Marty stumbled through the front door, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. The cool air from outside still clung to his skin.

  His fingers fumbled with the deadbolt, twisting it into place with a muted click. He exhaled a long breath, but it did little to ease the knot in his stomach. How had he even driven home? He could barely remember the road. Only flashes: headlights cutting through the darkness. The hum of the tires. His friends murmuring in the backseat.

  And through it all, those final words echoed:

  Become worthy of it.

  Marty’s hands clenched. What did that even mean?

  The fridge hummed faintly. The ticking clock felt too loud. He moved down the hallway on autopilot.

  As he passed his mother’s bedroom, he hesitated. The door was cracked open, television light spilling into the hallway.

  Just check on her.

  He nudged the door open.

  She lay twisted in blankets, one arm over her face. The remote dangled from her hand. A late-night talk show droned softly.

  The exhaustion on her face wasn’t just from tonight. It was always there, etched into the fine lines around her eyes, deepening the shadows beneath them.

  She worked too hard. Always had.

  For him.

  Marty swallowed. The lump in his throat grew heavier.

  Carefully, he took the remote from her hand. She shifted but didn’t wake. He clicked off the TV. The silence felt sharp.

  He pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders.

  “Glad i deg, mamma.”

  She didn’t stir.

  For a moment, he stood there, watching her breathe.

  He closed the door softly and walked to his room.

  Everything felt wrong. Smaller. Stranger.

  He let his backpack drop. Kicked off his shoes. Collapsed onto the bed.

  His body ached.

  Not muscle.

  Deeper.

  Something buzzed beneath his skin.

  Waiting.

  He turned onto his side.

  Lightning flashed behind his eyes.

  A hammer raised.

  Thor’s last look.

  Become worthy of it.

  He rolled onto his back. The ceiling blurred overhead.

  Sleep wouldn’t come.

  He turned again.

  Nothing felt familiar.

  Nothing felt safe.

  Finally, exhaustion dragged him under.

  Marty was seated in a hall so old the air itself seemed to hum with echoes of forgotten wars. The roof arched high above, thatched and dark with age. Smoke curled upward toward beams blackened by centuries of fire. Shields lined the walls in solemn ranks, each one scarred and dented with the marks of long-dead warriors. Their silent watch filled the place with a weight that pressed on his chest, heavier than any words. The iron tang of old blood clung to the stones, and the banners overhead sagged like tired sentries.

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  He looked down at his hands—broad, rough, scarred.

  Not his own.

  Thor’s.

  Across from him, Loki lounged in the firelight, sharp eyes glinting like knives.

  “It’s been a long time, brother,” Loki said. “Shall we sit in silence forever?”

  “If I’ve nothing to say,” Marty’s own voice rumbled back, unbidden, “it’s because the years haven’t softened what I feel.”

  The doors slammed open, snow and wind rushing in. Odin strode forward, his single eye burning. Two cloaked servants in his wake.

  “I have been with the M?rkálfar,” Odin said. “Gullveig has given us her secrets. Our power may endure. Thor’s servants have been instructed and will guide the rite.”

  The pair stepped into the firelight, solemn.

  “The power must pass to the firstborn,” the woman said.

  Loki stiffened. “Always Thor’s blood. Never mine.”

  Thor’s voice answered, though bitterness burned behind it: “Be still, brother.”

  Odin ignored them, drawing a dark scroll from his cloak. Its runes pulsed faintly, alive in the firelight. He studied it long, then exhaled. “It must be destroyed, so its knowledge cannot be stolen. Burn it.”

  He cast it into the flames. Symbols flared, smoke curling upward as the parchment blackened.

  Then the doors opened again. Sif entered, guiding forward a boy — Thor’s son. Wide-eyed, trusting.

  “Come, child,” Odin said. His hands rested on the boy’s head as Thor’s servants joined the rite. Words older than stone filled the air.

  Power surged.

  Radiant. Terrible.

  It poured from Odin into the boy.

  The child gasped as one eye clouded black—the price of wisdom.

  Odin sagged. His face withered into age. He collapsed.

  The hall fell silent.

  With trembling effort, Odin raised a hand and pointed to the child.

  “Behold—Odin the Second.”

  Thor’s voice thundered from Marty’s chest, torn between pride and grief. “Odin is dead. Long live Odin the Second.”

  The words rang through the hall like a hammer strike. Become worthy of it.

  All were fixated on the boy. On the father. On the crown that had just passed.

  All but one.

  Loki’s gaze burned toward the fire. The scroll lay half-consumed, glowing faintly in the embers. His hand darted, quick as a serpent, plucking the parchment from the flames. The fire hissed and died at his touch. He held the smoldering remnant to his chest, unseen, his smile sharp and secret.

  Marty bolted upright in bed, gasping. Sweat slicked his skin, his breath ragged. The room was dark, save for the pale glow of the moon through the blinds. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering. A dream. Just a dream.

  But then—something moved.

  Someone was in his room.

  His breath caught.

  By the window–her. The woman from the field—the one who had pulled his car from the ditch—now standing motionless in his room.

  Moonlight framed her figure, casting long, eerie shadows across the room. She wasn’t looking at him—her gaze was fixed outside, her posture still, unreadable.

  Marty froze, his body stiff, as though something unseen held him in place.

  She couldn’t be real.

  But still, that ache in his chest—the feeling of familiarity, like a long-forgotten memory pushing to the surface—pulled at him.

  Then, slowly, she turned.

  Their eyes met.

  A strange, sharp sensation washed over him, like déjà vu, a flash of something he should’ve remembered.

  He remembered now, his mother holding him as she boarded a longship.

  The same longship.

  He was small in her arms, too young to understand. Only warmth, wind, firelight. The creaking wood of the ship beneath his feet. Her face was tender yet grim, and the stars overhead seemed so distant.

  And there–

  the woman.

  Watching over him in his mother’s arms. Her face was unreadable. And when she touched his brow, he felt it—warmth, power. She calmed his fears and stilled his whimpering.

  The weight of the memory settled in his chest now, stirring something ancient, something primal.

  As an infant. In the field last night. And now, in his room. She was watching.

  She saw he was awake and moved toward him – light, floating, almost gliding across the floor without touching it. Marty didn’t dare move. The air between them felt thick with an unspoken understanding.

  Her hand reached out.

  Marty didn’t flinch. He shouldn’t have trusted her. But something deep inside him recognized this moment—knew it in his bones. This wasn’t an accident.

  Her fingers gently pressed against his forehead.

  A wave of warmth washed over him. It wasn’t just comforting—it was vast, ancient, something far beyond what he could name. His thoughts slowed. His racing pulse quieted. For the first time since the chaos that night, the storm in his mind stilled, leaving nothing but peace.

  She stepped back, hand slipping from his forehead. She didn’t speak. Her gaze was distant, and she retreated, moving as silently as a shadow. She faded into the darkness.