Wulfgar led us through the winding streets of Kringlegard at a brisk pace, cutting between houses and market stalls with the confidence of someone who knew exactly which alleys wouldn’t get you mugged. The villagers gave us a wide berth, some watching with open curiosity, others pretending not to notice the band of blood-streaked strangers following one of their top raiders like we were a particularly weird parade.

  We paused at a pop-up night market nestled between two rows of gingerbread houses, strung with colorful lanterns that pushed back the dark.

  Dozens of wooden stalls had been hastily assembled under red and green canvas awnings, their fronts illuminated by the glow of Christmas lights. Steam curled from bubbling cauldrons and the air was rich with voices, music, sizzling pans, and the occasional jingle of brass bells. Vendors barked out their wares with cheerful aggression, selling everything from Relics and Artifacts to Temporary Tattoos, recovered from a nearby Loot Arcade.

  But mostly? They sold food.

  Stacks of sweet bread dusted in powdered sugar. Piles of roasted nuts coated in crystallized honey. Spits of reindeer sausage. Braised root vegetables in savory herb glazes. And everywhere, that unmistakable scent of something fried and spiced that left my stomach growling.

  Jakob came to a dead stop beside me, his breath catching just slightly.

  He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked—eyes sweeping across the warm-lit stalls and the bustle of bundled-up shoppers, their cheeks red from cold and laughter.

  Then he exhaled, slow and soft.

  “This,” he said, voice distant, “feels like home.”

  I glanced at him. For once, his usually guarded expression was open, vulnerable in a way I wasn’t used to.

  “We have these in Germany,” he said. “Weihnachtsm?rkte, we call them. Christmas markets in English. Every year, in Berlin, my family would go. It was tradition. My mother, she would always get Glühwein, and my sister, she would drag me to every damn stall to find the perfect hand-carved ornament.” He smiled faintly. “My father would buy too many sausages. We’d make a day of it. Eat until we couldn’t walk. Fight about stupid things. It was... nice.”

  His gaze drifted across the stalls until it landed on one tucked in the corner of the market, its canvas striped red and white, with iron skillets sizzling over an open flame.

  Jakob’s eyes lit up.

  “Das gibt’s doch nicht… oder doch?” he muttered, then strode toward it like a man in a trance.

  The vendor, a stocky woman with fireproof gloves wielding a large ladle, was flipping golden discs of dough in a bubbling pan. She smiled as Jakob approached and, in a moment of pure nostalgia, they slipped into rapid-fire German. I caught maybe three words, none of them helpful.

  Then she handed him a wax-paper pouch full of steaming, irregularly shaped fritters dusted with powdered sugar and something nutmeg-adjacent.

  “Mutzenmandeln,” he said, holding them up like a sacred relic. “Almond fritters. You can’t even find these in most of Germany anymore. She says it’s a family recipe passed down from her mother and grandmother before her.”

  He popped one into his mouth and closed his eyes like he was communing with the divine.

  Harper watched him with a soft smile. Even Temperance didn’t make a snide comment, which, frankly, was a Christmas miracle.

  Once he was finished with the first, he handed a fritter to each of us and urged us to eat while he devoured another.

  It tasted like heaven. The dough hot and crisp, the apple flavor subtle and cut with cinnamon. The closest thing I’d ever had was a bear-claw, but this was better in every way. Almost otherworldly.

  Jakob licked his fingers free of powdered sugar.

  “It’s like tasting home,” he said, before packing up what was left of the fritters and shoving the bag into his coat pocket for later.

  “A man of true culture,” Wulfgar said, before ushering us onward.

  After another few minutes of walking, we arrived at a squat workshop at the edge of a frozen plaza, its silhouette framed against the night sky. It was built like a longhouse just... angrier. The walls were reinforced with dark iron bands that crisscrossed the timber like the whole thing had been strapped down to keep it from exploding. A series of chimneys stabbed out of the roof at odd angles, each one belching smoke that smelled like hot oil and ozone.

  Wulfgar pounded on the heavy steel-banded door three times. Sparks crackled along the seams for a second, and then the entire thing unlocked with a hiss of steam and a series of mechanical clicks.

  “Try not to touch anything,” Wulfgar muttered as he ushered us in. “The last guy who did lost a hand,” he warned. “And not in the figurative sense.”

  The interior was even more chaotic than I’d expected—and I’d expected chaos.

  It was like a forge run by a mad tinkerer with a caffeine addiction and no concept of fire codes. The air inside was thick with heat and metal tang, and the lighting came from a hodgepodge of flickering bulbs, rune-lanterns, and what looked like repurposed glowing Christmas lights strung across the rafters.

  Tables were everywhere, cluttered with parts, tools, and half-finished contraptions that looked like something out of a Victorian steampunk movie. Gears and pistons jutted out of mechanical limbs, a smoking cauldron bubbled with some viscous neon-green liquid, and one workbench was covered in grenade-sized ornaments with suspicious blinking lights.

  Shelves lined the walls, jam-packed with Artifacts ranging from the legitimately impressive—a floating silver gauntlet crackling with lightning—to the downright concerning: a taxidermied Yeti head wearing night vision goggles.

  In the center of it all stood the man we’d come to see.

  Nikoli.

  He was huge.

  Tall enough to have to duck beneath the chains dangling from the rafters, broad enough to cast his own gravitational pull. His arms were bare and covered in interlocking tattoos that looked part tribal, part arcane. His chest heaved beneath a sweat-soaked white tank-top and he wore red leather pants, trimmed with white Yeti fur, which were held up by thick black suspenders. A matching red coat was draped over the back of a nearby chair.

  Taken together, I had no doubt the man would look like Santa Claus.

  If Santa Claus were a Scandinavian warlord.

  A set of welding goggles rested on his forehead like a crown, and a massive forge hammer hung from a holster at his hip. Sparks danced behind him as a set of automated bellows puffed flames into the hearth.

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  He didn’t look up from the anvil he was working at—not right away. He was busy shaping what appeared to be a candy cane… sword. A literal broadsword forged from red-and-white-striped steel, glowing with heat and holiday cheer.

  After a few seconds of silence, he stopped, straightened, and turned to face us.

  Steel-grey eyes swept over our group, sharp and assessing. He wiped his hands on a soot-stained cloth and then stepped forward, the floor creaking under his boots.

  “You,” he said, voice like granite ground through a meat grinder. “You are the ones Wulfgar dragged out of snow, da?”

  “Dragged is strong word,” I replied. “We came willingly.”

  He grunted. “Voluntarily stepped into village full of unknown Delvers in murder-themed winter wonderland.” He spoke with what I could only assume was a Russian accent. “Hah. Brave or stupid.”

  “Little bit of both,” I said.

  Nikoli cracked a smile. It was not friendly. It was more the kind of smile you see on a bear right before it disembowels a moose.

  “Good. Is how I prefer it.” He jerked his bearded chin toward the cluttered workbenches. “Welcome to my temporary workshop. Touch nothing. Everything in here is dangerous. Including me.”

  “Noted,” Jakob muttered.

  Nikoli stepped forward and reached out a hand. “Name is Nikoli Volkov. Jarl of Kringlegard. Builder of wonders. Slayer of monsters. Winner of three consecutive back-alley Yule Duels.” He paused. “And Santa, I suppose. On Tuesdays.”

  I shook his hand. His grip put Wulfgar’s to shame.

  “I’m Dan,” I said. “This is Temperance, Jakob, and Harper.”

  “Da,” he said. “I know who you are.” He shot a look at Wulfgar, then jerked his head toward the door. “Leave us, Wulf. We have business to discuss.”

  Wulfgar thumped a fist against his chest in response, then offered a deep bow and saw himself from the workshop.

  The moment the door clicked shut behind Wulfgar, the temperature in the room seemed to rise by ten degrees.

  Nikoli fixed us with a hard flat stare that seemed to see through my futile attempt at a disguise.

  “Where is dog?” he asked. The words rattled me, and the world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do not play dumb,” Nikoli said. “Blue dog. Mimic. Big googly eyes. Where is it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying my best to stay cool, even as I prepared to fight or run.

  Instead of attacking, Nikoli moved back to the cluttered workbench and shoved aside a stack of blueprints, a jar full of teeth labeled Yeti, and a still-sparking device that may or may not have been ticking ominously. From beneath the chaos, he pulled a weathered parchment scroll and slammed it onto the anvil.

  A wanted poster. One I’d seen before.

  My face stared back at me from the rough paper—a little too angular, the eyebrows way too intense, but close enough to be uncomfortable. Even without my trademark red bathrobe, it was impossible to mistake it for anyone else.

  “Don’t lie, it will only make things harder. Now where is dog? Report says you go nowhere without the beast.”

  I sighed and set the bag on the floor.

  “It’s fine, Croc,” I said, “he already knows.”

  The bag writhed and shifted, sprouting limbs and a tail that bubbled outward into a blue dog shape.

  “Ah, and there is it,” Nikoli said. “Croc. And that officially makes you Discount Dan. The Shopkeeper. You are more famous than you think. Or infamous. A great many people want you dead.”

  “The Flayed Monarch,” I replied evenly.

  “Da, but not only him and his Skinless Court.” He tapped the bottom of the poster with a thick, soot-streaked finger. “Black Harbor Syndicate also hunts you. Big price. Very tempting.”

  My team went still behind me.

  I waited a beat. “And yet, here I am. Still breathing.”

  Nikoli gave a grunt that might have been a laugh. Or maybe just indigestion. It was hard to tell. “The Skinless Court holds no sway here. And I do not care for Syndicate. Cowards. Afraid to bleed. Afraid to get hands dirty. They send others to do work, then pretend to be kings. All coin, no courage. They only chase what others have already marked. No better than scavengers. I spit on them.”

  He did, actually. Hocked a loogie right onto the forge floor. It hissed against the hot stone.

  “So you’re not planning to turn me in?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  He turned and leveled those iron-grey eyes on me. “If I wanted bounty, you would already be meat.”

  He returned to the bench, rolled the poster up again, and jammed it into the furnace where it lit instantly and curled into ash.

  “I am not fool,” he said, pacing now. “I know power when I see it. You are hunted—but you are dangerous. Capable. A man willing to do what it takes to survive. You have team, yes, but you are not afraid to get dirty. To do what must be doing, even at a price.” His hand shot out like a cobra and snagged my wrist, lifting my blackened hand into the air. “Those with soft hands do not get injuries like this.” He tisked and shook his head. “No, this is the wound of a warrior. And warriors, I respect. Can work with.”

  The tension in the room seemed to ease just a hair. If he wanted to talk, it meant he didn’t want to kill us. Not yet, anyway.

  “As it happens, I need just such a warrior right now. You see, I have problem.”

  I sighed already knowing exactly where this was going.

  “Let me guess,” I said, “you want us to solve your problem, and in return you don’t sell us out to the nearest flaying enthusiast.”

  Nikoli grinned, all teeth. “Smart man. Besides, seems only fitting since you are indirectly the cause of problem.”

  He gestured around the room. “This? This is temporary. A shell. My true workshop—my forge, my soul—it sits beside the Kiosk you need to reach next floor. Prime location. Heart of the level.”

  “So why are you here instead of there?” I asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  “Because I was ousted. The Monarch sent an emissary to recruit me, but I would not kneel. He replaced me. Sent a creature to take over the kiosk and my workshop. And so, here I am.” He spread his arms. “Exiled to this second-rate forge.”

  Temperance’s arms were crossed. “Why not go take it back yourself? You don’t seem like the ask permission type.”

  “Is not so simple.” Nikoli’s voice dropped into a low rumble. “Is politics.”

  “Of course it is,” I muttered.

  “It is powerful thing, this monster. Frightening. The residents—my people—fear the creature. Old superstitions. They whisper in corners. Say it is guardian. Say it is a curse. They fear the Monarch even more. If I order an attack, I lose face. They see me as tyrant, not protector. My strength is leadership. Influence. If I lose that”—he hooked a thumb and dragged it across his throat—“then I am no longer Jarl. I am corpse waiting to happen.”

  “But,” Harper said, “if we take out the creature…”

  “No, not you alone,” Nikoli interrupted. “I will help. I am not a man to stay bloodless in such a fight. But I cannot do it alone. But together? We kill the beast, and I reclaim what is mine without the need to involve the others. I keep face—and my power. I reward you with shelter. Workshop access. Even trade, if you like. And you get to use the Kiosk. Unopposed.”

  “A win-win,” Jakob said, lips thinning.

  “Da, a win for all,” Nikoli agreed, but his tone was a little too smooth. “And, more importantly, a loss for Monarch. Already his empire is crumbling—this is a chance for all us to get out from under his bloody thumb.”

  “What, exactly, do you mean his empire is crumbling?” Temperance asked.

  Nikoli’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Perhaps you have not heard, then? The Skinless Court is at war. Beset on every side. The Monarch is leaning hard on his alliance with the Lord of Coin, but in doing so he has shown his throat.” He man raised his chin. “Such weakness has not gone unnoticed by the other Sovereigns. Riot Roy and the Sorority Queen of Kappa Nu Theta have formed compact.

  “They smell blood in the water and even now,” he continued, “their forces assault the Skinless Court. It is a war on three fronts—against them and you. And, if rumors are true, the Flayed Monarch is not what he once was. He is diminished by his battle against the Boundless Wanderer. If he loses Kiosk Network to you…” he paused and shrugged. “Well, it could be Poslednyaya kaplya, perepolnivshaya chashu. The last drop that overflows the cup.”

  I’d be lying if I said the offer wasn’t tempting.

  Still, I didn’t move. I studied Nikoli.

  The soot. The sweat. The firelight gleaming off the tattoos inked into his skin. The man radiated strength. Authority. Command. But behind all that, behind the forge-heat and bravado, there was something else that he wasn’t telling us.

  “You’re holding something back,” I said, fully convinced.

  Nikoli didn’t flinch. “Of course. Am not idiot. But you will know in time. For now, what I offer is real. My word, as Jarl. Agree to help me, and I help you. Is that simple.”

  Temperance gave a half-snort that might’ve been approval. Harper nodded cautiously. Jakob seemed unsure, while Croc seemed oblivious. The dog was absently scratching its ear with a hind leg.

  This wasn’t the first time someone had used us as a weapon, and it wouldn’t be last. In the immortal words of Ajax, there was no such thing as a free lunch—not in the Backrooms.

  “Okay,” I said after a long beat. “We’ll do it. Help you get your workshop back.”

  Nikoli smiled—broad, fierce, and predatory. “Good. Very good.”

  He turned back to his forge and threw another log onto the fire. The flames roared higher, bathing the room in red light and shadow.

  “I will arrange for Wulfgar to escort you to local inn,” he said. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow I will show you how to use forge.” He picked up his candy cane sword and inspected the edge like it was a surgical instrument. “You will want to prepare for battle. This creature... it is not like others. Level 58. Very powerful.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “Because everything up to now has been so reasonable.”

  Nikoli gave a final nod. “Welcome to Kringlegard, Shopkeeper. Let us see how dangerous you really are.”