She was there again—in Alta, in the long dark of winter.

  Aksel skated along the track through the forest just ahead of her, the sled tied at his waist bumping along behind him. Every breath stung her throat before freezing in her lungs. Even dreaming, she was chilled. The night was clear, and if the forecast was right, the sky might reward them with the Northern Lights.

  She glided along behind him effortlessly. Here, everyone grew up on skis, and she was no exception. The M?rketid had settled in—weeks without sun—but tonight the sky stirred with a shifting green veil, tendrils reaching across the heavens.

  The Northern Lights–long ago believed to be the gods warring across the skies. Aksel had always laughed at the superstition that children should be kept inside on nights like this, lest they be taken.

  They reached a clearing where the skeleton of an old ski jump loomed, rotting but still standing. Together they unhooked the sled, freed their skis, and climbed the creaking steps with the baby bundled in Ingrid’s arms. At the top they sat in the snow, so cold it wouldn’t melt beneath them.

  The aurora swelled, filling the whole sky. At first only green, then thickening and deepening into red, purple, and blue, colors twisting wildly until the heavens seemed alive. The baby stared, wide-eyed, his icy-blue gaze catching the light.

  That was when their world shifted.

  A streak of lightning cracked through the aurora—wrong, out of place. There were no clouds, no storm. Yet more bolts followed, splitting the sky. Bright fragments like falling stars tore downward, but instead of burning away, they fell closer. Too close.

  Aksel’s eyes met hers, and without words they both knew: time to go. They gathered the child and pushed off, skis hissing against the snow as the charged air pressed down on them. The baby began to cry.

  Above, a single “star” blazed brighter, plummeting fast. It wasn’t burning—it was falling. Toward their farm.

  They raced down the trail, wind tearing at their faces, hearts pounding. When they reached the gate, Aksel swung it wide and they skied toward the house. The reindeer in the paddock were crowded together and circling in a panic. Something was wrong.

  The pond by the back door, frozen solid since November, was broken open. A jagged hole gaped in the ice, steam rising from it in the brutal cold.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Aksel unhooked his skis, scooped up the baby with shaking hands. Ingrid stared at the pond, the strange mist curling like breath from something buried deep.

  Then—a hand emerged from the water. Fingers clawed at the ice, searching for purchase.

  Ingrid took the baby as Aksel dropped to the ground and slid to the edge of the hole in the ice. He grabbed the hand, hauling with all his strength. Another hand shot up, then a head. A man, enormous, grey-bearded, water already freezing in his hair. Aksel dragged him onto the ice. The stranger collapsed, gasping.

  Shadows flickered beyond the treeline. Figures half-seen, melting into the dark whenever Ingrid looked directly. Watching. Waiting.

  “Aksel!” her voice cracked. “What is it?”

  “Take the baby inside,” he rasped. “Stoke the fire. Now.”

  She hesitated, then obeyed, clutching their son close. Aksel half-carried the stranger toward the warmth of the house.

  Inside, they put the baby in a high chair and settled the freezing stranger by the cast iron stove. She stoked the fire with shaking hands, eyes wide.

  The man’s breathing slowed. He lifted his gaze—sharp, impossibly old, as if he saw through them. His voice came rough, low, heavy with age and storm.

  “Thank you.” He paused, looked around, ”Fate, it seems, has led me to your home.”

  Ingrid froze, barely whispering: “How… how did you…?”

  He didn’t answer directly. His gaze flicked to the window, to the aurora still roiling in the sky. “You saw it. The falling star that did not burn away. That was me.”

  Aksel’s throat tightened. His laugh came brittle, half a protest. “The star? That was—what are you saying?”

  The man’s expression grew grave. “Once, I was known as Odd-Arve Martiniussen. That man is gone. I carry another name now. Older than myth.” His eyes fixed on Aksel’s, hard as iron.

  “I am Thor.”

  Ingrid gasped, stepping back as if the floor tilted beneath her. “No… that’s impossible. Odd-Arve was my great grandfather, he vanished fifty years ago—vanished without a trace.”

  The man’s voice carried the weight of storms. “I have walked this earth longer than I should. I carry his mantle. His strength. His name. In truth, I am he.”

  Aksel’s face twisted between disbelief and something like fear. “Myths don’t walk out of ponds. You expect me to believe this?”

  But Ingrid’s voice came before his. Quiet. Certain. Almost reverent.

  “He’s telling the truth.”

  Before Aksel could respond, the door slammed wide. Two figures filled the threshold, faces cloaked in shadow.

  “It’s too late,” one warned, voice like a storm over the fjord. “He is coming.”

  Ingrid woke with a start, arms empty, face wet with tears. The TV flickered in the corner, but her mind was still in Alta. She dared not go back to sleep and let the dream continue. She couldn’t relive what came next. Not again.