Silent Gods

The campus library was an enormous cathedral of glass and steel, wedged between two red brick buildings like a secret the city had never discovered. The windows ran from floor to ceiling, letting in the afternoon light that reflected off the dark wooden tables like a river of honey. The shelves rose all the way to the ceiling, full of books no one would ever read, of stories no one would ever hear.

Askel was sitting in the back, in a secluded area where the light was dimmer and the noise of the library felt more distant. His headphones were around his neck, off, and an open book lay in front of him that he wasn't reading. The words were just black marks on white paper, meaningless.

Around him, the afterschool campus was a living, noisy, normal organism.

A group of guys played chess at a table near the window, laughing every time one of them made a wrong move. Two girls talked in low voices, their books open in front of them, but their eyes fixed on their phones. A student slept with his head resting on a philosophy volume, his breathing slow and deep. An elderly professor walked between the shelves with a cart of books to put away, moving with the slowness of someone who had done the same thing for forty years.

The smell was a mix of old paper, coffee from the machine, and the fresh scent of someone who had just showered after practice.

Askel watched everything without seeing.

He thought about the night before. About Runa. About the shadows that had lifted him. About the girl dead on the sidewalk. About the feather and the pearls still burning in the pocket of his hoodie.

He tried to be normal. But he wasn't.

Then a group of girls sat at his table.

There were four of them. All with an air that didn't quite belong to the campus — one of them had short, shaved hair, another wore a denim jacket covered in pins and patches of unknown bands, the third had dark eyes and a smile that said "I'm here to play," the fourth was shyer, with a sketchbook in hand and an expression that said "I'm not here to talk."

Askel looked at them. They looked at him.

"Is this seat taken?" asked the one with short hair.

Askel shook his head. He didn't speak.

The girls sat down. They opened their books. They pulled out computers and notebooks. They began talking in low voices, laughing every now and then, as if they were at home.

Askel didn't look at them. Didn't listen to them.

But they looked at him.

The one with the short, shaved hair stared at him. She had piercing eyes, a tattoo that climbed from her neck to her jaw, and a way of moving that was slow and calculated, as if she measured every gesture before making it. She was a presence that didn't ask permission. She took up space. She took what she wanted.

"You're new," she said.

Askel looked up.

"Yeah."

"What's your name?"

"Áskell."

She nodded, as if the name meant nothing to her.

"I'm Piper." She indicated the others. "She's Sage, she's Skye, and she's Ivy. Ivy draws a lot but doesn't talk much."

Askel nodded. He said nothing.

Piper leaned forward. Her smile was a promise. She chewed gum, her movement slow, measured.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

"I have nothing to say."

Piper laughed. A low, confident sound.

"Interesting."

Askel went back to looking at his book. The words still made no sense.

But he felt Piper's eyes on him. He felt her weight. Her presence. Her attention.

Then, without warning, Piper's hand slid under the table.

Askel felt her fingers on his thigh. Then higher. Then inside his jeans.

She didn't ask permission. She didn't hesitate. She did it with a naturalness that was more animal than human.

Askel stiffened. His body reacted before his mind.

He grabbed her wrist. Stopped her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he whispered.

Piper didn't pull back. She looked him straight in the eyes. She chewed her gum slowly, as if she had all the time in the world.

"I want to see you react," she said. "You're always so... dead. I want to see if there's anything alive inside you."

Askel looked at her. His hand was still on her wrist. His grip was strong.

"I'm not a toy," he said.

Piper smiled. Her smile was a challenge.

"I didn't say you were. But there's a party tonight. At a guy I know. Exclusive, limited guests. You're one of us, if you want. Maybe you'll loosen up a bit."

Askel looked at her. He said nothing.

Piper stood up. She leaned toward him. With two fingers, she took the gum she was chewing, and without asking permission, she placed it in Askel's mouth.

The gesture was slow, intimate, invasive. The gum was warm, sweet, sticky.

"So if you feel like it, you know where to find us," she said.

Then she turned. Gathered her things. The other girls followed her.

Askel remained seated. The gum in his mouth. The taste of mint and something else — something he couldn't identify.

He chewed it slowly. He said nothing.

But something inside him had ignited.

---

Thora was at Mrs. Lund's house when the package arrived.

It was a wooden box, almost a meter long, tied with thick twine and sealed with red wax. On the lid, a rune was carved — Othala, the same one Askel had on his back.

Thora recognized it. She didn't know how. But she recognized it.

With trembling hands, she broke the seal. Untied the twine. Lifted the lid.

The axe was there.

Wrapped in woolen cloths, like a relic, like a treasure. The runes on the handle pulsed faintly, a slow, deep beat, like a heart recognizing its owner.

Thora lifted it.

It was heavy. Heavy with history, with blood, with promises.

Thora left Mrs. Lund's house with the axe wrapped in woolen cloth, pressed against her chest like a child she didn't want to let go. She had to go to the Church of Olav.

The Brooklyn afternoon was gray, humid, dense. The streets were wet with recent rain, the sidewalks stained with puddles that reflected the low sky. The air smelled of wet asphalt and something older, deeper — a smell Thora couldn't identify, but felt in her bones.

She walked fast. Her fingers were tight around the axe's handle, the runes pulsing faintly beneath the cloth, like a heart beating to the rhythm of her steps.

Then she saw him.

A man had fallen to the ground, on the sidewalk, in front of a bench worn by time. He was dressed in tattered rags, a coat too big for his thin body, a frayed scarf around his neck. His hair was long, unkempt, gray with dust. His left hand was outstretched, as if he were looking for something.

Next to him, a tin can was overturned on the cement. Coins were scattered — some had fallen into a puddle, others had rolled into the gutter. A figure at the end of the street, a boy with his hood up, was running away. His step was fast, furtive, that of someone who had just stolen something that didn't belong to him.

Thora stopped.

The man was still on the ground. He wasn't moving. But he didn't seem injured. He just seemed... tired. As if he had fallen and no longer had the strength to get up.

Thora approached.

She knelt beside him.

"Hey," she said. "Are you okay?"

The man didn't answer.

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Thora set the axe on the ground, beside her. Her hands were free. She leaned toward him.

Then she looked at him more closely.

His eyes were closed. But they weren't closed as if he were sleeping. They were closed as if they had never seen light. The skin of his face was marked by time, by the weather, by life. But beneath those wrinkles, beneath that dust, there was something else.

There was an antiquity that didn't belong to this world.

Thora felt her blood accelerate.

She knew him. She had never seen him. But she knew him.

The texts of mythology. The stories her mother had told her. The runes Ragnhild had taught her. The gods who had walked the earth before the world forgot their name.

Höðr.

The blind son of Odin. The god who had killed Baldr with a mistletoe arrow, deceived by Loki. The one who carried the weight of guilt without ever having meant to do harm.

Thora looked at him. Her heart beat hard.

"You are..." she whispered.

The man opened his eyes.

They weren't normal eyes. They were white, as if light had never touched them. But when they settled on Thora, she felt his gaze — deep, ancient, all-seeing.

"The daughter of blood and lost thunder," he said.

His voice was a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade.

Thora felt her blood freeze. "You know me?"

Höðr smiled. His smile was sad, as if he had seen too many things with eyes that couldn't see.

"I know everyone, Thora Ragnarsson. Even those who don't yet know who they are."

Thora felt the world tilt. "How do you know my name?"

"The blind see what the sighted ignore."

Thora looked at him. Her hands trembled. "You are Höðr."

The man nodded. His smile grew sadder.

"I have been many names over the centuries. But yes. I am Höðr."

Thora felt the weight of his presence. He wasn't a man. He wasn't a beggar. He was a god. A fallen god, a forgotten god, a god who carried the weight of a guilt he had never wanted.

"Why are you here?" Thora asked.

Höðr didn't answer right away. His hand reached for the overturned can. His fingers touched the air, as if he were looking for something he couldn't see.

"I've been here all along," he said. "Waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"The right moment."

Thora looked at him. "The right moment for what?"

Höðr turned toward her. His white eyes fixed on her, and Thora felt his gaze penetrate her.

"For you, Thora. To make you understand what you are. And what you will become."

Thora felt sweat explode from her pores.

Höðr raised a hand. His fingers were dirty, worn, but when they approached Thora's face, she didn't pull back.

He touched her.

His fingers brushed her cheek, her forehead, her eyes.

And Thora saw.

Not with her eyes. With something deeper. She saw the past — Ragnar, the Yngling, the blood flowing in her veins. She saw Askel. She saw the thunder. She saw the power waiting inside her, hidden, asleep, ready to wake.

"You are the thunder," Höðr said. His voice was a whisper. "You are not just the warrior's sister. You are his protection. His weapon. His shield. When the fire goes out, the thunder reignites it."

Thora felt a vibration inside her. An echo. A power she didn't know she had.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

Höðr leaned toward her ear. His lips were close.

"The word, Thora. The word that unlocks your power."

He whispered one word. Just one.

"Þruma."

Thora didn't understand. But she felt it. She felt it in her blood, in her bones, in the thunder that waited.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

Höðr pulled back. His smile was calm, sad, ancient.

"You will understand when the time comes."

Thora looked at him. "I can't wait. My brother is in danger."

Höðr looked at her. His white eyes were two wells of light.

"I can't fight for you, Thora. But I can give you what you need."

His hand opened. In his palm, a small sprig of mistletoe. Small, dry, fragile.

"Mistletoe," he said. "The weapon that killed Baldr. But for you, Thora, it will be the key. When the moment comes, this will show you the truth."

Thora took the sprig. It was light, but in her hands it weighed like a boulder.

Höðr rose slowly. His body was old, tired, but when he straightened, he seemed taller. Older.

"Don't thank me, Thora. Fate has already chosen. I am only a messenger."

He turned. Walked away.

His figure disappeared down the wet street, dissolving into the afternoon light, as if he had never been there.

Thora remained kneeling on the sidewalk. The mistletoe sprig was in her hand. The word *Þruma* echoed in her mind.

The axe was beside her, wrapped in the woolen cloth. Ready to be placed in the crevice in the crypt.

---

Ksenia was sitting on the sofa.

Next to her, Rhea, still weakened from the hospital. Her face was marked by exhaustion, dark circles under her eyes, her lip still swollen. She had been discharged a few hours earlier, and Ksenia had brought her to her place to keep an eye on her. Rhea had no one in New York. Ksenia couldn't leave her alone.

Cassandra knew nothing.

Ksenia hadn't told her anything. She hadn't wanted to worry her. She hadn't wanted her to get involved in something dangerous.

Cassandra came through the door.

She saw Rhea. She saw Ksenia. She stopped.

"What the fuck is going on?"

Cassandra already had veins pulsing in her head.

Ksenia stood up. "Cass, honey, listen—"

"No, you listen." Cassandra stormed into the kitchen like a hurricane.

Ksenia opened her mouth to answer, but Cassandra didn't give her time.

"Ksen, go ahead."

Her voice was high, hoarse, full of anger. But beneath the anger was fear. The fear of having lost someone she loved.

Ksenia stepped closer. Placed a hand on Cassandra's arm.

"Rhea was attacked by two drunks in her apartment. A Nordic guy saved her... but I misunderstood the situation and shot at him, and the bullets..."

"The bullets what?" Cassandra asked.

"The bullets melted a few inches from his chest, Cass."

"It's my fault, Cassandra. I got her involved."

Cassandra looked at her.

"Don't be mad at Ksen... thank God she showed up," Rhea said, her voice still scared.

"It's not your fault, Rhea... calm down... it's just that I'd like to be informed by my future wife, fuck," she said, slamming her badge on the table.

"Cass... don't worry..." Cassandra cut her off. "Ksen, shut your mouth. Tonight you're in trouble if you come near me under the covers..." — "Rhea, honey, we have the guest room. You're staying with us now. No arguments."

Cassandra ran a hand over her face and took Ksenia's hand with the other, interlacing her fingers with hers.

"Cass, tonight Rhea has to go to a little party for the college kids... she's their trusted tattoo artist..."

"I'll take you, don't worry," Cassandra said. Then she turned sharply to Ksenia. "And you wait for me at home. You better be here tonight."

"Understood, boss..." Ksenia's smile met Rhea's.

---

The villa was one of those houses that looked like they'd come straight out of an architecture catalog for bored rich people. It had three floors, a garden maintained by a gardener who came three times a week, and outdoor lighting that cost more than the rent of an entire building in Brooklyn. The facade was dark wood and tempered glass, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a terrace overlooking a perfectly manicured English lawn. The driveway was paved with stone, and a sports car parked in front of the entrance made it clear the owner had no money problems.

Askel climbed the stone steps. The door was solid wood, carved, with a brass handle gleaming in the moonlight. He didn't knock. The door was slightly ajar. He walked in.

The heat hit him like a wall.

The living room was a massive open space, with designer furniture that looked more like works of art than places to sit. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, but no one was looking at it. The sofas were white leather, stained with beer and red wine. The marble tables were covered with glasses and bottles. The walls were a light gray, but no one was looking at them.

The music was everywhere. You didn't hear it. You breathed it. The bass vibrated in the floor, rose through the soles of shoes, seeped into the bones. The lights were low, colorful, as if someone had immersed the air in an aquarium of neon lamps.

Bodies moving to the rhythm of the music. Glasses traveling from hand to hand. Laughter mixing with the noise. The smell was a mix of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and something sweeter he couldn't identify.

Askel made his way through the crowd. His hands were in his pockets. Headphones around his neck. His gaze fixed ahead.

He wasn't looking for anyone. He didn't want to be there. But he was.

He took a glass from a marble table. He didn't know what it was. He drank it.

The liquid was warm, bitter, strong. It warmed him from the inside.

He leaned against a dark wood wall. He watched the scene.

Boys and girls dancing, laughing, whispering in each other's ears. Some were sitting on the designer sofas, others in the kitchen, others still in the garden. The French doors were wide open to let in air, but it wasn't enough. Beer flowed like rivers — cans opening, glasses filling, bottles passing from hand to hand.

A guy in a plaid shirt was pouring beer from a keg set up on the kitchen peninsula. The liquid foamed, overflowing from glasses, rivers of beer mixing on the wooden floor with other drinks.

The music was a wall of sound, but Askel didn't listen to it. He used it. Like he used the beer. Like he used the noise.

Then he saw her.

Piper.

She was in the middle of the room, a glass in her hand. She was laughing with a group of guys, her short hair catching the light. The neon light drew shadows on the tattoo climbing from her neck to her jaw. She looked like a shadow that had stopped for a drink.

Their eyes met.

Piper smiled. She broke away from the group and approached him.

"You came," she said.

Askel didn't answer.

Piper stopped in front of him, too close. She looked him up and down.

"And you've been drinking. Good sign."

Askel raised his glass. "It's nothing."

'"Nothing" is the beginning of everything," Piper said.

She smiled. Then she turned. Pointed to a spot in the room.

"Come. There's someone you need to meet."

Askel followed her.

Piper led him through the crowd. They passed a group competing to see who could drink more, a girl crying on the sofa with a glass in her hand, a guy vomiting into a five-thousand-dollar designer vase.

They stopped in front of a girl.

She was sitting on a white leather sofa, a glass in her hand. She had dark hair, a lip piercing, an expression that said "I'm not here to talk" — but when Askel looked at her, something in her lit up.

"This is Rhea," Piper said. "She's a tattoo artist. She's our tattoo artist."

Rhea looked up.

Their eyes met.

Askel recognized her. The shop, Needle & Bone. The machine that had melted. The smoke. The fear in her eyes.

"You..." Rhea murmured.

"Yeah," Askel said. "It's me."

The silence between them was a taut thread.

Then Rhea smiled. A tired smile, but real. She stood up and threw herself around his neck. A few shy tears fell on her swollen face.

"Thank you... you saved my life," she said.

"And you kicked me out of your shop calling me a freak."

Piper looked at them. "Sorry... Do you two know each other?"

"The Viking here saved my life from two drunks."

Piper smiled. "Interesting."

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Rhea nodded. "I survived. That's something."

"And your cop friend? Is she still hunting me?"

"Don't worry, Viking... I sorted it out. She has to apologize to you."

Askel nodded. He said nothing.

The music changed. Slower, deeper. People moved more slowly.

Then the door opened.

Cassandra Hale walked in.

She made her way through the crowd. She looked at no one but Rhea.

Students tried to hide their glasses, some throwing themselves behind the sofa, others caught red-handed whispering with their hands over their mouths, "It's Hale, guys..." one said.

"What a drag... the party's over before it even started," said another.

"Though... I'd let myself get arrested just to keep looking at her ass... what a babe, that federal agent," said the last.

Cassandra stopped in front of Rhea.

"Are you okay, honey... do you need anything?" she said.

"Cass, calm down, I'm in good hands," she replied.

"Good... I'm off duty tomorrow... so whenever you want to come home, just tell me." Her phone vibrated. Her eyes lit up.

"Go to her, Cass... I'll survive, don't worry..."

Cassandra nodded with a smile spreading across her face.

Message from Ksen:

"Director Hale... I'm waiting..." photo attached.

Cassandra left the villa... and the students breathed a sigh of relief.

---

Later in the evening, Rhea had gone out to smoke a cigarette.

While leaning against the wall, she saw a girl wandering around the neighborhood.

"Hey, excuse me," she said, smoke coming out of her mouth.

"Are you looking for someone? You don't look like you're from around here..."

Thora walked toward the girl. "Hi... sorry, I'm looking for my brother... his name is Áskell."

"The Viking is your brother?" she exclaimed.

"You know him? Do you know where he is? He's not answering his phone, and it's kind of urgent."

"Come on, he's inside..."

Askel saw her arrive behind Rhea. Piper had taken possession of his pants and wanted to go upstairs.

"Little brother, do you have a minute before I split your head open?" Thora began.

"Who's this?" Piper said, pulling her hand back.

"She's my sister, Thora..."

The two stepped aside.

"I took the axe to the crypt," Thora said. "Like you said. But nothing happened."

Askel looked at her. "What?"

"Nothing. I placed the axe in the crevice in the stone. But nothing happened. It didn't light up. It didn't pulse. Nothing."

Askel felt the rune on his back pulse. Once. Twice.

"I have to go," he said.

"Áskell, wait—"

Askel went over to Piper.

"Sorry," he said. "I have to go... but I'd like to see you tomorrow."

Piper looked at him.

"Tomorrow in the bathroom, around 10... don't stand me up."

Askel left with his sister.

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