The silence of the camp was a stark contrast to the thoughts swirling in Vigdis’ mind. She leaned against a makeshift bedroll, her gaze fixed on the stars peeking through the sparse clouds above. The campfire crackled softly beside her, casting flickering shadows over her strong, weathered features.

Patrick’s voice broke the stillness, his tone unusually subdued. “You’re pondering it again, aren’t you?”

Vigdis didn’t need to ask what he meant. The Magician’s words echoed in her mind, the weight of his request growing heavier with each passing day. Sealing off the Bunker meant condemning whoever was inside—men, women, children. She couldn’t shake the image of the protest slogans and the scattered bones she’d seen in the ruined town. Anger, desperation, hate—all carved into the stones and streets of a past she couldn’t change but felt increasingly entangled in.

“They weren’t saints,” she said, almost to herself. “Whatever happened back then, they weren’t innocent.”

“No one ever is,” Patrick replied, his lilting brogue tinged with something almost melancholic. “Power corrupts. And those with too much of it rarely wield it kindly. It’s an old story, lass. One I’ve seen too many times.”

She glanced at the axe lying beside her, its blade catching the firelight. “But children?” she said softly. “Are they responsible for the sins of their parents? Their leaders?”

Patrick was silent for a moment, the weight of his presence palpable even without a form. “Children,” he said finally, “inherit the world we leave them. Its kindness, its cruelties. They don’t get to choose that part. But survival… survival shapes them into who they’ll become.”

Vigdis frowned, her gaze drifting to the dark expanse beyond the firelight. “So, what? Do they grow into the same people their parents were? The same hatred, the same cruelty? Or is it different now? Have they changed?”

Patrick’s voice was soft, but there was a weight to his words. “Change comes slow, lass. Slower than most think it should. But it comes.”

She shook her head, her grip tightening on the axe. “That doesn’t answer the question. If they’re the same as the ones who caused all that chaos—those protests, those slogans—then sealing them in is justice. But if they’re different, if there’s a chance they’ve moved on…”

Patrick sighed, a sound heavy with centuries of experience. “That’s the rub, isn’t it? We can’t see into their hearts. Can’t know what they’ve made of themselves. But I’ve seen enough to tell you this: the sins of the parents don’t always bind the children. Sometimes, aye, the young break free. Make a better world.”

Vigdis stared into the fire, her jaw tight. “And sometimes they repeat the same mistakes. Over and over.”

Patrick chuckled, a grim but knowing sound. “Aye, that too. History’s a stubborn beast. But let me ask you this—if you had the power to decide who deserved the chance to change, would you trust yourself to make that call?”

She looked away, her eyes scanning the edges of the camp. The ruins beyond were quiet, their shadows long and foreboding. The decision loomed over her like a storm, pressing down on her chest.

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Patrick chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. “The old ‘greater good’ argument, eh? You’re not the first to wrestle with it. Won’t be the last.”

She scowled. “It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, his tone softening. “But neither is it simple. You’ve seen what happens when power goes unchecked. And you’ve seen what happens when people fight back. The question isn’t whether they deserve to live, lass. It’s whether you’re willing to carry the weight of their deaths.”

Vigdis’s jaw tightened, her eyes fixed on the shifting flames. Her thoughts churned, the weight of her own actions pressing against her. She’d killed before—countless times. Some would call it survival, others necessary violence. But this? The thought of condemning so many unseen lives twisted something deep within her.

She closed her eyes, letting the fire’s crackle fill the silence. There wasn’t an answer—not one she could live with, anyway. Shaking her head, she shifted her focus. “Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, her tone firm as if willing the subject closed. “None of it matters if I can’t even find the damned Bunker.”

Patrick hesitated before responding, his voice laced with cautious curiosity. “You’re doubting its existence now?”

Vigdis gestured broadly to the barren expanse and crumbled ruins surrounding them. “It’s not exactly a shining beacon of civilization, is it? That map led me here, and all I’ve found is ghosts and rubble. So, unless you’ve got a hidden compass in that axe of yours, we’re no closer than when we started.”

Patrick let out a low, thoughtful hum. “Not every path leads where you think it does, lass. And not every journey ends with what you expect.”

She gave him a sharp glance, but his tone wasn’t mocking. It was that same maddening wisdom he always carried—vague but steady, as if he saw things from a vantage she couldn’t reach. Vigdis sighed, pushing herself to her feet. “Whatever it is,” she said, brushing dirt from her hands, “I’ll find it. Or I’ll die trying.”

“Let’s hope for the former, then,” Patrick replied lightly. “I’m not eager to see what kind of tree sprouts up from your remains.”

The faintest smirk tugged at her lips. “Very funny.”

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Vigdis adjusted her gear, her gaze sweeping over the ruined landscape as she prepared to move. The dying embers of her campfire glowed faintly behind her, their warmth barely reaching her. She scanned the horizon, her eyes narrowing at the sight of movement in the distance.

Silhouettes.

Two figures, accompanied by a dragonhorse, slowly emerged against the barren backdrop. The faint outline of their movements was deliberate, purposeful—not the aimless wandering of lost travelers. This place was far too remote, too desolate, for their presence to be coincidence.

Vigdis crouched low, her instincts sharpening. Whoever they were, they weren’t here by accident. Her fingers brushed against the handle of her axe, its familiar weight steadying her as she considered her options. Attack? No. She needed answers, not corpses. Not yet.

Patrick’s voice drifted softly from the ether, laced with quiet amusement. “Looks like you’ve got company, lass. Though I’d wager they’re as surprised to be here as you are.”

“They’re not raiders,” Vigdis muttered, more to herself than to him. “Too well-coordinated. But they’re not locals, either. This place is too far gone for that.”

Patrick hummed thoughtfully. “Curious folk, then. Perhaps they’re after the same thing you are?”

Her jaw tightened as she observed them from a distance. “If they are, that’s even more reason to keep my distance until I know what they’re about.”

“Wise,” Patrick replied. “But don’t wait too long. Curiosity has a way of slipping through the cracks.”

Vigdis huffed softly, adjusting her position to stay hidden among the jagged remains of a crumbling wall. She watched as the figures approached the ruins of the mall, their movements slow but deliberate. One of them—a smaller frame, likely a woman—dismounted first, while the other stayed close to the dragonhorse, scanning their surroundings.

“They’re looking for something,” Vigdis murmured. Her grip on the axe tightened. “Question is, what?”

The figures disappeared into the shadows of the ruins, their destination clear: the old mall. Vigdis remained still, her eyes fixed on the building. Whatever their purpose, they weren’t random travelers. She’d give them time, see what they did, and decide her next move from there.

Patrick’s voice broke the silence, his tone wry. “Well, lass, looks like you’re not the only one chasing ghosts.”