Astrid stepped forward before I could even open my mouth.
Her posture was loose but deliberate, the kind of stance that said, I'm not here to waste time, but I'm not afraid of you either.
The three Skarnhaal tensed slightly, their eyes flicking between us, waiting to see what she'd do.
"Move aside," she said, her voice steady. "Go back to whatever miserable existence you have down here. You don't want this fight."
The largest one—the one who had sniffed me—let out a sharp exhale, something between a laugh and a snarl.
"You speak like you belong here." His dark eyes shifted to me again, narrowing. "But you don't. Neither of you do."
Astrid tilted her head. "And? We're here now."
The lean one—the dagger wielder—let out a low chuckle.
"Humans don't belong here," he said, his voice like a blade slipping from its sheath. "You walk in filth above ground. You should have stayed there."
Astrid exhaled sharply, muttering something under her breath before shaking her head.
"Fine."
Then, without reaching for a weapon, she raised her fists.
Not wildly. Not like some brawler throwing blind punches in a tavern fight.
Her stance was measured, balanced—controlled. One foot slightly forward, her weight evenly distributed, her hands positioned precisely in front of her face.
She knew how to fight.
Trained. Disciplined.
I had no doubt now—Astrid wasn't just strong. She was a warrior.
"If you won't move," she said, her voice as steady as her stance, "I'll move you myself."
The first Skarnhaal moved fast.
Astrid was faster.
She stepped in, closing the distance before he could reach for the axes at his belt, and drove her fist straight into his ribs.
A dull, meaty thud.
He staggered, but before she could press the attack, the lean one with the dagger lunged toward her, aiming to grab her from the side.
Astrid twisted, slamming her elbow into his jaw.
His head snapped back, but he didn't go down. Instead, he used the momentum to roll his shoulder, sending his own fist crashing into her stomach.
Astrid let out a sharp grunt, forced back a step.
But that was all they got.
The moment the third one—the massive one—reached for his weapon, she closed the gap.
She caught his wrist with both hands, twisted hard, and slammed her knee into his gut.
He didn't crumple.
Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulder and hurled her sideways.
Astrid hit the ground hard, rolling once before planting her hands and pushing off the floor, springing back onto her feet.
She exhaled sharply, blood on her lip now.
One against three was never easy.
She adjusted her stance again, her chest rising and falling.
The first Skarnhaal recovered from the rib shot and charged, his arms wide, trying to grapple her.
Astrid didn't let him.
She stepped in—low, controlled—and drove an uppercut straight into his chin.
His head snapped back, spit flying from his mouth. He stumbled—just for a second.
But a second was all she needed.
She turned her hips and threw a vicious hook into his temple.
His body went rigid, and he collapsed face-first onto the bridge.
One down.
The dagger-wielder came next, recovering from the elbow strike. He didn't charge blindly like the first—he tested her, throwing quick jabs, trying to force an opening.
Astrid blocked one, dodged another—but the third clipped her jaw.
Her head snapped to the side, but she rolled with it, twisting into a spinning backfist that caught him on the cheek.
The Skarnhaal stumbled.
She didn't let him recover.
Astrid stepped in, hooked her foot behind his leg, and shoved him backward.
He toppled onto his back—hard.
And then she was on him.
She mounted his chest, raining punches—one, two, three—until his body went still.
Two down.
The last one—the biggest—was already on her.
He grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the ground, his muscles bulging with raw strength.
I saw Astrid's legs kick once, her fingers clawing at his grip—
Then she braced herself.
And with one explosive motion, she swung her legs up and over his shoulder, twisting her entire body—
And they both came crashing down.
Astrid landed on top, the Skarnhaal's back slamming onto the iron bridge with a metallic crack.
Before he could recover, she grabbed his head with both hands—
And slammed it against the metal.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
And then he stopped moving.
Astrid exhaled sharply, her hands still gripping his skull, her breath heavy but steady.
She wiped her split lip with the back of her hand, glancing down at the three bodies sprawled around her.
Then, slowly, she stood up, rolling her shoulders.
I whistled low, stepping forward as Astrid wiped the blood from her lip.
"That was impressive."
She didn't respond, just exhaled slowly, shaking out her hands like they were still buzzing from the impact.
"Seriously, though," I continued, nudging one of the unconscious Skarnhaal with my boot. "Three on one, barehanded? That's not just strength—that's technique."
She shifted slightly, looking away.
"It's nothing," she muttered.
I raised a brow. "Nothing?" I gestured to the bodies on the ground. "They'd probably disagree."
She rubbed the back of her neck, still avoiding my gaze.
"They weren't that tough."
I let out a short laugh. "You took a hit, though."
"I've taken worse."
Her voice was quieter now, and something about it told me she wasn't lying.
I studied her for a moment, the way she carried herself now compared to a few seconds ago.
In combat, she was fierce, confident, ruthless.
But the moment the fight ended, it was like she shrank back into herself.
Like she was more comfortable throwing fists than holding a conversation.
I smirked. "You're not great at taking compliments, huh?"
She crossed her arms, looking away.
"Let's just keep moving."
I chuckled, stepping past her toward the bridge.
"Fine, fine. But seriously—hell of a technique."
She didn't respond.
But as we walked, I could've sworn I saw the faintest ghost of a smile.
Before we could step back onto the bridge, a deep, gravelly voice called out—
"You fight well, human."
We turned.
Standing a few paces away was an older Skarnhaal.
His skin was a dark, weathered gray, etched with deep scars and wrinkles, the kind only age and battle could carve into flesh. His long white hair was tied back, strands of it woven into thin braids that hung over his shoulders. Unlike the others, he wore no armor—just layered robes of dark fabric, marked with faded Skarnhaal symbols.
But what caught my attention most—
His eyes.
Unlike the younger warriors, who carried rage or suspicion, his gaze was calm, sharp, and knowing.
A man—or whatever he was—who had seen far more than we could imagine.
"Thank you," he said, stepping forward with measured ease. "Those three have been a problem for me as well. They think age makes me weak. That I am easy prey."
He looked down at the unconscious Skarnhaal with something like mild disappointment.
"They had no discipline. No patience. I warned them that would be their downfall."
He exhaled through his nose, then turned his gaze back to us.
"Come." His voice was steady but firm. "A hot tea will do well for you both. My home is not far."
Astrid glanced at me, as if checking for my reaction.
First a fight. Now tea.
Today was shaping up to be a strange damn day.