Silent Gods

Uncle Erik's house smelled of old wood and untold stories.

It was outside Copenhagen, in an area that was no longer city and not yet countryside. A suspended place, like Erik himself — a man who never spoke of the past, but carried it on him like an invisible scar.

Thora knocked. Didn't wait for an answer. Opened. She almost never slept.

Erik was in the kitchen. He was fixing a chair. His hands were large, knotted, marked by work and years. When he looked up, he didn't seem surprised to see her.

Maybe because he knew. Maybe because his mother, Ragnhild, had told him something before she died. Maybe because the blood of the Yngling is older than any secret.

Thora set the crate on the table.

She opened it.

The axe was there. Wrapped in woolen cloths. The runes on the handle were still, as if waiting. But Thora felt them anyway. Not with her hands. With her blood.

"When?" Erik asked.

Thora had already written the note. She had folded it. She put it in Erik's pocket.

*"I'll tell you when to send it to the right address."*

Erik read it. Then he burned it with a match. The paper curled, blackened, turned to ash. Left no trace.

"It will be done," he said.

Thora nodded.

She hugged him. It wasn't a goodbye hug. It was a "we'll see each other again" hug. Then she turned. Walked out of the house of old wood and untold stories.

And went to the airport.

---

The plane took off with a roar that sounded like the breath of a sleeping animal.

Thora watched Copenhagen shrink beneath her. The city's lights became dots, then nothing. The sea took over — a blanket of gray clouds stretching to the horizon.

She leaned against the window. The glass was cold. The flight was long.

She couldn't sleep. She couldn't. She had chosen not to enroll in university.

She thought about Ingrid. About Uncle Erik. About Askel.

About what would be waiting for her in New York.

Ingrid had called a friend. In Brooklyn. Thora had never met her. She knew nothing about her. Only that she was an old friend of her mother's, and that she had said yes.

"Go to her," Ingrid had said. "She's waiting for you. Don't ask questions. Not now."

Thora hadn't asked anything else. She trusted Ingrid. She trusted her instinct.

She looked outside. The ocean was a blanket of clouds. Beneath, something blue, deep, ancient.

The sea.

New York was waiting for both of them.

Thora closed her eyes. The noise of the engines was a constant hum, almost hypnotic. But inside her there was another noise — deeper, older. The thunder that waited.

She didn't sleep. Not entirely.

She remained suspended between sleep and waking, like the plane suspended between sky and sea.

And she waited.

---

Ingrid was alone.

The house was silent. Too silent. The sounds that filled the days — Askel's footsteps, Thora's voice, Birkir's breathing — were gone. As if someone had turned off the sound of the world.

Birkir had been dead for three years.

A silent death, ordinary. Without magic. Without myths. Just a man who had loved Ingrid and raised two children. He had carried the weight of the secret like a boulder, day after day, and had never spoken. Had never asked for anything. Had only loved.

Ingrid remembered him like that. His silence. His patience. His ability to look at Askel and Thora.

Ingrid sat in the kitchen. The table was empty. The letter had been burned, but the runes were still in her memory — burned into her mind like brands of fire.

Ragnar.

The name burned her lips. She never said it. She had never said it. Not to Askel. Not to Thora. Not to Birkir. Her father's name was a wound that had never healed.

Ragnar had been the heir before Askel.

He was a descendant of the Yngling. The blood of the sea kings ran in him. And he had died young — before Ingrid was born. Fate had consumed him. Like a fire that devours wood, like a sea that swallows ships, like a void that is hungry.

Ingrid had never known him. But she felt him. In her blood. In her bones. In the fear she felt every time she looked at her son.

Because Askel was just like him.

The same blood. The same fate.

Ingrid closed her eyes. The tears didn't come. They had run out years ago.

She remembered Ragnhild.

Her mother. The woman who had taught her the runes. Who had told her the truth about Ragnar, her father. Who had told her: *"One day you will have a son. And that son will carry the blood of our bloodline. You will have to protect him. You will have to let him go. You will have to watch him burn without putting out the fire."*

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Ingrid hadn't understood then. She was too young. Too ignorant. Too full of dreams that would never come true.

Now she understood.

She had protected Askel. For twenty-one years. She had kept him away from his fate. She had watched him grow, fight, run. She had seen him drown his fear in beer and distortion. And she had never said anything. Because telling the truth would have killed him.

But she couldn't protect him anymore.

The rune had ignited. The father of the sea was hungry.

Ingrid picked up the phone. Called her friend in Brooklyn.

"My daughter has left," she said. "She needs a place to stay for a few days."

"Send her," her friend replied.

Ingrid hung up. She didn't say thank you. It wasn't necessary. The friendship was older than any word.

She remained seated. The house was empty. The night was silent. The future was dark.

And Ingrid waited. As she had always done. As she would always do.

Because a mother never stops waiting.

---

The plane landed with a jolt that shook Askel from his stupor.

He hadn't slept. Not entirely. He had remained suspended between waking and sleep, like the plane suspended between sky and earth. The rune on his back had stayed cold. Still. As if waiting.

Askel didn't touch it. Didn't look at it. Left it alone.

He got off the plane. The terminal was enormous, bright, chaotic. A river of voices, of languages, of faces he didn't know. The air was different — denser, warmer, more alive.

New York.

The city that never sleeps. The city that was waiting for him.

Askel didn't want to be there.

But he was there.

He picked up his luggage. A small bag. A few clothes. A few things. Nothing that tied him to Copenhagen.

He walked out to the arrivals area. The crowd was a human tide. Signs with names. Drivers waiting. Families hugging.

And a guy. A tall, thin guy, with thin-rimmed glasses. He held a sign that read: **ASKEL RAGNARSSON.**

Askel looked at him. Didn't move. The guy saw him. Smiled. A professional, polite smile, from a university representative.

"Askel?" he said. "I'm **Ethan**. From the Faculty of Mythological Studies. I'm here to take you to the dormitory."

Askel didn't answer. He looked at him. Studied him. Judged him.

Ethan was the typical guy who had always done his homework. Neat. Polite. With a pressed shirt and a smile already ready.

Askel hated him immediately.

"I don't need an escort," he said.

Ethan didn't flinch. The smile remained intact.

"It's standard procedure," he said. "We welcome all international students. It's easier this way."

Askel didn't answer. He shrugged. Picked up his bag and followed Ethan toward the exit.

The New York air hit him like a punch to the face.

Warm. Human. It smelled of asphalt, of exhaust fumes, of street food, of a thousand lives intersecting without ever meeting.

Askel got into the car. A black sedan, anonymous, with the university logo on the side.

Ethan got behind the wheel. He talked. Told him things. The campus. The courses. Student life. The city.

Askel didn't listen.

He looked outside.

New York flowed past the window. Skyscrapers. Lights. Signs. People. A river of life that never stopped.

Askel didn't want to be there.

But the rune on his back was cold. Still. As if waiting.

And Askel knew that when it would awaken, it would be time to stop running.

But not yet.

The car stopped in front of a red brick building. The dormitory. Anonymous. University. With a metal plaque that read: **NEW YORK UNIVERSITY — STUDENT HOUSING.**

"Here," Ethan said. "I had a room prepared for you. Top floor. Quiet."

Askel got out. Didn't say thank you. Didn't say anything. Picked up his bag and went inside.

The dormitory interior smelled of detergent, of cold coffee, of humanity. The walls were white. The floors were linoleum. Every hallway was identical to the next.

Askel found his room. The last one on the left. He opened it.

It was small. Anonymous. A single bed, a closet, a desk. A window overlooking a courtyard. Nothing personal. Nothing tying him to this place.

He threw his bag on the bed.

The room was silent. Too silent. The noise of New York filtered in faintly, distant, like a hum.

Askel took off his jacket. Hung it on the chair. Looked around.

He didn't want to be there.

But he was there.

He took his backpack. Pulled out his computer. His headphones. Opened the playlist.

Cobain screamed and yelled at the world his refusal.

The distortion filled his ears. The guitars screamed. Kurt Cobain's voice shouted rage and exhaustion and resignation.

Askel closed his eyes.

The rune on his back was still.

But he felt it. Not with his hands. With his blood. With the fire that waited.

He didn't touch it. Didn't look at it. Left it alone.

Because he knew that when it would awaken, it would be time to stop running.

But not yet.

Not yet.

New York was waiting for him.

---

The subway trembled beneath Thora's feet.

It was a strange feeling. The noise, the movement, the darkness of the tunnels. Thora had never taken the subway before. In Copenhagen you rode bikes, you walked, you breathed. In New York everything seemed faster. Denser. Hungrier.

Thora looked at the people around her. Tired faces. Eyes that didn't meet. Bodies moving to the city's rhythm.

She wondered what they were thinking of her. A blonde girl, tall, with a small bag and a gaze that didn't stop. She was out of place. She knew it.

But she didn't care.

The subway stopped. Thora got off. Brooklyn.

It was different from Manhattan. Quieter. More human. The streets were wider, the buildings lower, the people slower.

Thora followed the directions Ingrid had given her. An address. A house number. A name.

**Mrs. Lund.**

She knocked on the door.

She opened after a few seconds. She was a tall, thin woman, with eyes that had seen things. Her hair was gray, pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a kitchen apron.

She didn't ask who she was. Didn't ask why.

"You're Ingrid's daughter," she said. "Come in."

Thora entered.

The house was small. Full of books. Of old objects. Of runes hidden among the furniture, if you knew where to look.

Thora saw them.

But she said nothing.

Mrs. Lund led her to a room. Small. With a window overlooking the street. A bed, a closet, a chair.

"Stay as long as you want," Mrs. Lund said. "But don't lie to me. I know who you are. I know what you carry in your blood."

Thora nodded.

Mrs. Lund left. Left her alone.

Thora sat on the bed. The room was new. The city was new. Everything was new.

She placed her hands on the mattress. The fabric was rough, cheap, anonymous. She felt the weight of her body sink, as if it were giving way.

She didn't have the axe. But the thunder was inside her.

Always had been.

She looked out the window. The streets of Brooklyn stretched toward the horizon, lit by streetlamps that took turns.

Above, the moon.

It was full. Large. White.

But it wasn't a normal moon.

It shone with a light too cold, too intense, as if someone had turned it on with a switch.

Thora looked at it for a long time.

Then she felt something.

A shadow. In the distance. On the roof across the street. A figure. Thin. Watching her.

Thora stood up. Walked to the window.

The figure didn't move.

Thora recognized her. She had never seen her. But she knew her.

**Mia.**

The Valkyrie of the Moon.

Why was she there? Why was she following her? Why wouldn't she come closer?

Thora didn't know.

The figure remained still for a long moment. Then it turned. Disappeared into the dark.

As if it had never been there.

Thora remained at the window. The moon still shone. But the light was normal now. Nothing strange remained.

Thora sat on the bed.

The room was silent. New York hummed outside, distant, like a sleeping animal.

---

Askel was still sitting on the bed.

The music had ended a long time ago. The headphones had fallen onto the mattress, the wires tangled like snakes.

The room was silent. Too silent.

Askel looked at the ceiling. White. Anonymous. Like everything else.

He didn't want to be there.

But he was there.

He thought about Copenhagen. About Mimir. About the beer. About the whisky. About the music that screamed and kept him away from what he didn't want to feel.

He thought about Thora.

Where was she? Was she in flight? Had she arrived? Was she safe?

Askel didn't know.

But he knew she would reach him. As she always had. As she always would.

---

The moon was full over New York.

It was full over Copenhagen.

It was full over the whole world.

But it wasn't a normal moon.

It shone with a light too cold, too intense, as if someone had turned it on with a switch.

Above Askel's dormitory. Above Mrs. Lund's house. Above Ingrid's empty house.

The moon watched everything.

And waited.

Like the father of the sea.

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