"There are thirteen of you," Kilian said, his voice even, calculated. "And three of us. I excluded Olaf."
His words sent a fresh wave of unease through me. Excluded. Not lost, not killed. Just… excluded. Like a piece removed from a game.
"When it comes to my battalion, there are about a hundred men. Another hundred Repentant Marines," Kilian continued, flicking the metallic sheet between his fingers. "All of them don't pose much of a problem."
"Then what is the problem?" Mikkel asked, his voice calm but direct.
Kilian's grin disappeared. For the first time since I met him, his face darkened. "My battalion commandant."
The way he said it—low, final—sent a shiver up my spine.
"He's scary," Kilian added.
I stared at him, trying to process what kind of monster it took to shake him. Kilian—the man who had killed, manipulated, and laughed his way through every situation—was scared of someone? Was it even possible that there were worse out there?
"I mean, there's no way he's that bad," I said, trying to gauge Kilian's reaction.
Kilian's gaze met mine, colder than before. "He could kill at least twenty of us without breaking a sweat."
I swallowed. That kind of power wasn't human.
"So, hierarchy in this world is measured by strength," I muttered, my distrust deepening.
Kilian's grin returned, but it was sharper now, almost mocking. "Haha, that's just how we criminals work. Why do you think the Marines follow us?"
He had a point. If his battalion was made up of ex-criminals who were given a second chance, and the Repentant Marines were probably people keeping an eye on them, then their entire system must be ruled by force. Fear. Obedience. And loyalty.
"So how do we get past them, then?" I asked, already knowing the answer wouldn't be simple.
Kilian straightened his back, his posture shifting into something more assertive. "We split up into three teams," he said. "I'll send Brozek and Glympse with some of you to infiltrate easier."
I listened as Kilian laid out his insane plan of infiltration. He spoke with certainty, as if he had already seen it unfold and now merely had to recount the steps.
"Our camp is inside a large castle," he continued. "There are many secret rooms and passageways below it."
Mikkel leaned in closer, his brows furrowing as he absorbed the details. "And we'll be hiding in these passages?"
"Yes. You'll hide in different sections of the lower levels while the three of us"—he gestured to himself, Mikkel, and me—"go inside and take care of some business."
I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not leaving my wife behind, Kilian."
Kilian didn't hesitate. "She can come."
Relief barely had time to settle before he spoke again.
"But if she slows us down," he said, his voice deadly serious, "I will leave all of you right on the spot."
His stare locked onto mine, colder than ice, sharper than steel. A primal fear stirred in my chest. This wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
And I had no doubt he would keep it.
"When we split, I'll need to go report to my commandant," Kilian said, his usual confidence faltering for the first time. A sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead, and his voice—so often laced with arrogance—wavered ever so slightly. He was afraid.
Who was this man, who could instill such fear in a killer like Kilian?
"Then what's the point of splitting apart?" Mikkel asked, his brows furrowed in confusion.
Kilian exhaled sharply. "Who said I was going to tell him about the others? I'll say I only found you three."
His words carried the authority of a true leader. The way he commanded the situation reminded me—just for a second—of myself. But there was a difference. He had more presence, more confidence. He spoke, and people listened.
"You'll tell him about my wife?" I asked, already fearing the answer.
"Of course," Kilian responded without hesitation. "She's coming with me, isn't she?"
"No. No, no, no—stop this bullshit!" The words exploded out of me before I could stop them. I shot up to my feet, my voice shaking the walls. "She's not coming with us!"
Kilian's dark eyes locked onto mine. There was no anger in them. No mockery. Just… disappointment.
"I thought you were a leader, Bjorn," he said quietly. "Not someone who can never get his story straight."
The words hit harder than any physical blow he'd dealt me before. My chest tightened, my thoughts spiraled. He had beaten me in battle, and now he was beating me as a leader too. A part of me wanted to sink into the earth, to disappear entirely.
I swallowed my pride, forced myself to nod. "I'm sorry," I muttered. "I'll listen."
Kilian gave a single approving nod. "Good."
His fingers toyed with the metallic sheet again, flipping it with practiced ease. The cold clinking sound filled the space between us before he spoke again.
"So, me, Mikkel, and you, Bjorn—we'll stand before Grob. That's his name." He paused. "I won't lie to you. There's a chance you might get killed on the spot."
The room froze around me.
"He might just kill us?" Mikkel's voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.
"Yes," Kilian answered. No hesitation. No sugarcoating.
The weight of the situation pressed down on me like an iron vice. My breath became shallow, my vision tunneled. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out the sounds around me.
What kind of plan was this? I should ask him. I should demand an explanation.
But Kilian spoke before I could.
"You two serve as a sacrifice," he said. "So the others can live. If one group gets discovered, we have another hiding inside Glympse's backpack."
A sacrifice.
The ringing in my ears slowed, dulled. The words settled in my mind, and I began to accept them. If this was what it took to keep the others safe, so be it.
But then—
"Is there a possibility to sacrifice just one of us?" Mikkel asked.
My head snapped toward him. I knew what he was thinking.
"No. In a million years, you can't do that, Mikkel!" I shouted.
Mikkel's expression remained calm, resolute. "There's no reason to kill two of us if we can avoid it, Bjorn," he said, his voice steady.
"There's every reason!" I barked back. "I'm not letting you—"
"I'm even afraid that two of you won't be enough," Kilian interrupted. His voice was quieter now, colder. "Grob isn't dumb. He'll know an old man couldn't have survived in these conditions alone."
Mikkel opened his mouth to argue but then stopped. He realized, just as I did, that his question led nowhere. The plan was set.
Kilian turned his gaze back to me. I stared at him, searching for something—anything—that might prove he had a trick up his sleeve, some hidden ace that would prevent this from being a suicide mission.
There was nothing.
"Okay, Kilian." My voice felt distant. "I'll trust you on this one. How do we get past all the Marines and the others in your battalion?"
Kilian's grin returned, wide and full of something unreadable.
"Good," he said. "Let's talk strategy."
And with that, he began mapping out the geographical layout of the camp, explaining the paths, the passages, and the dangers ahead.
I listened. Because now, my life depended on it.
"My camp," Kilian began, crouching low to the stone floor, "is perched on the peak of an icy mountain, a fortress flanked by two of the main gravitational phenomena in the region."
He dragged the metallic sheet across the ground, carving lines into the dust with a screech that set my teeth on edge. As he spoke, a crude but surprisingly precise map began to form—etched not in ink, but in the raw scratch of steel against stone.
"The first anomaly is about two hundred meters north of the main gate," he said, tracing a wide circle near what he called Gate One. "It increases gravitational pull. Crushes anyone who steps inside it. It's marked by a gigantic depression in the ice—an abyss, really. Just walking by it is safe, but don't step inside."
He moved his hand to the opposite side of the map and drew a rising spiral. "The second anomaly lifts you. Violently. If you step in it, you'll be launched perpendicular to the ground—straight up—until you crash into the floating rock formations above our camp. Recognizable by the snow that's falling… upwards."
Kilian spoke with eerie calm, as if he were describing weather patterns and not death traps.
"When it comes to our approach," he continued, "there are several cave complexes beneath the mountain. The group with Brozek will circle south and scale the mountain's lower spine. Glympse will guide the other group through the underpasses—tight, winding caverns that lead beneath the camp."
He scratched out two thin lines winding up from different sides of the mountain and marked them with rough Xs for hazards, elevations, and blind corners.
As Kilian rambled on—about shifting tunnels, patrol rotations, echo traps—I felt myself slowly detaching. The words became distant, like muffled voices through a thick wall. His explanations, dense and tactical, were clearly for Mikkel. The details, the strategies—they blurred together like frost on a windowpane.
And me?
I sat there, trying not to let my face show the frustration curling in my gut. I forced myself to nod at the right moments, to furrow my brow and look serious, but inside, I felt like a child listening to the language of men. My bravery wasn't enough here. My fists wouldn't help with gravitational traps or secret routes or silent infiltration.
And it hurt.
Was I even needed? If Lars were alive… Would I be sitting here at all? Would I be the one being led, or would I be leading? Would they even look at me for decisions?
Stop, I told myself. Now is not the time. You have to focus, Bjorn. You have to be present.
"Kilian," I said, forcing my voice to cut through the cloud in my head, "are Mikkel and I going with you straight to the front gate?"
Kilian looked up abruptly, shaking his head. "No, no. Of course not."
His tone was sudden, sharp. "The front gates are crawling with Apostorijats. And the Marines? I don't even want to talk about the Marines. We'd be dead before we took our third step."
I swallowed hard.
"We're going above," he continued, tapping the topmost part of the map. "Through the gravitational anomaly. It's the most dangerous route—but the least guarded."
My stomach turned at the idea.
"I'll show you how to move through the phenomenon," Kilian added. "It's simple… but not something I can explain with words. You'll understand when we get there."
Mikkel and I exchanged a glance—silent, uncertain.
Kilian caught it. "I know," he said. "It sounds mad. But it works. And we'll survive if we move right."
We both nodded. What else could we do?
Then Kilian sat back, the tip of his metallic sheet resting beside his knee. "There's one last problem," he said, almost as an afterthought.
We looked at him.
"How do we justify the split to the others?"
And suddenly, that question felt as heavy as the rest of the plan. Because if we got that part wrong—if the others didn't believe us, didn't follow through—everything would fall apart before it even began.