The morning sun crept higher in the sky as Marty and the stranger drove home. The peacefulness of the day stood in stark contrast to the chaos of the night before—the threat at the diner still fresh in Marty’s mind. His heart was still racing, but as they neared the house, a quiet sense of unease settled over him.

  The man sat rigidly beside him, scanning the streets with deliberate intensity. Marty stole a glance at him, but he didn’t seem to care. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the diner, and something about his silence charged the air between them, thick with unspoken tension. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low, almost a murmur.

  “I am called Thialfi.”

  “I know,” came Marty’s weak reply.

  “Good. Roskva will see to your friends. We will speak at your home, there is much to discuss.” His tone was oddly distant, yet something about it carried an undertone of purpose, like he was measuring Marty’s response.

  Marty nodded, unsure what to say. The silence stretched between them again, heavier now, like the calm before a storm.

  As they neared the driveway, Marty saw something out of place—standing on the sidewalk in front of the house was an old woman. Her hand was gripping a cane, and with unnerving focus, she was staring up at the house. Something about her didn’t sit right.

  “Who’s that?” Marty whispered, his voice barely above a murmur.

  Thialfi didn’t answer immediately. His eyes narrowed, tension radiating from him. Without looking at Marty, he muttered a quiet warning: “Pull over, when we get out, stay close. Many are looking for you this morning.”

  Marty’s gut twisted. Something about the woman felt wrong—like she was part of a memory he didn’t have. He slowed the car and parked just a few feet from her. They stepped out, the car doors shutting with a thud that was jarring with Marty’s nerves on edge.

  They walked toward the porch. The woman turned slowly. Across the street, Ms. Halla stopped rocking. She stood slowly, eyes fixed on the old woman.

  The morning light caught the stranger’s eyes, and they gleamed with something… off. Her face was deeply lined, but her gaze was penetrating. She didn’t speak. Instead, she looked past them, her eyes settling on the house like she was studying it. Her lips curled into a smile, slow and deliberate, as if savoring a private joke.

  “Can I help you?” Marty asked. His voice cracked despite his best effort to sound firm. Every instinct screamed caution, but he couldn’t look away.

  The old woman didn’t respond right away. She let the question hang in the air, her smile unbroken. Again, she looked to the house, eyes flicking over it with unsettling familiarity.

  Finally, she spoke. “No,” she said softly. Her voice was too sweet—almost syrupy. “I do not think you are inclined to help me.”

  Marty’s chest tightened. He stepped a little closer to Thialfi, needing the solid presence beside him. But Thialfi was motionless, eyes locked on the woman.

  Then Marty saw it. A sword hung from Thialfi’s belt.

  It hadn’t been there before.

  Thialfi’s hand now rested on its hilt, a short sword—but impossible to miss in the daylight, and yet Marty had missed it until now. The blade caught the sun, looking out of place in the calm morning air, as though it had manifested just for this moment.

  Marty’s stomach dropped. The atmosphere had changed. The quiet turned oppressive. Thialfi stepped forward, subtle but ready—his whole body taut, alert. His voice was low and sharp, honed like the edge of a blade.

  “You stand here with no explanation, no request for aid, and yet you linger. You do not belong. Who are you?”

  The woman’s smile deepened. Her eyes flicked to Thialfi. Something flickered—recognition or something older, more dangerous. The silence stretched, thick as fog.

  “Who am I?” she repeated, amused. “I am but a traveler, seeking peace. Peace in a world that doesn’t know it.”

  Thialfi’s voice grew sharper. “Peace,” he echoed, stepping closer. “You expect me to believe that? You’re no wanderer. What are you really after, old woman?”

  The smile twitched. Her eyes didn’t leave Thialfi. “You think you have the right to question me, peasant? Perhaps it is not I who should answer, but you. You, who have seen so much—and still know so little.”

  Her words hung like smoke. Marty felt the tension coil, ready to snap. Thialfi’s grip tightened.

  “Enough,” Thialfi said, his voice like steel. “Who are you?”

  The woman tilted her head, once again gazing at the house. For a breath, the world held still. Then her form shimmered. The air warped slightly, like heat rising off pavement.

  “Very well,” she said, her voice suddenly ancient. “I am he that walks among mortals. I have worn many faces. I am older than them all.”

  Frost began to grow along the pavement and grass. The air grew chilled.

  Her voice was changed, amused. “I am Loki.”

  Marty’s breath caught. Loki?

  Thialfi’s expression darkened, fury blooming behind his eyes. “Loki,” he spat. “What is it you seek?”

  Loki’s smile widened. Her face shifted again—colder now, more predatory.

  “Why, Thialfi, you wound me,” she said mockingly. Her voice was still sweet, but now edged with malice. “Can a god not seek a little peace without being interrogated? Do you think I’m here by accident? That this isn't part of something far greater? After all, your master cast me down just yestereve. But I have recovered. And I gather…” her eyes slid to Marty. “…your master has not.”

  Marty’s mind raced. The old woman—no, Loki—had been standing there, waiting for something. For him, maybe. But why?

  “I don’t understand,” he said, hoarse. “What do you want with me?”

  Loki turned toward him, eyes narrowing with unsettling intensity. The air seemed to still, as if reality itself was waiting. Then a slow, dangerous smile curled on her lips.

  “Oh, sweet boy,” she murmured, almost to herself. “So much like the child I once sought. How… curious.”

  Marty stepped back instinctively. Loki’s gaze lingered on him like he was something to be studied, or dissected.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. The hairs on his neck stood up.

  Loki’s smile deepened. Her eyes gleamed with a dark recognition.

  “The baby I fought so hard to take. A child born under… unusual circumstances. An heir to the line of Thor. Yes, yes…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes scanned him, like she was finally fitting the pieces together.

  “Are you talking about me?” Marty said.

  Loki turned toward him, eyes narrowing with unsettling intensity. The air seemed to still, as if reality itself was waiting. Then a slow, dangerous smile curled on her lips.

  “Ole-Martin.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Marty flinched. His face flushed hot. “How do you know my name?”

  Loki’s smile widened, cruel and amused. “Because I nearly stole you once—from your mother’s arms. You were mine for a heartbeat, until your predecessor intervened. And now, here you are—no longer that helpless babe. Standing where Thor once stood.”

  Her grin twisted. “Curious. I would’ve thought your father, Aksel, would have kept you hidden. And yet, here you stand. Alone. Where is your father, Ole Martin? Did he not recover from the injuries I gave him? Did you grow up without him?”

  Marty’s stomach lurched. Aksel. His father. Gone. And now this twisted thing stood here, claiming to have had a hand in it.

  His breath stuttered. “What…?” he whispered. “You... killed my dad?”

  Loki’s grin widened, cruel and sharp. “Killed him? I left him breathing when I was forced to leave that night.”

  Thialfi stepped forward, sword still gripped tight. “Enough, Loki,” he growled. “You failed last night. And you will not touch the boy today.”

  Loki’s eyes flicked to him. Her smile never faltered. “Harm him? You misunderstand, old friend. I am not here to harm. The threads of fate are already woven. I merely walk the path laid before me.”

  She flicked her fingers toward Marty. “And Ole-Martin here… will soon understand his place in this grand tale.”

  The air thickened. The ground trembled. Loki’s presence pressed down like a stormcloud. And then—her appearance began to shift. Her form shimmered, the air bent around her.

  Marty staggered back. The old woman was gone. In her place stood a visage of fury and rage—Loki, reshaped into an uncanny, personification of terror.

  A chill swept through the air. The sky dimmed. Frost raced across the grass. Snow fell — then thickened into a white wall.

  Marty’s breath steamed in front of him, heart hammering. The landscape was blanketed in fresh snow in an instant. Summer toys lay abandoned in neighbors’ yards, half-buried under the sudden white dusting, the eerie silence pressing down as the cold bit at his skin.

  Loki’s laughter echoed, sharp and cold.

  “Do you see now?” he said, his voice cutting through the storm. “You are no longer simply an ordinary boy, Ole-Martin. You are part of something older. Something far more dangerous.”

  Thialfi tightened his grip on his sword. “Enough, Loki. We are not your pawns.”

  Loki raised a hand. The sky groaned. A deep rumble rolled across the land—and then, with a deafening crack, A hill that lay a mile or so beyond Marty’s house split open.

  From the chasm, something massive began to rise.

  A Jotun.

  The giant rose from where it had slumbered in the earth. Its eyes burned with ancient rage. Its body, stone-like but fluid, moved with terrifying grace. With each step, the earth quaked. Trees snapped. Snow, dirt and grass exploded into the air.

  Across the street, Ms. Halla pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders.

  “Damned J?tun,” she muttered, already moving.

  The cellar door banged shut behind her.

  “Get back!” Thialfi shouted, sword raised. The blade glinted in the stormlight.

  Loki lifted a hand again, fingers curled like a conductor of destruction. The wind howled. Snow whipped in wild spirals. Branches cracked. Rocks shuddered. But this wasn’t chaos—it was orchestrated. Controlled.

  Marty ducked as a gust nearly threw him to the ground. He scrambled upright, wind screaming in his ears. The Jotun lumbered closer, and the world seemed to shrink beneath its steps.

  “Stand down, Thialfi!” Loki shouted over the wind and snow, almost laughing. “You cannot win. I have the Jotun.”

  “I will not yield,” Thialfi answered, unmoved.

  Marty bolted for the garage. No one was watching him—everyone’s eyes were on the giant.

  His father’s old hunting rifle lay across the workbench. He grabbed it, heart pounding, and sprinted back outside.

  The Jotun’s shadow fell across the yard. Marty raised the rifle, bracing it against his shoulder. He pulled the trigger—

  Click.

  Empty.

  The sound was worse than a gunshot. His stomach dropped. It wasn’t a weapon—it was useless.

  “Mama!” he shouted, voice breaking, as the Jotun’s foot came crashing down upon his house. He couldn’t do anything. He was helpless.

  Ingrid crawled from the wreckage, face streaked with dust and hair full of debris, eyes wide with fury and horror. She looked up—and saw Loki. The memory of the night Aksel vanished, flashed in her eyes.

  Loki turned. Their gazes met.

  And he smiled.

  “Well, well. Ingrid,” he purred. “It’s been too long. I fear our reunion will be brief.”

  “Hold kjeft, din j?vel,” she snarled.

  Loki laughed. Cold. Mocking. He raised his hand—and hurled a gleaming axe straight at her.

  The axe spun directly toward her heart.

  But just as the axe was about to strike, a blur of motion cut across the wreckage.

  Thialfi.

  His sword met the axe midair with a resonant clang, the collision sending a shockwave through the snow-choked yard. Sparks scattered like fireflies as the axe spun off-course, embedding itself deep in the wooden post of the half-toppled porch behind Ingrid.

  She didn’t flinch.

  Loki’s smile faltered, the faintest crease of irritation tightening around his eyes.

  “Ah, Thialfi,” he murmured, almost amused. “Still kneeling at your master’s feet.”

  “I play no games,” Thialfi growled, lowering his blade into a guarded stance. “But if you raise a hand to her again, I will end you.”

  Marty stared, heart hammering, rifle still gripped uselessly in his hands. It might as well have been a broomstick. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Ingrid—bruised, battered, but unbroken. Her expression was carved from something ancient and furious. Her gaze didn’t leave Loki.

  She took a single, deliberate step forward. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Loki cocked his head, eyes narrowing with sudden interest. “Oh? And what, may I ask, does frighten you, Ingrid?” His voice dripped with mockery.

  Ingrid didn’t blink. “You took my husband, and I survived. You think you can destroy my home and hurt me?”

  Before Loki could unleash more of his dark magic, another figure appeared—Roskva.

  Roskva moved with the quiet authority of someone who had seen centuries of battle. She reached Ingrid in a heartbeat, seized her arm, and didn’t slow. “No time. Come.”

  Ingrid clung to her. “Takk for deg,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. She threw her arms around Roskva—quick, fierce—then they were moving again.

  They sprinted across the yard, past overturned furniture and a sprinkler still clicking uselessly in the snow. At the back fence, a tree had fallen, tearing open the frozen earth. Its roots clawed upward like ribs, and beneath them yawned a narrow hole, dark and damp.

  Roskva dropped to her knees and shoved aside a tangle of brambles. A faint chittering rose from the hollow, not menacing, but old. A flicker of movement—gone too fast to see clearly.

  Without hesitation, she slid into the hole feet first, vanishing into the earth. Ingrid, heart pounding, followed—scrambling down into the cold dark just as something massive struck the far side of the yard with a thunderous crunch.

  Then they were gone.

  Chaos ruled. Marty’s home lay in ruins. Streetlights flickered, then burst. Windows shattered under the fury of the storm reflecting Loki’s rage.

  Marty’s heart hammered. He wanted to move, to fight—but the rifle in his hands was dead weight. The snow blinded him. Breathing felt like choking on frost. The earth trembled beneath his feet, and he staggered, barely upright in the deepening drifts.

  The Jotun loomed ahead, its massive fist rising again.

  Marty froze. His vision tunneled. The roar of battle drowned everything.

  This is how it would end.

  And then—

  At the end of the snow-choked street, a rider waited.

  Tall. Armored. Ancient.

  He moved with eerie calm through the chaos, mounted on a horse that defied reason. Eight legs churned effortlessly through the snow, its pace steady and terrifying. In his hand, the rider held an ancient spear that shimmered with something older than magic.

  With a single, fluid motion, he hurled it.

  The spear flew straight.

  It struck true.

  The Jotun howled – and broke. Stone, dirt and ice collapsing in ruin

  For one heartbeat, silence reigned.

  Loki spun, wild-eyed, hands crackling with fury. But his gaze locked on the rider—whose spear had already returned to his grip as if pulled by fate itself. The rider’s eyes—one bright as starlight, the other withered and hollow—found Marty.

  And then he spoke.

  "Stig p?," he commanded, his voice deep and final. "Bli med meg, Ole-Martin. Det er tid for ? m?te ditt skjebne."

  Marty understood.

  The words sliced through the noise. Marty’s mind swirled with fear and clarity. His mother was safe. There was nothing left here but ruin.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  He reached for the rider’s outstretched hand—and was pulled up in a single, effortless motion.

  The world blurred.

  Snow and ruin vanished in a rush of wind.

  The eight-legged steed thundered forward.

  Marty did not look back.