Vigdis watched the guard leave, his hurried steps echoing down the corridor. Her axe sat in the cell opposite hers, its edge catching the sterile glow of the overhead lights. The guard hadn’t even tried to hide his confusion, and she didn’t blame him. Orders like that didn’t make sense in a place like this.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered to the empty room. “It’s not like I can swing it through this invisible wall of doom.”

She let out a sharp breath, stepping closer to the shimmering energy barrier. Her green eyes locked onto the weapon, her expression unreadable. “Patrick?” she called, her voice steady. Silence greeted her. She frowned, her brows knitting together. “Patrick,” she said again, louder this time. Nothing.

For a moment, she stood there, the weight of the silence pressing against her chest. Then, with a scoff, she dropped to the floor and leaned back against the bench, her arms crossing over her knees. The cold surface of the bench pressed against her back, grounding her in the surreal absurdity of the moment.

“Alright, fine,” she muttered, closing her eyes. “You’re ignoring me. That’s fair. But if you’re listening, you might as well enjoy the show.”

She paused, her voice lowering, tinged with sarcasm. “Let’s see... where do we start? Oh, I know. Life in the wasteland is a comedy, but it’s not a funny one. More like the kind where the protagonist keeps stepping on rakes until someone finally puts them out of their misery.” She smirked faintly. “Spoiler alert: I’m the idiot with the rake.”

Her fingers tapped absently against her thigh as she continued. “It’s almost impressive, really. You’d think the gods—or whatever cosmic pranksters are up there—would get bored of the same routine. Oh no, Vigdis, here comes another murder tree! Oh wait, now you’re in a cage! And now your magical ghost is giving you the silent treatment. Brilliant writing, really. I’m sure someone’s having a good laugh.”

She cracked an eye open, glancing toward the axe across the way. “And you’re just sitting there, aren’t you? Like some smug, oversized paperweight.”

The smirk faded, her voice softening. “But I’ll play along. I always do. Because what’s the alternative? Giving up?”

The question lingered in the air, unanswered. The silence pressed against her, heavy and unrelenting.

Her eyes closed again, and for a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the energy field. Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. “Aiden, I need you.”

The air seemed to shift, the silence stretching just long enough for her to start doubting herself. Then, faint and unmistakable, a rich, lilting voice cut through the stillness.

“Now that’s a name I haven’t heard before. Care to enlighten me, lass?”

Vigdis let out a breath, leaning her head back against the bench. “Something for another day,” she said, her tone dismissive but carrying a faint edge of regret.

Patrick, true to form, didn’t press. “Fair enough, lass,” he said lightly, though his voice held a note of curiosity. “So, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time? Locked in a cell, surrounded by what looks like a futuristic madhouse. Lovely.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

Vigdis opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling as a wry smile tugged at her lips. “You tell me. You’re supposed to be the all-seeing ghost stuck in my axe. Got any tricks up your sleeve?”

Patrick’s laughter was rich and unbothered. “Oh, tricks, I’ve plenty—so long as you’re in a battle or swinging me at something’s head. Subtlety and infiltration, though? Not exactly my forte. As for a ghost form…” His voice trailed off as if he were considering it. Then: “Nope. Just me, bound to the blade, as charming as ever.”

Vigdis snorted softly. “Figures.”

“But I can tell you a fair bit about these people,” Patrick added, his tone shifting to something sharper, more serious. “Their kind isn’t new. Rich, powerful, desperate to control what they can’t. Always talking about uniting, about making things better—for themselves, mind you, not for anyone else.”

Patrick's voice carried an edge of grim humor, his rich tones echoing faintly in the quiet cell. "Ah, lass, the bastards running this show remind me far too much of the Tudors. Elizabeth the First, now there was a queen who knew how to dress up conquest in the robes of salvation. 'Unite the kingdoms,' she said. 'Civilize those barbarous Irish.' And all the while, her armies marched, her ships blockaded, and her agents starved whole regions to submission."

Vigdis snorted, leaning back against the wall. "Tudors? Irish? Elizabeth who? What the hell are you on about?"

Patrick chuckled softly, a sound laced with bitterness. "Aye, forgive me, lass. I forget you’ve had the luxury of living in a world already burned to ash. No libraries, no drunken bards with too many tales. Let me spell it out for you, then—there was a time when folk like me lived free on an island called Ireland, till a woman named Elizabeth decided we were better off living like her people instead."

Vigdis crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. "So, what? She took over? Burned down your houses, killed your kin? Sounds like every warlord I’ve ever heard of."

"Aye, but it wasn’t just brute force," Patrick said, his tone softening but losing none of its edge. "She didn’t just march in waving swords and burning homes, though there was plenty of that. She called it uniting. Civilizing. Said she was doing us a kindness—bringing law, order, and faith. Dressed up murder and theft as charity."

Vigdis tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing. "And people believed that?"

"Enough did, or enough were silenced so it didn’t matter," Patrick replied. "But the rest of us? We knew the truth. She didn’t want to unite; she wanted to own. To erase what we were and make us part of her world, on her terms."

Vigdis’s gaze drifted to the shimmering barrier and the weapon beyond it. Her voice carried a hint of suspicion now. "And you think these bunker bastards are the same? They’re not uniting anything. From what I’ve seen, they just hide behind their walls and keep everyone else out."

Patrick laughed bitterly. "Oh, lass. Look at this place—walls of light, prisons that don’t even need bars. They don’t need to march armies. They’ve got machines and clever toys to do the work for them. But their creed’s the same: ‘Join us, or you’ll wish you had.’"

Vigdis shifted uneasily, her hand running absently over the cuff of her pants. "You’re saying they don’t just want to survive out here—they want everyone else dead or under their thumb?"

Patrick’s voice turned grim. "Exactly. They’ll claim it’s for the good of the world, to restore order, to save humanity from itself. But their rules only work one way. They hold the reins, and anyone who doesn’t fit their picture of the future? They’ll wipe you out without a second thought. No mercy. No escape."

Vigdis exhaled sharply, her jaw tightening. "So, what? You think I’ve got a chance in hell of stopping that?"

Patrick’s tone softened, though it carried a sharp undercurrent of determination. "You’ve got a knack for wrecking things that need wrecking, lass. And if anyone can break a system like theirs, it’s you. Just don’t expect them to play fair. Gods never do."

Vigdis let the silence linger, her hand tightening into a fist. "Well, good thing I’m not much for playing fair, either."