Silent Gods

Askel walked without aim for hours.

New York was a labyrinth of lights and shadows, of streets that crossed without meaning, of faces he didn't look at and voices he didn't listen to. The night was cold, damp, and his hoodie was still dirty with smoke and vomit and something he didn't want to identify.

It was like a closed eye that waited.

The smell of pizza hit him before he even saw the place. A smell of melted cheese, tomato, basil, and something deeper — the smell of normal life, of people eating, laughing, who knew nothing of runes and prophecies and fathers of the sea.

Pizza Point was a hole in the wall between a laundromat and a building with murals. A flickering neon light, a dirty sign, a metal counter and a girl serving slices of pizza on paper plates.

Askel approached.

"A margherita," he said. His voice was hoarse, tired.

The girl looked at him with eyes that had seen everything. She asked nothing. She gave him the pizza. Askel paid. Took the slice.

The pizza was hot, greasy, perfect.

Askel ate it walking.

The cheese stretched. The sauce was sweet and sour. For a moment — just one moment — he forgot everything.

Then he heard the screams.

---

They came from the building next door. The building with the murals. From the third floor.

A woman's voice. Screams. Then the sound of furniture falling. Then glass breaking.

Askel looked up.

The third-floor window was lit. Shadows moving. A silhouette being shoved against the wall.

Blood pulsed in his temples.

The pizza fell to the ground.

Askel didn't think. Didn't hesitate. His body moved before his mind.

He ran toward the building. The door was slightly open. He climbed the stairs. Two steps at a time. His heart beating hard, the rune pulsing, the blood boiling.

Third floor. The apartment door was wide open.

Askel walked in.

---

Chaos was everywhere.

The sofa was overturned. The coffee table was in pieces. The TV had fallen to the floor, the screen shattered like a spiderweb of glass. Beer cans were scattered, water from an overturned plant mixing with ink from torn posters.

Rhea was slumped against the wall. One eye was swollen. Blood dripped from her lip. A man held her by the hair, while another rummaged through the wardrobe, throwing clothes and objects on the floor.

"Where the fuck is the wallet?" the man shouted. "Where is it?"

Rhea didn't answer.

Askel didn't hesitate.

"Hey," he said.

His voice was low. Cold. Dangerous.

The two men turned.

One was tall, bald, with a tattoo on his neck. The other was smaller, skinny, with the eyes of a frightened animal.

"Who the fuck are you?" the bald one asked.

Askel didn't answer.

He walked in.

---

The bald one let go of Rhea. Turned toward Askel. A knife appeared in his hand — a long, dirty, sharp blade.

"Choose death, kid?"

Askel didn't speak. Didn't think. The blood in his veins had become fire.

The bald one attacked.

The knife hissed through the air.

Askel moved. The movement wasn't human — it was faster, more fluid, more ancient. He dodged the blade, grabbed the bald one's wrist, and twisted it with a strength he didn't know he had.

The man screamed. The knife fell.

Askel struck.

Not once. Not twice. Three. Four.

His fist crashed against the bald one's face with a wet, devastating sound. Blood. Teeth. Bone shattering. The man's jaw fractured under the blows, the skin tore, blood sprayed across the walls and floor.

The bald one fell. Askel lifted him like a sack of rags. Slammed him against the wall. Once, twice. The wall stained red.

The bald one was still alive. But he wasn't moving. His face was unrecognizable, swollen, covered in blood. His eyes were closed, almost sealed by the bruise swelling beneath the skin.

The second man looked at him. He was afraid. Terror contorted his face, made his legs tremble.

Askel didn't look at him.

He took a step forward.

The second man struck. A clumsy, desperate punch. Askel took it on the chest. He didn't stop it. He welcomed it. He felt the pain, but it didn't stop him.

And he gave it back.

The blow was brutal. Askel's fist sank into the man's face like a hammer into flesh. Blood exploded from his nostrils, his lip split, his skin tore open across his brow. The man staggered, but Askel grabbed him by the throat — his hand was hot, his skin burning.

He lifted him off the ground. The man's eyes widened, white with terror. His feet kicked at the air, his hands clawed at Askel's arm without finding purchase.

"Don't move," Askel whispered.

The voice wasn't human. It was a growl. The sound of a beast speaking.

The man didn't move.

Askel let him fall to the ground. The man's body crumpled like a puppet. Blood poured from his face, covering his eyes, his mouth, his neck. His chest rose with difficulty, but he was alive. Breathing. Barely.

Silence fell over the apartment.

Smoke rose from Askel's shirt — thick, black, as if the fabric were burning from the inside. The cloth blackened, curled, carbonized around his back. Small flames flickered at the edges of the holes opening in the fabric.

Rhea looked at him with wide eyes. Blood dripped from her lip. Her breath was ragged, broken.

"You… you're the guy from the shop…"

Askel didn't answer. His body trembled. His hands were covered in blood — blood that wasn't his. It was everywhere. On his hands. On his hoodie. On his skin.

The smoke kept rising.

---

The apartment door was still wide open.

Ksenia stood on the threshold.

Her gaze swept the room. The overturned sofa. Blood everywhere. The two men on the ground — covered in bruises and blood, their faces deformed, their bodies still but alive. Rhea against the wall, her face bloodied, her eyes full of terror.

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And Askel. Standing in the center of the apartment. Hands covered in blood. Heavy breathing. Smoke rising from his body like a signal of fire.

Ksenia didn't hesitate.

She pulled out her gun.

"Freeze!" she shouted. "FOID! Freeze!"

Askel turned. Looked at her. Said nothing.

The smoke grew thicker, blacker. The rune on his back pulsed — a violent beat, like a heart exploding.

Ksenia fired.

Three shots.

The bullets hissed through the air, straight toward Askel's chest.

But they didn't hit him.

The rune caught fire.

Askel felt it explode on his back — a white pain, an impossible heat, a fire that rose up his spine and exploded in his chest.

The air around him distorted. A wave of heat. An orange glow.

The bullets stopped half a meter from his body.

And they began to melt.

The metal deformed, became liquid, dripped toward the floor like drops of molten lead. The drops hit the wood and burned it, leaving small smoking holes.

Ksenia stared. Her eyes widened. The gun trembled in her hand.

"What the fuck…" she muttered.

Askel didn't look at her. The rune was an inferno. His hoodie was almost completely burned. The smoke was a black column rising from his back.

He turned toward the window.

"Freeze, you piece of shit!" Ksenia shouted. "Don't move!"

Askel didn't stop.

He threw the window open. The New York air hit him — cold, dirty, alive.

The fire escape was there. Iron. Rusty. Unstable.

Askel jumped.

Ksenia ran to the window. She saw him land on the metal platform, then run down, two steps at a time, the smoke trailing from his back like a trail of fire.

"Freeze!" she yelled. "Freeze or I'll shoot!"

Another three shots that slammed into the metal of the fire escape.

Askel disappeared.

The fire escape trembled. Then stopped.

Ksenia watched the smoke drift away, mixing with the night air, lost among the lights of New York.

"Fuck," she whispered.

She turned. Looked at the room. The two men on the ground. Rhea against the wall. The blood. The chaos. The smoke still hanging in the air.

Rhea looked at her with eyes full of terror.

"Ksenia… what the fuck is happening? — He fought like a beast, fuck."

Ksenia didn't answer.

She looked at the floor. The drops of molten lead had cooled, small black spots on the burned wood.

"I don't know," she said. "Are you okay, my friend?"

"You can't stay here anymore. Let's go to the hospital. You need to be treated."

Ksenia and Rhea left the apartment while the federal was alerting Cross.

---

Askel ran for three blocks before stopping.

His lungs burned. His back was still warm, but the smoke had faded to a thin, almost invisible thread. The rune still pulsed, but at a slower rhythm, like a heart that was calming down.

He leaned against a wall. The brick was rough, cold. He rested his head against the surface and closed his eyes.

His shirt was a wreck — burned in several places, the edges charred, the fabric crumbling under his own fingers. His hoodie was stained with blood. Blood that wasn't his.

He couldn't walk around New York like this.

He looked up.

In front of him, a storefront. A small used clothing store, closed for hours. The lights were off, but the clothes were on display — hanging on mannequins, folded on wooden shelves, lit by the dim glow of streetlamps.

Askel looked at the window. Then looked at his reflection.

He didn't recognize himself.

A dirty boy, covered in blood, with the eyes of an animal that had just killed. His hands were still stained red. His knuckles were swollen, cut.

He didn't hesitate.

His elbow hit the glass.

The sound was dry, sharp — an explosion of fragments that scattered on the sidewalk like diamonds. The store's alarm didn't go off. Maybe it was broken. Maybe the owner had never installed a security system. Maybe fate had decided that Askel needed those clothes.

Askel climbed through the hole in the window. Glass dug into his skin, cut his fingers. He ignored the pain.

He found himself in a small, dusty shop, with the smell of old clothes and damp wood.

His fingers slid between the hangers.

A t-shirt. Metallica's logo emblazoned across the chest. The faded cover of a print years old, the writing almost erased by time. The fabric was thin, worn, but intact.

He put it on.

Then a pair of jeans. Blue. Worn at the knees, with an ink stain on the back that didn't seem to want to leave. The denim was soft, used, perfect.

He looked at himself in the store mirror.

He wasn't the same guy who had walked in.

He was something else.

The smoke was gone. The rune was still.

But his eyes — his eyes were different.

They were eyes that had seen death. Eyes that had killed. Eyes that weren't afraid.

---

He left the store carefully. Broken glass crunched under his feet.

New York hadn't noticed anything. A black cat watched him from a dumpster. A taxi passed, indifferent.

Askel walked away.

He didn't know where to go. He didn't care.

He walked until he saw a bar. One of those places with no name, with a flickering neon light and a dark wooden door. Music coming from underneath — low, distorted, like what he listened to at Mimir.

Mimir.

He thought of Copenhagen. Of Mimir. Of that whole life he'd left behind.

He wasn't the same anymore.

He walked in.

The bar was small. Few customers. A dark wooden counter, marked by time. The bartender didn't look at him. Askel sat down. He didn't order anything.

His hands were still dirty with blood. He hid them under the counter.

The bar was a bubble. The world outside didn't exist.

Then, the door opened.

A man walked in.

He wasn't a regular customer. You could tell from the way he walked — a steady, ancient step, as if he had crossed centuries of nights. He was tall, thin, with eyes of a blue too pale and a gray raincoat that looked like it was made of fog.

Askel recognized him.

The Cauldron Man.

The messenger. The one from the bathroom. The one who had told him: "The cauldron has awakened. And the sea is hungry."

Askel felt the rune pulse. Once. Strong.

The man approached. He didn't greet him. He didn't look at him.

He placed something on the counter.

A hawk feather.

Bloodstained.

The blood was still fresh, dark, almost black. The feather was long, with a tip that looked sharp, as if it had been torn from a still-warm wing.

Next to the feather, two pearls.

One milky white, opaque. One dark gray, almost black.

Askel looked at them. The pearls were warm. They pulsed faintly, as if they had a heartbeat.

"What the fuck is this stuff?" he asked.

His voice was low, hoarse.

The man looked at him. His eyes were two abysses.

"The time has come, young Viking."

The voice wasn't human. Beneath it was a hum, like the sound of waves breaking on distant rocks.

Askel felt the rune burn.

"Time for what?"

The man didn't answer. He turned. Walked toward the door.

"Wait!" Askel shouted.

The man stopped. Didn't turn.

"For the choice," he said. "The time for the choice has come."

The door closed.

The man was gone.

Askel looked at the counter.

The bloodstained hawk feather. The two pearls.

He picked them up.

The feather was warm. The pearls were warmer.

He didn't know what they were.

But he knew what they meant.

Something was about to happen.

And he was at the center.

---

The Lofoten Islands stretch like stone fingers into the North Sea, beyond the Arctic Circle. Mountains that plunge into the water like fingers of a drowned giant. Fjords that cut the earth like wounds. The sky is low and gray for most of the year. The polar night in winter swallows all light for weeks.

That night, the sun hadn't risen for days.

But something deeper was happening.

The air was still. Too still.

The sea was a sheet of dark glass. The waves didn't move. The wind didn't blow.

Then, the sky opened.

---

From the heart of the sea, where the water grows deeper, blacker, older — a cloud rose.

It wasn't a normal cloud. It wasn't cumulus, wasn't stratus, wasn't a storm. It was a mass of darkness that broke from the horizon and rose like an animal waking up.

Its shape was undefined. It wasn't a circle, wasn't a spiral, wasn't a column. It was a vortex of shadow that coiled upon itself, an eye opening onto the world.

Inside, there was no rain. No lightning. No thunder.

There was only **absence**.

The primordial void.

In Norse mythology, Ginnungagap was the primeval abyss. It wasn't nothing, it wasn't darkness. It was the **lack of everything** — the silence before sound, the cold before fire, the dark before light. It was the gaping mouth of the world, ready to swallow everything that dared to exist.

But Ginnungagap had never been a cloud.

Until that night.

The cloud spread, thickened, became an impenetrable mass of shadow. It spread over the Lofoten like a lid, like a seal, like a warning.

The radar at the Bodø weather station detected it as a disturbance. But the data was wrong. There was no pressure. No temperature. No movement. Just an area of absence, a hole in the data, a black spot on the screen that grew wider.

"It's not a storm," the operator muttered. "It's something else."

He wasn't wrong.

---

On the beach of Hestmanden — where the mountains mirror in the water and the wind carries the smell of ancient seas — a figure appeared.

She was a woman. Tall, slender, with dark hair the wind couldn't move. Her eyes were two black stars, and her body was wrapped in a cloak of feathers that seemed made of shadow.

Rán.

The goddess of the sea. She who fished the drowned with her net and brought them to her underwater realm.

She was there, standing on the black sand, watching the sky. Her presence was an intrusion, an anomaly, a silent cry against the advancing darkness.

"He's here," she whispered.

Her voice was the wind. It was the sea. It was the sound of waves shattering against rocks.

"The void has taken form."

The cloud pulsed. As if in answer.

---

The earth trembled.

A violent, deep earthquake that shook the soil of the Lofoten. The sand cracked. The rocks split. The sea water rose in enormous columns, tornadoes of foam and salt that rose toward the sky only to crash back down on the surface with a roar that wasn't human.

The cloud crashed into the sea.

It wasn't an impact. It was an embrace. The mass of shadow merged with the water, swallowed it, transformed it. The sea turned black. Not black like the ocean at night — black like the absence of light, black like the bottom of an abyss, black like the mouth of a god that was hungry.

The water columns rose again, then fell.

The silence returned.

The cloud was gone.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it had entered the sea.

---

From the water, two boots emerged.

They weren't normal. They were of dark leather, inlaid with thin threads that glowed with a trembling light — the threads of fate, those that the Norns weave on the loom of the world. Each thread was a different color: gold for glory, black for death, red for blood, gray for oblivion. They intertwined on the leather of the boots like veins, like roots, like promises that couldn't be broken.

The leather was ancient, worn, marked by years of battles and seas and journeys no man could have made.

The feet that wore them emerged from the water with a slow, measured movement, as if the sea itself had given birth to them.

One step.

The footprint in the sand was deep. The threads of fate glowed for an instant, then went out, as if they had marked something no human eye could read. Around the footprint, the water didn't close. It remained open, like a wound, like a mouth that didn't want to close.

The second step.

The threads on the boots pulsed. A trembling light crossed the sand, reaching Rán like an invisible wave. The goddess felt the weight of fates intertwining, knotting, tightening around her.

The third step.

The threads stretched, detached from the boots like spiderwebs of light, and wrapped around Rán's ankle. They didn't bind her. They measured her. As if they were counting her steps, her days, her choices.

The sea of the Lofoten calmed.

But it wasn't the silence of peace. It was the silence of the prey.

The man turned. Walked on the sand. His footprints were deep, and every step left a trail of threads of fate that lit up and went out like falling stars.

Rán watched him walk away. In her hand, something gleamed.

A hawk feather.

The thread of prophecy was being woven.

The storm cloud had retreated.

But the Father of the Sea had arrived. And he had come to avenge his daughter Gelsemini, burned alive on the pyre of the kingdom of Ragnarok.

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