigdis had kept them alive through more than a few close calls. Trust came hard in the wasteland, but they trusted her. It was why they followed her here, to a building that felt too quiet for comfort.
They should have known better.
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The first sign of trouble came when the sun dipped below the horizon. A faint noise drifted through the factory, barely audible over the creak of old metal. It was a low, scraping sound, like claws on steel.
"Did you hear that?" muttered Jakob, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running across his temple. He gripped his crowbar tightly, his knuckles pale.
Vigdis held up a hand for silence, her body going still. The noise came again, louder this time, accompanied by a faint skittering. It echoed from somewhere deeper within the factory, the direction they’d yet to explore.
"Something’s here," Vigdis said softly. Her voice was calm, steady, but her heart was racing. She glanced at the others. "Stay close. No heroics."
They moved as one, their weapons drawn. The skittering grew louder, joined by a strange clicking sound, rhythmic and alien. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, bouncing off the metal walls. The air grew colder, and the faint light filtering through the broken windows seemed to dim.
The first attack came without warning.
A shape hurtled out of the darkness, all claws and teeth. Vigdis barely had time to raise her axe before it was on her, its weight slamming into her with the force of a runaway cart. She hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her lungs. Her crew shouted, their voices blending with the creature’s guttural screech.
It was massive, its body covered in jagged, chitinous plates that gleamed like obsidian. Its eyes were black voids, reflecting nothing. Vigdis gritted her teeth and swung the axe with all her strength, the blade biting into the creature’s side. It shrieked, a sound that made her ears ring, and she kicked it off her with a grunt of effort.
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"Fall back!" she shouted, scrambling to her feet. "To the entrance—move!"
They didn’t make it.
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The creatures came in waves, pouring out of the shadows like water. There were too many of them, their movements unnaturally fast. One by one, Vigdis’s crew fell, their screams echoing in the cavernous space. She fought desperately, her axe flashing in the dim light, but it wasn’t enough.
Runa’s scream was the one that broke her. Vigdis turned just in time to see the girl dragged into the darkness, her knife slipping from her fingers. The sound of her struggle faded quickly, swallowed by the clicking chorus of the creatures.
By the time Vigdis reached the main floor, she was alone. Her body ached, her muscles burning from exertion. Blood—some hers, some not—dripped from the blade of her axe. She leaned against a rusted pillar, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.
The skittering surrounded her now, closing in. The creatures were toying with her, letting her feel the weight of her failure. Her crew was gone. Her family was gone.
But she wasn’t done yet.
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The final stand was a blur of violence and desperation. Vigdis fought like a woman possessed, every swing of her axe driven by fury and grief. She didn’t feel the pain of her wounds, didn’t care about the odds. All that mattered was that she took as many of them down as she could before they overwhelmed her.
She lost track of time, the world shrinking to the rhythmic crash of steel on chitin and the taste of blood in her mouth. The creatures hesitated, their movements less aggressive now, as though they sensed the madness in her eyes.
In the end, it wasn’t strength or skill that saved her. It was sheer, stubborn will. When the last creature fell, twitching and broken, Vigdis stood over it, her body trembling. Her axe slipped from her fingers, clattering to the ground.
She staggered out of the factory at dawn, the rising sun painting the wasteland in hues of red and gold. Her clothes were in tatters, her skin streaked with dirt and blood, but she was alive.
The axe was all she carried, its edge dulled but unbroken.
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The memory lingered like a phantom, a constant reminder of what she’d lost and what she’d endured.
And as she looked out over the horizon, the Hollow King’s antlers still haunting her mind, she tightened her grip on the weapon.
“Not again,” she murmured.
The camp was silent now, save for the distant crackle of dying fires and the occasional groan of the wind. Vigdis crouched beside the remains of the Hollow Tree, the axe resting across her knees. It was heavy and crude, its blade chipped and streaked with dark ichor, but it felt... right. Familiar in a way that tugged at memories she hadn’t thought about in years.
Not the same axe, though. Her first had been lost long ago, buried with a piece of her past she’d never recover. But this one would do. It already had.
She rose to her feet, the muscles in her back and shoulders protesting every movement. Her clothes were ruined, the tattered tunic hanging from her body in strips. Blood and dirt streaked her skin, and the cold night air bit at the sweat that clung to her. In the distance, the raiders’ discarded loot was piled near the campfire—a mound of scavenged weapons, armor, and supplies.
Vigdis rifled through the pile with grim efficiency, tossing aside useless scraps and broken weapons. Her fingers finally closed around something half-buried: a battered leather cuirass, stiff but still serviceable. She pulled it over her head, the straps digging into her shoulders as she fastened it tight. The armor wasn’t much, but it would offer some protection against knives or claws. Over it, she shrugged on an oversized woolen cloak, riddled with moth-eaten holes but warm enough to stave off the night’s chill.
For her legs, she found a pair of thick, reinforced trousers—someone’s old attempt at makeshift armor. The stitching was crude, and the leather patches were uneven, but they fit well enough when she cinched them with a strip of cloth torn from her tunic. Her boots, scuffed and dusty but still intact, were thankfully right where the raiders had left them.
Once dressed, she felt less exposed, more herself. She adjusted the axe’s grip in her hand, testing its weight again. It wasn’t perfect. The haft was rough, splintered in places, and the blade would need sharpening soon. But in her hands, it felt like an extension of her body. She had made it her own during the fight, and that mattered more than its condition.
Satisfied, Vigdis slung the axe over her shoulder and cast one last glance at the Hollow Tree’s smoldering remains. The eerie fungal glow was gone, leaving behind nothing but ash and brittle roots. The Hollow King was gone—for now.
She exhaled and turned toward the wasteland. The horizon stretched endlessly, the rising sun bathing it in muted gold and orange.
She walked on, alone but unbowed, her shadow stretching long over the wasteland.