Training was over, Marty stood at the ridge’s edge, gazing down at the settlement nestled in the hidden valley below.

  Valhalla.

  Not the golden hall of the sagas, not the towering fortress of the dead. No, that was all myth and comic books, this was real—hastily built, rough-hewn, dragged across the world and buried in the Sawtooth Mountains by M?rkálfar hands, with Thialfi, Roskva, and even Odin himself lending their strength. A refuge for exiles, for survivors. A place that had become his home.

  The settlement sprawled like a living thing, tangled and unrestrained. The largest structures bore the unmistakable touch of M?rkálfar craftsmanship. Smoke curled from chimneys, mingling with the bite of mountain air, the scent of pine, sweat, and steel.

  Figures moved through the muddy pathways, clad in furs and iron, their voices sharp with the cadences of the Old Tongue.

  And today, he would leave it behind.

  The thought settled uneasily in his chest. Beyond this safe haven waited Loki, the life he had left behind. Here, he had been protected, surrounded by warriors and myths made flesh. Out there, he would stand alone.

  No.

  Not alone.

  He looked down at his hands. Sparks crackled between his fingers, the storm murmuring in answer.

  Never alone.

  Boots crunched on the rocky ground behind him. A familiar voice cut through the wind.

  “Come, gutta mi,” Thialfi said. “Time to go.”

  Marty curled his fingers, snuffing out the sparks.

  As Marty followed Thialfi down the narrow path toward the village, the shadows stirred.

  They were here.

  Scattered among the rough-hewn buildings, half-hidden in doorways and beneath eaves, the nisse moved through the woods and buildings—not as intruders, but as keepers of the places that had become theirs.

  The husnisse wove among the buildings, silent as settling wood, their gnarled fingers trailing over doorframes, feeling for something unseen. They moved in pairs, their bearded faces unreadable as they muttered in a tongue no man spoke. One paused beside an axe leaning against a doorpost, running a hand along its worn handle. Whatever he found in its touch satisfied him; he grunted and moved on.

  The fj?snisse emerged from the barns and outbuildings, tending to the livestock as if they were their own. Marty observed as one crouched beside an old mare, his small, calloused hands running along her legs, seeking out weaknesses. Another perched on the edge of a hayloft, black-glass eyes scanning the animals below with something between scrutiny and ownership.

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  And from the trees, the skogsnisse stood like sentinels.

  They stood at the forest’s edge, their small forms blending with the bark and shadows, only their pale eyes betraying their presence. Unlike the others, they did not touch or tend. They only watched and waited.

  A chill curled down Marty’s spine. He had faced warriors, battled storms, felt the power of thunder in his bones. But the nisse were something else.

  Thialfi smirked, catching Marty’s unease. “Don’t let them rattle you, gutta mi,” he said, though his voice held none of its usual lightness. “They were here before us. They’ll be here long after we’re gone.”

  Marty exhaled, his gaze trailing over the figures moving with quiet, unshakable purpose.

  “It’s not them being here that rattles me,” he muttered. “It’s not knowing what they get out of it.”

  Thialfi nodded, arms folding across his chest. “A fair thought. You’d do well to remember it.”

  He gestured toward the scattered figures, his tone heavier now.

  “They are not our allies. They are not our enemies. They simply are. Roskva has convinced them—for now—that protecting you serves their interests. But do not mistake that for loyalty.”

  Marty’s gaze flickered toward the skogsnisse at the tree line.

  They finally approached the settlement and Thialfi sighed, shifting his weight as he watched the husnisse run their hands along the timber walls of Valhalla’s great hall. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, carrying an unspoken weight.

  “They will protect your home in Oakdale,” he said.

  Thialfi hesitated, then knelt, dragging his finger through the dirt. He traced the rough shape of a house, encircled by crooked lines.

  “The husnisse will tend the walls,” he said, tapping the center. “They will know if someone crosses the threshold uninvited. If the beams splinter. If the stones shift beneath the weight of something that does not belong. They have agreed to protect your home.”

  His finger moved, drawing a path toward the left. “The fj?snisse will guard the outbuildings—the barn, the animals. If a predator comes in the night, they will know before the animals scent it. If something lingers too long at the edge of the fields, they will see it before it dares to cross. And they have sworn to protect it”

  Marty watched as Thialfi’s finger outlined the trees.

  “The skogsnisse will tend the treeline.” His voice was quieter now. “They will whisper to the roots. They will listen to the stones. If something unnatural crosses the property line, they will intervene, they may not be able stop it from entering, but they will not let it leave.”

  Marty swallowed. “When will they get there, is my mother alone now?”

  At this, Thialfi smirked. “Ah. The nisse–your protectors.” He sat back, brushing the dirt from his hands. “They’re already at your place.”

  Marty stiffened. “What?”

  “They’ve been there since midsummer, when your mother went home,” Thialfi said. “They rebuilt the home and added a few things. So long as Ingrid keeps leaving offerings, they will stay.”

  He could imagine food being left out and vanishing. Porridge being left at the door of a barn or shed and vanishing. Gifts of berries and fruit being laid near the trees, all vanishing. And in return scratches in the floor and in the paint disappeared, the animals tended to, and the trees grew stronger than their nature would allow.

  Thialfi rose, dusting his hands off. “You’ll be safe in Oakdale, gutta mi—for now. But don’t grow comfortable. The nisse do not promise forever. And if they ever decide you are no longer worth keeping…”

  He let the words hang.

  Marty didn’t need them finished.

  He would be as much a stranger to them as Loki.

  And even Odin would not dare ask what became of those who lost the favor of the nisse.

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  Would you trust the nisse… or would their help make you more nervous than their absence?