Silent Gods

The classroom was full as always, but that fullness had no weight.

It was background noise, a collection of bodies occupying space without really occupying it. The professor was speaking, and his voice wasn't a voice: it was a hum, an engine that had been running for hours, that kept running even when no one was listening anymore. The students took notes with that automatic discipline learned in the first months of university, when you still believe everything you write will be useful for something.

Askel wasn't listening.

He didn't even try.

He was sitting in the back, as always, his headphones around his neck, his gaze searching for nothing. He looked at the window, or maybe he looked through the window, as if New York's gray sky were a curtain pulled too low. There was something in the air, a weight that didn't belong to the city, a silence that wasn't silence. And he felt it. He'd been feeling it for days. Since that night in the crypt.

Thor's voice had never gone away.

It wasn't a memory.

It was a presence.

*Until you have embraced your destiny...*

The words came back, always the same, always in the same spot in his head, like a hammer that never tires. The axe sealed in the stone. The blue light that had filled the crypt. Thora falling into his arms, light as if something had emptied her. Everything he hadn't chosen. Everything he hadn't asked for.

The clock read 9:45.

Askel looked at it.

9:55.

Time wasn't moving.

Or maybe it was moving too fast.

He stood up.

He said nothing.

He looked at no one.

He left the classroom like you leave a place that no longer belongs to you.

Like a shadow that detaches itself from the wall and decides to walk alone.

The hallway was empty.

The silence was different from the classroom's: cleaner, truer. His footsteps echoed, but not loudly. An echo that seemed to come from a distant place, as if the floor weren't floor but a bridge between two worlds that shouldn't touch.

The bathroom was the last door on the left.

Askel pushed it open.

Piper was there.

Leaning against the sink, arms crossed, her smile already ready, as if she knew exactly what was about to happen. The neon light cast shadows on the tattoo climbing from her neck to her jaw, a stylized serpent that seemed to move every time she breathed.

"You're punctual," she said.

Her voice was light, but not superficial.

A voice that knew how to slip into people's cracks.

Askel didn't answer.

He closed the door behind him.

The sound of the lock was a clean cut.

"You're not the type to be late," Piper continued. "Or maybe you are? I don't know you well enough yet."

Askel leaned against the wall.

The tile was cold, a cold that seemed to rise up his back, as if the wall wanted to remind him of something he'd forgotten.

"There's not much to know."

Piper laughed.

A low, confident sound, a sound that asked no permission.

"I don't believe that."

She pushed off from the sink.

She stepped closer.

Too close.

As if she'd never learned distance, or as if distance didn't apply to her.

"Everyone has something, Áskell. Even those who say they don't."

Her hand rested on his chest.

Light.

Warm.

A presence that shouldn't have felt so familiar.

"And you have a lot."

Askel looked at her.

The rune pulsed.

The feather and the pearls burned in his hoodie pocket, as if they wanted to escape, as if they wanted to say something.

"Not now, Piper."

She tilted her head.

A small gesture, but enough to show she hadn't understood.

Or that she didn't want to understand.

"Not now what? Not now that we kiss? Not now that we talk? Or not now that you stop pretending to be normal?"

The rune burned.

Not pain.

A call.

"I have to go."

"What?"

Askel pulled away.

Piper's hand slipped from his chest, as if she'd lost something she didn't know she had.

"I have to go," he repeated.

Piper looked at him.

Her smile faded, not completely, but enough to show a crack.

"Áskell, what's wrong?"

He didn't answer.

He couldn't.

He wouldn't have known how.

He opened the door.

Walked out into the hallway.

"Áskell!" she called.

The voice echoed off the walls, but didn't reach him.

He didn't turn around.

He walked fast.

The rune pulsed.

The feather and the pearls burned.

Thor's voice echoed in his head like thunder that never stops.

Piper remained alone in the bathroom.

The neon light flickered for a moment, as if it had lost its balance.

Her fingers brushed the spot where Askel's hand had rested.

A slow, almost involuntary gesture.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Viking?" she muttered.

But Askel was already far away.

And the hallway seemed longer than usual.

As if it were leading him somewhere else.

As if it knew where he needed to go before he understood it himself.

---

The castle of bones was immersed in the silence of the night, but it wasn't an empty silence.

It was the silence of real castles, those that have seen too many winters and too many kings, a silence that seeps into the stones and stays there, like an old secret that no longer wants to come out.

The torches flickered along the walls, and their light couldn't fully overcome the darkness.

The flames bent, rose, broke into shadows that stretched across the walls like tired arms.

The smoke rose slowly, leaving in the air that smell of burnt wood and iron that belongs only to places where war has passed too many times.

The courtyard was vast, uneven, full of stones worn by the footsteps of generations.

The windows, high and narrow, seemed like eyes watching without wanting to be seen.

From the kitchens came a distant smell of broth and onions, from the stables the acrid smell of horses, and beneath all of this was the sea.

The sea that crashed against the cliffs like an ancient drum, a noise that never stopped.

Then, a glow.

It wasn't the moon.

It wasn't the torches.

It was something that didn't belong to the castle, something that seemed to want to wake it from its torpor.

The heat made its way through the stones, as if the air had decided to catch fire.

The guards all turned at once, a nervous, almost animal movement.

The servants froze, their hands suspended in midair.

The horses in the stables neighed, kicked, as if they'd recognized a smell that didn't belong to this world.

Nasrin's caravan arrived through the fire.

It wasn't an entrance.

It was an apparition.

Seven hooded figures, wrapped in cloaks of silk and shadow, advanced as if the ground were liquid.

The dancers moved with the grace of ancient spirits, their steps making no sound.

The musicians played instruments that seemed made of bone and metal, and the notes were too deep to be human.

The servants carried copper trays, incense that burned with a dark, deep smoke, a smell that mixed with the castle's and overpowered it.

And at the center, Nasrin.

She didn't walk.

She floated.

The earth seemed to retreat at her passing, as if it didn't have the right to touch her.

Her black hair swayed without wind, her eyes were two pools of molten copper reflecting the firelight.

Her skin glowed with a subtle shimmer, a brightness that belonged neither to night nor day.

The fire opened before her like a curtain.

It closed behind her as if to protect her.

Freyja's soldiers stepped aside, their armor clinking faintly.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

The servants knelt, heads bowed, hands trembling.

The horses retreated, eyes wide, breath short.

The caravan crossed the courtyard like a dream that doesn't want to be interrupted.

Each step was a different sound, a rhythm that didn't belong to the castle.

The smell of incense and shadow mixed with that of salt and blood, and the castle seemed to recognize it.

As if it had already seen something similar, centuries before, and had decided not to forget.

The castle held its breath.

The stones, the torches, the shadows.

Everything stopped.

As if it knew that what was entering was not a guest.

It was an omen.

---

Freyja was on the throne, and the hall seemed built around her.

There wasn't a point that wasn't influenced by her presence: the torches flickered as if afraid to go out, the shadows moved with a rhythm that didn't belong to the wind, and the silence... the silence was that of medieval castles, the one that is never truly silence. A mixture of creaking stone, distant footsteps, held breaths.

The horn chalice was in her hand.

The dark wine, dense, almost alive.

Every time she moved it, the torchlight reflected off its surface as if blood were mixed with the wine. Her eyes, two pools of dark honey, had that fire at the bottom that never went out. A fire that wasn't light, it was will.

Gunnr was beside her.

Her body marked by the previous night, a night that had left bruises and bites and an energy that still vibrated through her. Her hand was on her sword, not to defend the queen, but to remind anyone who entered that the queen didn't need to be defended. Gunnr was there as a warning.

"My Queen," a servant whispered.

Her voice trembled.

Not from fear, but from respect.

"The caravan has arrived."

Freyja set down the chalice.

A slow, measured gesture, as if the chalice were part of a ritual.

"Let them enter."

The throne room door opened with a long groan, a sound that seemed to come from centuries of history.

The courtyard was still impregnated with the caravan's smell: incense, silk, shadow, fire.

And when the figures entered, the castle seemed to recognize them.

As if it had already seen something similar, a long time ago.

The soldiers stepped aside.

Their armor clinked faintly, a metallic sound lost immediately in the air.

The servants bowed, heads low, hands clasped over their aprons.

The fires of the East danced in the air — flames that didn't burn, flames that moved like living creatures, following music no one heard but everyone felt.

Nasrin's dancers advanced like serpents.

Not a step was out of place.

Every movement was a spell, a call, an invitation.

The musicians played instruments of string and hide, instruments that seemed built of polished bone and ancient metal.

The notes were deep, almost painful, as if telling a story no one wanted to hear but everyone had to feel.

And Nasrin stopped before the throne.

Her cloak of shadows opened like a wing.

It wasn't a theatrical gesture.

It was natural, as if shadow were part of her body.

Her feet didn't touch the ground.

The earth retreated, as if it didn't have the right to support her.

Her black hair swayed without wind, her eyes were molten copper, and her skin glowed with a brightness that didn't belong to this world.

"Sister of Zarina," said Freyja.

Her voice was calm, but beneath it was something sharp.

"Your reputation precedes you."

Nasrin bowed.

A slow, deep bow, a bow that wasn't submission but recognition.

"My reputation is only an echo, my Queen. Reality is much more interesting."

Freyja smiled.

A smile that wasn't joy.

It was curiosity.

It was challenge.

"Then show me reality."

Nasrin raised a hand.

The fires of the East rose as if they'd been waiting for that gesture for centuries.

They danced, contorted, took shape.

Birds of fire flew toward the ceiling, leaving trails of light.

Serpents of light slithered across the floor, wrapping around the columns.

A garden of flames bloomed around her, incandescent petals that didn't burn but illuminated.

The soldiers stepped back.

The servants held their breath.

Gunnr gripped her sword, her eyes fixed on Nasrin as if she were evaluating the exact spot to strike.

But Freyja remained still.

Not a muscle moved.

She was as if she'd seen all this before, or as if nothing could truly surprise her.

"Beautiful," she said.

Her voice was a clean cut.

"But I want to talk to you. Not with your fires."

Nasrin smiled.

A smile that didn't belong to any human being.

The flames went out.

Not slowly.

Suddenly.

As if someone had closed a door.

"Then let's talk, my Queen."

And the castle, once again, held its breath.

---

Silence fell over the hall like a heavy cloth.

Not a sudden silence, but one of those that descend slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until they cover everything. The dancers stopped with the grace of creatures that don't belong to time. The musicians fell silent, their hands suspended over their instruments as if afraid to touch them again. The flames — those flames that seemed alive — went out without smoke, without crackling, as if someone had closed their eyes.

Only Nasrin remained standing.

And her stillness was louder than any movement.

Freyja watched her from the throne, and the throne seemed taller, older, more aware. The horn chalice was still in her hand, the wine dark as clotted blood. Gunnr, beside her, wasn't breathing. Or perhaps she was breathing too softly to be heard.

"Sister of Zarina," Freyja repeated.

Her voice was a taut thread.

"Why have you come to my realm?"

Nasrin lifted her gaze.

That simple gesture made a torch tremble.

"Because Zarina was my sister."

Her voice was a whisper, but it wasn't fragile.

It was a whisper that cut through the air like a sharp blade.

"And because she is dead."

A beat.

A held breath.

"Murdered," she said.

The word fell into the hall like a stone into a well.

You didn't hear the impact, you heard the echo.

An echo that didn't want to stop.

Freyja didn't answer.

Her eyes grew darker, as if the honey had given way to charcoal.

"I know who did it," Nasrin continued.

"I know where it happened. But I'm not here only for revenge."

Gunnr moved slightly, a movement that seemed like a restrained growl.

"Then what do you want?" asked Freyja.

Nasrin stepped forward.

Her cloak of shadows moved like black water.

"I seek the descendant of the black magic of Persia."

The silence changed shape.

It was no longer heavy.

It was attentive.

"Her name is Ksenia Darvishi. Daughter of Persia. She is in New York."

Freyja leaned forward.

A slow, measured gesture, as if she wanted to see the truth better.

"And why should she interest me?"

Nasrin stepped closer still.

The distance between them shrank, but not enough to be dangerous.

Enough to be intimate.

"Because she will be Gunnr's salvation," she said.

"The void is coming and will come to claim your beloved's blood."

The hall grew colder.

The torches flickered as if afraid of going out.

A servant dropped a tray, but the sound didn't reach anyone's ears.

"STOP!!! What do you know of Njord?" Freyja asked.

Nasrin looked at her.

Her eyes of molten copper glowed as if they'd seen something no one should see.

"I know that the primordial void has taken his form.

I know that Ginnungagap has shaped him.

I know that he has walked the earth with a pain that no one can extinguish."

Freyja felt her blood freeze.

Not in her veins.

In her heart.

"And I know that he is coming for you, Freyja.

For his vengeance, for the Valkyrie of the Black Sea."

Nasrin didn't lower her gaze.

She didn't tremble.

She didn't hesitate.

"You burned his daughter Gelsemini, you burned your daughter on a pyre."

The name fell like a fist.

A fist that doesn't strike the flesh, but the soul.

Freyja stiffened.

Gunnr tightened her grip on her sword, her knuckles white.

"Never say that again," Freyja said.

Her voice was a hiss.

A hiss that could have shattered stone.

Nasrin didn't stop.

She had never stopped in her life.

"And I know that only the descendant of the occult arts can stop him."

"There is also the young Viking, my Queen... he will have to choose which side to align his thirst for blood with."

A breath.

Another.

The silence became a wall.

A wall no one wanted to touch.

Freyja looked at her.

Not as one looks at a guest.

As one looks at an omen.

"Why should I trust you?"

Nasrin smiled.

Her smile was a cut.

A cut that didn't bleed.

"You don't have to.

But the fire I bring does not lie."

The heat returned.

Not suddenly.

Like an animal rising after being wounded.

The air grew denser.

The flames in the braziers rose, as if they wanted to listen better.

"The descendant is in New York.

I can bring her here," said Nasrin.

"But only if you wish it."

Freyja stood.

The feathered cloak swayed around her body like a wounded wing that had no intention of stopping flying.

"Bring her to court, at any cost. My beloved's life depends on her," she said.

Her voice was calm.

But beneath it was a tremor no one had ever heard.

Not even Gunnr.

Nasrin bowed.

A bow that seemed like an oath.

"It will be done, my Queen."

The caravan withdrew.

The flames went out.

The heat faded.

The hall returned to what it was before, but it was no longer the same.

Freyja remained standing, her fist clenched around the chalice.

The wine trembled.

"Njord," she whispered.

The name was a poison on her tongue.

A poison she knew well.

"Come, then.

I will wait for you."

Gunnr stepped closer.

Her hand brushed Freyja's, a gesture that wasn't protection.

It was presence.

"You won't be alone," she said.

Silence didn't fall.

It collapsed onto the hall, like a huge animal deciding to lie down right there, between the columns and the flickering torches. The dancers froze mid-gesture, their arms suspended in the air like living statues. The musicians remained with their fingers on the strings, unable to understand whether to continue or flee. The flames, those flames that seemed to have a soul, went out as if someone had taken away their right to exist.

Nasrin was the only one who didn't seem touched by that silence.

She stood there, straight, still, as if carved from the night itself.

Freyja looked at her.

For an instant — an instant she would never admit — her eyes softened.

Only an instant.

Then they turned hard again, sharp, ready to wound.

"I would rather die than lose you, my Valkyrie."

The phrase came out like an oath.

Like a sentence.

Freyja's face was crossed and possessed by tears of gold and amber that shattered on the ground.

The sound of Gunnr's armor, a slight shift of weight, seemed like an omen.

A bad omen.

"GUARDS!"

Freyja's voice exploded through the hall like a thunderclap.

"Secure my beloved. Let no one approach her. Lock her in the prison of the Crimson Bastion."

The guards moved immediately.

Not because they obeyed.

Because they feared.

"NOOOOO...My Queen... no... you can't do this to me..."

Gunnr's voice was broken.

"Silence, Valkyrie."

Freyja's hand pressed against Gunnr's face.

A quick, violent, intimate gesture.

Gunnr turned to stone.

As if that touch had frozen her.

Freyja looked at her in tears... she was afraid... of losing her, and Gunnr at that moment didn't understand.

"GUARDS! Take her away. NOW!"

Freyja struck the base of Gunnr's neck.

A precise, studied blow, one that didn't want to kill but to extinguish.

Gunnr fainted within seconds, her body collapsing like a statue losing its form.

The guards took her under the arms, lifted her, dragged her away.

The throne room closed behind them like a mouth swallowing.

The Crimson Ruby prison was in the woods.

A place that was only mentioned in extreme cases.

A place with no windows, no torches, no mercy.

Gunnr opened her eyes.

Not immediately.

First there was a flicker, a slow return, as if consciousness had to make its way through layers of darkness.

Everything was blurred.

Everything was faded.

The stone beneath her was cold, damp, alive.

The silence was different from the throne room's: this was a silence that listened.

From the depths of the cavern, something caught her gaze.

Not a movement.

Not a sound.

Two rubies.

Two ruby eyes making their way through the shadows.

They didn't shine like gems.

They shone like something that breathes.

Gunnr pulled herself up, her body still heavy, her head throbbing.

The shadows moved around those two red points, as if they were attracted to them.

As if they were born from them.

The ruby wasn't an ornament.

It wasn't a stone.

It was a guardian.

And the prison of the Crimson Bastion wasn't just a place.

It was a boundary.

A boundary Gunnr shouldn't have crossed.

A boundary Freyja had chosen for her.

And as those two rubies stared at her, Gunnr understood something no one had told her:

she wasn't alone in the prison.

And what was with her...

wasn't human.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!