As the sun dipped below the distant mountains, the stack of wood at the center of the clearing was set alight. The fire ignited the dry kindling, and the brown pine needles erupted into flames. It climbed higher and higher, burning brighter and taller than any man, its flames licking the sky.

  Around it, figures moved—some familiar, some less so. The M?rkálfar had come down from the high forests, their pale eyes gleaming in the dimming light. Somber as they were, even they allowed the faintest hints of mirth, speaking in low, melodic voices as they stood just beyond the fire’s reach.

  Among them were others—husnisse with their wiry frames and long beards, fj?snisse from the barns, and the skogsnisse, who kept to the edges of the trees, watching the celebration with wary, flickering eyes. It had taken weeks to mend relations after Marty’s uncontrolled strike had torn through their trees, but now they had reached an uneasy truce. He had even seen one or two nod in his direction earlier that evening—though whether in respect or reluctant tolerance, he couldn’t tell.

  Thialfi stood near the fire, a horn of mead in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other as he recounted some tale that had the nearby listeners—Ingrid among them—laughing. He had been a brutal teacher, never letting Marty settle, always pushing him further, but tonight, there was pride in his gaze.

  Roskva sat cross-legged on a log, watching the fire with her usual quiet contemplation. When Marty settled beside her, she didn’t look at him immediately.

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  Marty considered what to say, or whether or not to say anything at all. Finally, he ventured, "I guess I finally feel like I belong here."

  Roskva hummed, as if unconvinced. "Belonging is not simply about strength. It’s about understanding why you stand where you do. Why you deserve to stand there."

  Marty shifted, resting his forearms on his knees. "So, what, you think I don’t know why I’m here?"

  Roskva’s fingers idly traced a knot in the wooden bench between them. "Do you?"

  He opened his mouth, then hesitated.

  He frowned. "It’s... complicated."

  Roskva nodded, as though expecting that. "Good. If it were simple, you would be lying to yourself."

  Roskva stood and walked across the clearing to where Ingrid was seated, deep in conversation with one of the husnisse. Ingrid looked up and smiled at Roskva as she approached.

  Odin sat nearby, watching the celebration unfold with quiet intensity.

  As the night deepened, voices rose in song—old melodies carrying through the trees. The midsummer fire burned bright, warding off the dark.

  For the first time in weeks, Marty let himself enjoy the moment. Let himself revel in the weight of his progress, the camaraderie of those around him.

  He felt like part of something.

  He was Thor.

  Do you think Marty truly belongs in Valhalla… or is this just the calm before the storm?