Chapter 11 - The Son of the Skies

Steel

The innkeeper was going to report us to the Royal Guard.

That's the look she gave us as she watched us march back inside her establishment covered in even more blood than we'd been the day before.

I'd used my cape to conceal as best as I could my own wounds — particularly the forearm that the Kött had broken that was now nearly healed and the golden blood smeared on my skin —, but I still looked as bad as the rest of the group. Theron's wound from yesterday had restarted bleeding and there were small cuts and claw wounds over his face and neck. Ahya looked somewhat unblemished, except for a smear of blood on her cheek, which in turn seemed like a testament to her expertise in battle unlike any others'. Jasiel and Kozun were covered in black sál, the former holding a dislocated arm against his side.

The surviving soldier was the one who looked worse out of all of us.

To be completely honest, he looked like he was an inch away from dying. He was now conscious, though barely, held by both Jasiel and Jozun with one of his arms over their shoulders to support his weight. His clothes were torn apart on the legs and arms, he had blood all over his armor and clothes, his hair was matted to his forehead, and his skin looked as white as paper.

He was a terrifying sight for sure.

The innkeeper was a calloused woman, bred from the ice of the north, with long, braided black hair that fell down her back and sharp features, with defined cheekbones and a prominent jawline. However, there was a beauty beneath her stern gaze that her clear hate didn't disguise. The way she looked at us was like a nuisance, but it was clear that she was curious about us, probably wondering what in the hell we'd gotten ourselves into to be covered in blood.

She'd be right to wonder.

But by the look on her face, I think she'd already come to her conclusion, though I'm not sure if she'd guessed we were the infamous group of Melig or a misguided group of young bandits.

Her eyes moved like hawks to Ahya as she smiled tightly. "I'm assuming you'll need two more bedrooms?"

"Just one will do," Ahya returned with a sly smile.

The woman's eyes narrowed at us, her suspicion gaining ground. Her worn hands moved to adjust the apron around her waist, staining the cream fabric with powder from the desserts she'd probably been preparing as the trek back into Hargard had taken quite a long time with the injured soldiers slowing us down, which meant it was near midday by the time we flooded inside the inn. "You lads have seen a fight, I reckon?" She asked, her tone laced with veiled accusation. The clink of mugs and low hum of chatter from the patrons behind us echoed through the wooden halls of the inn. "Or was it two?"

I shrugged noncommittally.

I could feel Ahya's amused gaze on me, knowing how much I despised conversation. "We've seen quite more than two, actually," she answered darkly, stepping forward to place more coins into the waiting hand of the innkeeper.

"At least you're honest," she grumbled, keeping a safe distance from us and extending a hand to the stairs to invite us to go ahead and occupy the rooms. Her eyes then moved back to me, and even though her words followed her conversation with Ahya, her gaze was on me when she spoke. Her voice grew colder, an edge of steel creeping into her tone. "Mind telling me why you folks are here? My inn ain't seen such messy guests in many winters."

"Nothing that should concern you," Ahya said smoothly from beside me, pushing her hair up into a haggard ponytail. "Your kindness is more than appreciated, and we won't stir up any problems. We'll be gone before dark."

The woman let out a brittle laugh that echoed throughout the room. "In my experience, troublemakers always say that their trouble won't concern anyone else." She cleaned her hands on her apron with a pointed glare in our direction. "And might I remind you that you said that yesterday? And yet, here you are, covered in blood again, seeking my roof to sleep under while you come to me looking like you've run into a pack of wild wolves."

I gave Ahya a sidelong glance.

She wasn't at all wrong.

"Fair point," Ahya conceded smoothly.

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow, sighing. "Just be sure to clean up after yourselves," she warned with a waving hand.

She was about to turn when something prompted me to stop her. "I know you know who I am." My voice sounded low, but she stilled all the same, turning around and giving me a wide look of surprise. "Your son recognized me earlier."

"How could you know that?" She asked, sounding appalled.

I shook my head. "I want you to know that I'm sorry," I continued like she hadn't asked a question and wasn't actively gaping at me.

Her eyes narrowed as if my apologies had stung her pride. "Sorry for what, Slayer?" She said the word like an insult but the way she looked at me had too many emotions, none of which looked like pure hatred. "Don't think so highly of yourself, boy. The people of the north have no time to waste hating you or even holding grudges."

Blunt like the edge of a knife.

Exactly like a northerner.

The tiniest smile brimmed in my lips.

Just as I had thought, the innkeeper had also recognized me. My reputation had always preceded me — who I was and what I was capable of —, though both had always been generally exaggerated by bards and frightened soldiers.

"I don't care about either," I said firmly. "But I do care about lives lost to the beasts and I know that what I do isn't enough."

"So, from a hero to a martyr? Is that truly so?" She mocked, letting out a howl of laughter that made a few of the customers look her way in curiosity. One of her hands dropped to her waist and she looked every bit a mother scolding her rebellious son. "Is there any other label you'd like to be given?"

I tipped my head to the side, sighing. "I guess if I'd never been given one to begin with, we'd be having an entirely different conversation, right now, wouldn't we?"

That seemed to stump her for a few seconds and her eyes glinted with some emotion I couldn't read as she stared at me — a mixture of confusion and surprise. "I guess we would."

Silence stretched between us for a few seconds, forcing Ahya to move to the stairs followed by our entourage.

I moved to follow behind them —

"You're not what I expected," she finally said, her voice tinged with both curiosity and suspicion, her expression softer and her eyes narrowing as she studied me.

I felt Ahya's gaze on me as a corner of my lips tilted up in bitter amusement. "What did you expect?"

"A monster, I reckon," she said, her voice carrying a bitter honesty. "With all the stories going about the King's Slayer, the Terror of the Northern Kingdom, a man said to have been forged of the most unnatural steel and ice, it's what everyone thought you to be."

I merely nodded at this.

At least the stories were keeping up with me.

"But you're almost human… too human, even," she said after a long pause, her eyes flickering over me once more. "A bloody mess of a one, mind you, but just a man."

"And an insufferably brooding one, too," Ahya added with a mischievous grin, earning herself a deathly glare from me.

"Regardless of what you are or claim to be, you are under my roof now, which means you are no hunter and no killer within these walls," she said finally, pointing her finger at me like a disgruntled mother. "Which means there will be no bloodshed here, apart from the blood you've already brought inside my house. Do we have an understanding?"

"We understand," Ahya replied quickly before her attention returned to me. "Don't we, Steel?"

I nodded again.

She sighed heavily and shook her head disapprovingly. "If my son finds out you are here, he will drive me mad trying to convince me to let him go with you," she added with a sigh. "Make it so he won't find out, for my sanity's sake," she grumbled, sending us a warning look.

I bowed my consent.

With that, she turned away from us with a harried sigh, her worn boots creaking across the wooden floorboards, disappearing behind the door to the kitchen.

Ahya and I looked at each other for a moment, but before she could say anything, I started for the stairs, taking them as quickly as I could without running. I heard her following me and even though she was silent, I could feel she wanted to ask.

I just knew.

Seconds later, she confirmed my suspicion when she walked ahead of me and stopped in front of the same room I'd been in last night, turning to look at me with her brows raised. "What the fuck happened down there?"

I shrugged innocently. "What?"

"How did you know she recognized you?"

I shot her a look, unblinking.

"You heard them."

I nodded.

"I don't think anyone has ever recognized you so easily before."

I'd been recognized millions of times before.

Ahya had been the first to join me, a hundred winters before. She'd been chosen — not by me, to be clear — because of her sight. Long before I ever came along, she already had it and she'd spent her entire life being used because of it. Her father sold her sight like it was a mere trinket in fairs and markets where people thought her to be a seed-weaver and paid for the knowledge she saw and intuitively knew. She'd never explained to me exactly how she saw and what she saw exactly, but I knew that whatever her gift made her see of the people's lives, had earned her many beatings and whippings that her father had never dared to stop, especially not after he'd been paid for her services. In fact, he'd started using the motto 'the truth is the truth, even if you've paid for it' to remind the concerned wives and selfish husbands that came to seek her knowledge that paying for the gift of the sight didn't mean that the truth could be distorted into what they wanted to hear.

I never understood exactly why Ahya never walked away from that.

Why she stayed with a father that exploited her and abused her so plainly.

Truth be told, I knew better than anyone exactly how easy it was to mistake affection and abuse, and I knew sometimes one's love for his family could blind him to the truth of our own blood's intentions and the atrocities they inflicted. And I also knew even better what it felt like to be trapped in the vicious cycle of that reality, locked within the cage that made her gift the primary source of her family's livelihood, most often paid with her own blood and pain. I'd wondered many times, seeing how fierce Ahya had become, why she'd never fought back when the enraged customers took out their grievances for the future ahead of them on her, and I've never come to a conclusion.

All I know is that, when I found Ahya and freed her from her father's control, she was extremely eager to refuse and forgo her gift in every way she knew how.

Against my father's better hopes or expectations, Ahya hadn't been entirely too keen to aid me in my quest against the beasts and she made her point quite well by showing me exactly what she knew would await us and some of things I'd have to sacrifice to achieve it. At the sight of amber blood on the petals of a withering flower, I broke free and told her if she ever did that again, I would rearrange her ribs with my fists.

Needless to say, after two hundred winters of being alone hunting beasts, fighting my way through battle after battle, showered in blood, I'd grown blunt like the edge of a knife.

And just as cold.

She'd agreed for some unknown reason that I'd never dared to question to join me and become my Melig and after that, we began a form of kinship that I often found myself questioning, because of how pure it felt, while at the same time it felt tainted by all the knowledge Ahya had that I think she kept to herself in order to preserve the peace between us. After that first day, she never spoke of the future ahead of us again, even though I sensed she knew it well, and she only used whatever insight she had to guide our decisions. She never dared to lend me her sight anymore, either, but sometimes I swear she looked at me and saw that same image I'd been so distraught by, all those winters ago, and she knew the end that awaited me.

On those particular days, I wish she didn't know me so well.

Or the secrets I kept.

Or the lies I sustained.

Or the wyrd I was every day drifting closer to.

Ever since we'd been together and over the course of the first two hundred winters, I'd started getting recognized less and less. Whispers still followed me wherever I went, but since I made little to no effort to enforce the people's suspicions about my identity, they eventually died down like a fog on a winter morning until my name became whispers on starry nights when a bonfire was lit and entire villages sat around listening to tales of an ancient warrior who rode in the night to save people from the horrors of the darkness.

The first century was the worst, to be honest.

The memory of the desperate cries echoing through the streets still haunted me. I remembered painfully clear how the voices called out my name, pleading for my aid to vanquish the beasts that threatened their homes and families. How with every step I took, the weight of their fears and hopes pressed down on me like a heavy cloak that I couldn't take off, like a second skin permanently glued to my own. I still remembered their eyes, filled with desperation and longing, and how they followed my every move as I made my way through the chaotic streets, knowing I couldn't save them but nevertheless feeling my heart clench with the burden of responsibility when I couldn't turn away from their calls for help.

Those times had been rough.

My lashes brushed closed as a tightness gripped my heart. "The North remembers best in all the kingdom," I told her in a low voice. "I've been recognized here the most. Since the beasts roam the northern lands the most, it's a reality they face more pointedly than the southern villages, and it's also where I've hunted beasts the most. It's been this way since the beginning. They tell the tales of the King's Slayer as a lullaby to the children. To an extent, it's part of their culture to pass on the legend of my existence through the generations."

One black brow rose. "And you know this how?"

"I've heard it," I answered honestly. "It's quite emboldening, actually." My brows furrowed as I thought of the night when I'd been invited to the daily evening bonfire in Hepna and was completely taken aback by the fact that they didn't whisper tales of the Gods' birth and their creations, and instead described one of my battles against a Skadlig and warned the children against the blonde man that came in the night with war on his heels, a blade in his hands and lightning on his blood. A snort left me, unbidden. "Though they usually mistake a few details, namely my appearance."

"What?" She chuckled, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she turned to grasp the polished brass doorknob behind her. "Do they whisper that you tower like a colossus, blotting out the very sun? That your otherworldly beauty puts the rarest diamonds to shame, leaving mortals blinded by your radiance?"

My thoughts drifted back to the way the boy at the inn had described me earlier and how, despite not using the same words I remembered, he used the same key points in the description. "No. They say I have war in my eyes, ice in my veins, and hair the color of the sun, unlike any other man in the kingdom."

Ahya's silence made my skin prickle. After a while, though, she turned back to gaze at me, brows furrowed, and she looked a bit confused by my words. "I'm assuming you heard this a long time ago, right?"

I tipped my head, shaking it ever so slightly. "The words change, eventually, but the content stays the same."

"If they remember that well, why have I not heard this before?"

"I've gotten better at camouflage." I offered her a small, tight-lipped smile. "There were times, long ago, when I wasn't as careful. Or as concerned."

She stared at me — long enough to be uncomfortable. Then, she turned and opened the door, walking inside the small room and closing the door after I'd walked through. "I didn't know this."

"You know a lot, Ahya, but not everything." I brushed past her, sitting on the closest bed and tipping my eyes to my right hand and the nasty wound festering on my skin where the Kött had bit me and, before that, the Hundar's sál had burned me. "Before you came along, I was recognized by the mere fact of arriving in a village."

She nodded, seeming to mull over this information I was giving her. "Does it bother you, though? Being recognized?"

I looked at the window, watching a woman shaking off a blanket in her balcony, a sheen of sweat covering her forehead and a rosebud of color growing in her cheeks at the warmth of the sun beaming down on her dark clothes. "At first, it didn't really matter to me, but with time it started to become a weight I didn't really appreciate. It was like with every person that recognized me or cowered before me as they begged for my help, I became more of the monster they thought I was." I shrugged. "Eventually, I learned to conceal the things that made the people recognize me."

She raised a black brow at that, and for a moment, her gaze held mine, unblinking. "What would those things be?"

I stared at her, my hands opening and closing at my sides as I changed my weight, uncomfortable. "Everything," I admitted, looking down at my hands. "From my mannerisms to my appearance to my way of speaking."

"So, what you're saying is you essentially stopped being yourself."

It wasn't a question. Nor a guess.

That's what I'd said.

I nodded. "I stopped being what they were expecting to see."

I wasn't sure how I could explain that properly, but by Forseti, it was the honest truth.

Ahya nodded like that made sense. "I'd be surprised if that didn't fit so well with the image I have of you in my mind."

I chuckled softly. "I am nothing if not predictable."

Ahya sighed. "So, as for what happened in the forest," she started hesitantly. "I won't give you an earful, because I think she wants to talk to you about it and she'll do it for the both of us."

She?

As if on cue, Thora flew in through the window, landing on the windowsill, her eyes stabbing me through the distance she refused to close between us.

Oh.

I sighed. "You mean you know she does."

Ahya's features softened more than a few inches. "She does." She nodded before placing a hand on my shoulder and giving me a sympathetic look. "But in this instance, I think she's being reasonable."

I snorted. "Thora is hardly ever reasonable."

I heard her snort in my mind, the sound enough to make me whip my eyes at her just as she turned her head to the side, her talons digging into the wood as she moved and ruffled her wings.

Ahya smiled, looking at Thora and probably seeing her agitation just as clearly as I did — maybe even better. "I don't think this is the moment to rile her up any further. Be wise enough to respect her wrath."

I looked at Thora.

The sight of how she'd looked in the forest flashed before my eyes. How she'd morphed into a wolf right before my eyes, the lightning streaming through her body as she siphoned from me my power to help her make the shift and keep her full strength to protect me. Despite all the reasons why it had been a stupid move, it'd also been something admirable. Skera were extremely powerful beings, but they drew the line at morphing, particularly because of how dangerous it could be if they didn't regulate their exertion to the smallest inch. And the fact that Thora would risk so much so protect me never ceased to baffle me.

Do you want to explain to me what the hell you were thinking?

Thora's voice echoed through my mind, icy and filled with barely suppressed fury, snapping me out of my thoughts in an instant. I looked at her, the blue sheen of her black feathers gleaming in the slanted sunbeams coming in through the window. I had it under control.

A screech echoed around the room and I winced at the sharpness of it.

She was furious.

Thora had never been one for containing her emotions or opinions, especially when it came to me, so it didn't surprise me when she let them burst through the bond. What the hell is wrong with you? She snapped, voice shrill. You've taken on some pretty stupid risks in the past, yes, but why didn't you wait for us?

I ran a hand through my hair before looking down at the wounded hand I knew would scar the burn from the sál and the Kött's mauling. I could feel them close and I heard screams, so I ran to help.

Unarmed? Alone? You're not invincible, you imbecile! Thora's voice was filled with desperation now and it caused my heart to clench. You need to realize that before —

I won't apologize, Thora, I interrupted her before she was tempted to ask that I did exactly that.

She flapped her wings, head tilting to the side as her blue eyes met mine, fierce and unyielding. Then, the next time you decide to throw your life out the window, give me a warning, so I can skip wasting my breath yelling at you and enjoy my last moments.

I whipped my head at her. You know I'd never intentionally put myself in danger. I had things under control before you showed up.

Yet your actions speak otherwise. Her voice echoed in my mind, laced with cold fury. I don't know much about myself, Steel, but I do know that if you die, I die. That's the bond we share. I thought you understood that. She took flight, landing on the same crossbeam she'd slept in last night, expanding her wings to their full extent before elegantly tucking them against her body. We're called shards for a reason. If you die, I will die with you, because the thing that connects us is a literal piece of your soul. If you die, your soul dies with you, and by extent, so do I.

I can't be killed, Thora.

I could sense her turmoil in the tangled web of her thoughts, swirling around her like a storm as she fought against her desires and the words she couldn't bring herself to speak. We both know that isn't entirely true. And even if it was, it does not change the fact that you don't know what would happen if you entered the Søvnen.

She spoke of it like it was an entirely plausible possibility, but it wasn't, truly.

Against common belief, I could indeed be wounded enough for it to be called a type of death. Not in the same way as humans experienced it, but certainly as close to it as I could come. The truth is, for Ascended such as myself, despite the uniqueness of my story unlike any others', there were ways to bring me to the brink of death. It wasn't easy, but it could be done with the right set of weapons and the perfect strike. The only difference was that, what the people commonly called death wasn't actually that for me. For Ascended, death resembled more a long-term, heavy sleep, where the magic that connected us to the realms fed on our power in order to keep the balance intact, though we weren't active and aware enough to be called alive.

And while it was a possibility, it wasn't something my father would allow easily.

Which meant he'd intervene before it could happen, and even though no one would appreciate his involvement — most of all me — it was the honest truth of the matter. He wouldn't allow anyone to drive me into the Søvnen. Not after everything we'd both risked all this time, and all the work we'd put into making sure the future we both knew was unavoidable arrived in our favor.

I dragged in a breath. Thora —

And I was worried about you, you asshole! She snapped, cutting me off with an intensity that caught me off guard.

My heart skipped a beat in a way that made me want to take hold of the organ and will it to slow down. But all I could do was stand there, rooted to the spot by her anger and her fear. Both so true and real they felt like a bite of its own.

All words felt sticky in my mouth, lodged somewhere between my will and the constriction in my chest. But I swallowed hard, pushing them past my lips as I spoke the words out loud instead of in my mind. "I didn't mean to worry you, Thora."

You never mean to. Her voice was a sharp shard of ice, stabbing into my heart. But you do. You worry me, sometimes more than others, but always. You risk your life as if it means nothing.

I was silent because there was truth in her words.

And the truth can sometimes be harder to hear than any lie.

"I'm sorry," I finally murmured, crossing the room and standing beneath her perch, looking up at her with an apologetic expression as I wrestled with what to say next.

You're sorry? She repeated incredulously. That's it? Not even a promise not to do it again?

My head tilted to the side as I studied her profile, noticing how she kept her distance deliberately somewhere I couldn't reach her other than with my mind, almost like she was physically putting a wall between us. Would you believe me if I made such a promise?

No. But then again, seeing as you don't intend to keep it, why would you bother?

I shook my head, the guilt gnawing at my insides.

Thora remained silent, her sharp talons digging into the wood as she shifted slightly on the beam. The empty space between us seemed heavy, a physical embodiment of the distance that had been wedged between us by my recklessness, and I had to recognize that I'd probably scared her more than I had ever done before, which was the reason for her reaction. Despite my pride, I could see I'd been rash and I didn't condemn her for confronting me with the possible outcomes of what I'd done. The chances said that I would probably make it out alive, but what if I hadn't? What if one of the beasts had managed to get the exact right strike, enough to weaken me to the point of no return? What then?

All of this would've been for nothing.

I'm sorry I scared you.

This has nothing to do with my feelings, she snarled, opening her wings again, eyes sharp and beak opening and closing in a clucking sound. This is only about your recklessness —

"I can't imagine what you must have felt," I whispered out loud, sagging to the bed in exhaustion. "And I'm sorry."

I heard a flap of wings and, within seconds, she was landing graciously on the floor at my feet, her talons digging into the wood as she walked closer until she was nearly standing on my feet. Her beak struck once against my leg, calling my attention and when I looked, she had her focus on me, her blue eyes more intense than I'd ever seen them as she pierced me with them. Don't ever do it again.

It wasn't a request, but a near order.

I bowed my head, subduing myself to her wishes even if both of us knew that I couldn't promise such a thing.

My submission hung in the air between us like a tentative peace offering. The tension seemed to ease a notch but the bitterness of her anger still lingered around us like an uninvited guest.

Thora looked at me for a long moment before letting out an exasperated screech that echoed around the room. Damned idiot, she grumbled, right before launching herself off the ground with one last look of frustration and pain, flying out of the window into the bright afternoon sunlight. I need to hunt. I'll be back before sundown. Do try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone.

I laughed, relieved that we were back to our bickering selves. I'll do my best.

I watched Thora fly off into the distance, her graceful movements cutting through the air as she disappeared over the treetops.

A small pang of worry blossomed in my chest, but I pushed it aside, closing my eyes and slumping in the bed, letting the sleep overtake me.

***

"My son."

I blinked awake.

Odin.

I'd seen him many times before. Heard his voice countless more. But I had never grown used to hearing him call me 'son' like that was truly what we were to each other. A part of me still struggled with an unbridled type of rage and bitterness every single time I saw him or heard him call me by that word, like he expected time to erase what'd happened centuries ago. I had many times told him that nothing could truly change the way I felt about him or the story we'd both weaved through time.

He never seemed to listen.

Odin was, as in all the other times he'd visited me, as austerely magnificent as I remembered.

The voice was familiar, a sonorous lull of thunder that echoed through my heart, but despite its warmth, I couldn't feel anything but harsh ice breaking in my chest — somehow, his presence felt like a violation of some kind, a breach of my privacy.

Like it always did.

My eyes met the eye patch covering the missing eye he'd always refused to tell me how he'd lost — the first time I'd met him, the patch hadn't been there. For someone as tall and imposing as Odin, he was incredibly simple in the ethereal way that only Gods could be. He wasn't dressed in otherworldly garments and over-ostentatious colors. In fact, he wore a long, black cloak atop leather armor tightened around his torso perfectly and simple white tunic and trousers. And yet, his presence felt wholly majestic, especially with his staff at his side, adorned with intricate carvings of runes I recognized easily and his long, blonde hair flowing freely around his shoulders to add a hint of wildness to his frame. His beard was longer than I remembered, though, nearly-white in the sunlight dimly entering the room. His eye was fixated on me, as blue as a pressured diamond, holding such immeasurable wisdom it was like he had all the knowledge in the world at the tip of his hands and even though his face held a soft expression, his voice reigned in the room like thunder echoing through the mountains, powerful and commanding, just like always.

He was a God.

The God of the Gods. The Allfather.

And my father.

And yet, he felt so distant and unknowable, like a puzzle I could never solve.

Just as he always had.

"Father," I said, my voice stiff with discomfort, fading echoes of sleep still clinging to it.

He smiled at me like we were a normal family. Like he hadn't nearly forced me to Ascend and placed on my shoulders a burden he'd birthed me for, robbing me at birth from any semblance of normalcy or humanity.

I rose to my feet, putting as much space as the room allowed between us, letting him occupy the corner of the room near the side of the beds while I strayed to the window.

I hated it when he visited me in my sleep this way.

It felt like a cold hand reaching through my dreams, grasping at my thoughts and twisting them into unwelcome shapes. He didn't do it all the time, sometimes offering me his actual presence in the human realm, but ever since his visits became less common and the reasons for them seemed to grow lesser and lesser, eventually he started only appearing in my dreams. Though, to be honest, his visit wasn't entirely a dream. My physical body was sleeping, but my mind and conscience was not. Our surroundings existed around us, as material as they were if I'd been awake, and time still passed around us, but, for some reason, there seemed to be a veil separating the reality where we spoke from the one where I slept. We could move around in this dreamscape — or whatever else I should call it —, and exist in it the same way we would in the real world, as well as see and hear everything, only what happened on each side of the veil didn't impact the opposite side.

I hated it.

His blue eyes sparkled with an otherworldly light that gave a hint of his enormous power. "I know what happened earlier," he stated it as if there had ever been any chance he didn't know what'd happened.

My mouth tightened.

I knew that was why he'd come — to remind me once again of my responsibility towards the realms, to make me feel guilty for being foolhardy. Or maybe he was trying to show his concern in his own twisted way. It was hard to tell with him.

But it didn't matter really.

"I'd guessed as much," I replied curtly. "Is that the reason you came here?"

The silence between us crackled with unspoken words.

His gaze never wavered from mine as if he sought answers in their depths. "Your actions impact more than just yourself."

Ah, there it is.

His signature phrase uttered so many times I had lost count. It was his way of reminding me about why I needed to stay alive — not because I mattered as an individual or because I meant something to him, but because I had a part to play in this Gods-damned wyrd he'd fought so hard for.

His words hit me like a dagger, igniting my anger and the intense scrutiny with which he was still looking at me made me bristle with agitation boosting the guilt frosting my core. Instinctively, I balled my fists and took a step back, eyeing him with suspicion. "Do you have any other reason for being here other than stating the obvious? Or are you just here to remind me of all the ways I'm an irresponsible fool?" I spat out each word with venom, my voice trembling with anger and hurt.

Odin's gaze softened as he observed my barely contained fury.

He didn't falter under my rage, nor did he back away — he never did, even in the beginning. It had been one of the things that made me hate him, in the beginning. Even though I knew the truth was my anger didn't truly phase him, at the time I hadn't seen his coldness that way. To me, it'd felt like cutting indifference, instead, and that had bothered me more than his coldness did. Still, even now, after all this time, it still didn't sit well with me. How he managed to look me in the eyes, see the anger boiling inside of me, and have no reaction to it, like he couldn't be bothered enough to react to my anger.

He stepped closer, his towering figure my equal in every way as we both stood face to face, and the scent of fresh rain and sky filled the air around him — a constant reminder of who he was. He gave me a small, constricted smile. "I am here because I am your father," he began, his voice sincere and almost gentle. His eyes held mine in an unwavering gaze, the azure depths so much like my own. "I am here because, whether you believe it or not, I care about you and I want to help you."

I looked away.

It would've felt great if he'd tried to help before he'd forced me to Ascend. Before he forced me to be this broken version of a person, forever in pursuit of this wyrd I kept chasing and never seemed to know enough about, always looking over my shoulder and spying around corners waiting for the second shoe to drop.

The words rang hollow in my ears and I laughed bitterly to ease the burning that ignited in my chest. "As always, you have a peculiar way of showing it," I retorted, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. "You keep saying that time and time again, but you always seem to come to me only after I've needed you."

His words were the same ones he'd preached countless times before, yet they never offered any comfort. They only served to remind me of the life that had been stolen from me.

"The only danger you faced today was your own foolishness."

"If that is truly so, then I can't fathom why you bothered to come here."

His head tipped to the side, his golden locks falling over his forehead. "And yet, danger is danger, no matter the reason it becomes a danger."

"I'm not really in the mood for riddles, today —"

Odin sighed deeply, cutting me off. "My intention was always only to help, son," he said quietly, the term once again causing an intense sting in my heart. "I never meant to strip you of any of your rights. It was merely a consequence of the wyrd laid out for you."

I wanted to hurl insults at him, to accuse him once more of his injustice and cruelty but the words died in my throat. There was something about his expression that gave me pause — an odd mixture of regret and sorrow that seemed wholly out of character. Was it possible that beneath his seemingly proud exterior lay genuine remorse?

I didn't care.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness," he continued softly, breaking the silence between us that I didn't bother or dare to break. "Nor to rewrite the past. You know very well I've never asked that of you. However, I am asking you to understand why things had to be this way."

Understand.

He wanted me to understand. I was supposed to sympathize with him, with his grand plans and this so-called wyrd? Was that all he needed — my understanding? For me to nod and say I understood his reasons? His actions? His decisions?

A painful chuckle rumbled at the back of my throat. "Oh, I understand alright," I muttered under my breath, my voice raw with suppressed anger. "I understand better than you think."

He watched me for a moment longer before reaching out a hand and placing it on my shoulder. The contact made me stiffen, a small jolt reverberating through my being at the unexpected touch.

But I didn't pull away — couldn't pull away.

I stared at his hand on my shoulder as if it were a foreign thing. It was so rare to have any physical contact with him at all — something he avoided doing because he knew I was mildly inclined each time to chop his hand off — that I would probably go as far as to say that it was almost surreal. Still, I felt how his hand was warm and firm, a reminder of the power he held, even in the simplest of actions.

"I know you're angry," he said suddenly, his voice echoing softly around us. "I know things haven't been easy for you. And I hate that it had to be this way…" His words hung in the air between us, a confession of guilt masked as regret. "But this is our reality," he finished lamely.

Our reality.

His words echoed in my mind as I lifted my gaze once more to meet his eyes. They bore into mine with an intensity that seemed almost desperate, like he was pleading with me to understand and forgive, so we could move on from the matter and be father and son as he'd always expected and wanted us to be.

I wasn't capable of that.

He knew that already. He should've known that for a long time.

Why did he keep pushing?

"I don't want your sympathy," I bit out, my gaze never wavering from his. "I thought I'd made that clear."

His hand dropped from my shoulder, falling down to his side. There was a palpable disappointment in his eyes as he looked at me, but he didn't say anything. His silence said more than any words could.

It was always like this.

We were always running in circles around each other, trapped in the same old dance. He would come with his apologies and his pleas for understanding, and I would reject him repeatedly, unable to forgive what he had done — what he had made of me.

"Then, what would you have me do?"

"I wish you'd stop coming to me," I refuted simply. It was a futile wish and we both knew it, but I needed to say it anyway. Needed him to know just how much of a poison he was in my life.

And how much I hated it and wished every day I could change it all.

His eyes searched mine, the azure depths softening as if he actually cared about my pain. "I'll never stop trying to mend what has been broken between us," he responded quietly.

I scoffed at that. "There's nothing left to mend, Father," my voice dripped with venom. The word 'father' still sounded so alien when I said it — like some cruel mockery of our relationship. "We've been rehashing this conversation for three hundred winters and it's never solved anything. Why do you keep thinking one day it'll be different?"

He seemed taken aback at my remark and something akin to hurt flickered in his aged eyes before it was quickly smothered by a hardened determination, a kind of resoluteness only found in those who have seen and done too much. "Because one day you will understand, finally. Three centuries ago, I gave you everything and it won't be I who takes it from you."

My heart pounded in my chest at his words.

The cold, bitter reality of his statement sunk into me, chilling me to my core.

Yet I couldn't let him see how much his words affected me.

I scoffed — a harsh and hollow sound that echoed in the silent space between us. "Is that so?" I sarcastically retorted, raising an eyebrow at him. "If the past three hundred winters have been you giving me everything, I'm extremely sorry for the person you one day seek to take everything from."

"I don't remember you being sorry for the human fool that raised you."

I stiffened.

I'd never felt sorry for that bastard.

He'd deserved all he'd gotten.

The silence stretched between us again, heavy and suffocating.

Odin kept his gaze steadily on me, his eyes a turbulent storm of emotions I couldn't decipher. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to protest, to argue that he'd given me more than just suffering. But he merely sighed heavily, the sound weary and filled with resignation. "I will not apologize for the wyrd you were born for," he said simply, his voice devoid of any emotion. "But I will not cease in my attempts to help you navigate it."

"That's rich," I huffed out a bitter laugh. "What are you going to do? Throw another Melig at me or manipulate another God into messing with my life?"

"No," he said simply, causing me to blink in surprise. "I will stand by you," he continued. "Support you when needed and fight for you when necessary."

I almost laughed at that — the absurdity of him thinking that I needed his support or that it would make any difference was laughable. But I held back my scornful laughter and instead stared back at him defiantly. "No, thanks," I replied curtly, turning away from him abruptly.

"It's coming." He spoke the words in a tone so quiet, so afraid, that it resonated within the very core of my being. "The end."

It was only two words.

Two. Words.

But my entire world stopped all the same. It was as if the world had been suspended in time, the universe holding its breath in anticipation, every sound and movement silenced as if in reverence to the moment. Like the pause between inhale and exhale. It was a feeling of utter stillness and yet, an overwhelming sense of chaos brewing just beneath the surface.

My heart thundered in my chest and I could feel the blood draining from my face. I turned back to him, my chest constricting. My eyes must have reflected the sheer terror I felt because his face softened slightly, a rare sight that only unsettled me more. "The Mörk wasn't lying, then."

His eyes widened the tiniest bit. "Mörk?"

"Yes." I ran a hand through my hair. "Yesterday, a Mörk said the same to me before I killed it."

His gaze didn't waver, just held mine with a new-found intensity, as if he wanted to make sure I understood. "I'd always suspected they knew this moment would come. That's surely why they're growing bolder. And stronger." He stopped, voice going deeper and when I nodded, his brows fell down in a deep furrow. "I expected this to happen, but seeing it come to pass still fills me with dread."

I looked away through the window on my left, turning halfway away from him, eyeing the people beneath us on the street as they went about their daily shores. If I focused, I could pick up bits of the soft conversation as people greeted on the street and talked pleasantries at each other.

It was something so mundane, so simple, and yet something completely unique one might even go as far as to say it was beautiful.

I lifted one shoulder in what could probably be considered a shrug and looked sideways at him. "That's very human of you."

He stiffened slightly, as though my words had struck a nerve. His expression shuttered and he looked away from me. "Even Gods have their fears," he replied after a moment of silence. His voice held an edge to it, a harshness that hadn't been there before.

The tension hung between us, thick and palpable.

But I wasn't ready to break it just yet, because I needed to know why this wyrd scared him so much and why he'd brought me into this world because of it. "And what is it that you fear, Father?" I asked, staring intently at him. The word 'father' still tasted bitter on my tongue, but I used it deliberately now, wanting him to feel its implications.

He was silent for a long time before speaking. "I fear losing you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. It was the first time he ever admitted this and the raw honesty in his words took me aback.

Centuries ago, if anyone had ever asked me if there were some things that couldn't be forgiven, I would've said no. For a truly long time, I had always believed that no deed was truly unforgivable. Unjustifiable. Inexcusable.

It had taken me twice as much time to realize that I had been a hypocrite all along.

Some things couldn't be explained and, therefore, truly couldn't be forgiven. I knew everyone made mistakes — some of which were often made innocently and without any notion of the chaos it'd bring —, and I understood that sometimes that fault could lead to the growth of a bud of hate against the one who'd committed it that only grew as time passed and life moved on. But the truth is I had struggled for three hundred winters to come to terms with the decisions Odin and my own mother had made, and I had never been able to let go of how both of them had inadvertently destroyed me to the point I couldn't recognize myself anymore and somehow found it within themselves the audacity to preach that one day I would understand their actions.

How could I ever understand something that nearly tore me to pieces?

How could I ever forgive the people who chose to put me through that?

You lost me a long time ago.

My lashes lowered as I struggled to hide the sudden surge of emotion blasting around me, making my heart ache in that old, tiresome way it used to hurt all the time. "I was always lost," I retorted bitterly, turning away from him.

"I never meant for this…" He began and then halted abruptly as if realizing the futility of his explanation.

"I really don't want to return to this topic," I cut him off sharply, feeling the anger bubbling up inside me again. "Your intentions mean nothing to me. It's your actions that have always bothered me, and until you find a way to justify them to me, I will never understand why you did it."

He let out a heavy sigh and for a moment he looked older than the millennia he carried on his shoulders. "I know everything that you are and I know that I might lose you, one day, but I still struggle with that knowledge," he admitted quietly. "It's one of the few things I find myself battling almost every day. How every day I might face the possibility of losing you."

I resisted the urge to glance at him, but couldn't help the scoff that left me. "Is that possibility made harder to accept because my death would be costly for you or because I wouldn't be here to fight this war?"

The silence stretched between us, a pregnant pause that carried the weight of centuries.

At some point, I turned to face him again.

Odin's eyes bore into mine with a heated intensity I'd never seen before. "Both," he said at last. He met my gaze unflinchingly, his eyes glinting with some unfathomable emotion.

I felt a jolt of surprise at his admission.

A flicker of something — was it respect? — ignited within me, but just as quickly it was snuffed out by the bitterness and resentment that still curdled in my heart.

I turned away, unable to meet his intense gaze any longer, going to the small washstand and opening the water, dipping my hands under the freezing stream as if that would dampen my anger. My eyes found my own reflection in the mirror and even though I hardly ever gave much thought to my appearance, I recognized that I did look rather ghastly.

I was covered in dirt, my clothes were blotched with rivulets of black sál and there were golden trails of ichor covering my right forearm. Thankfully, the broken bone had healed already, though the arm still felt stiff and the spot was still sore when I touched or moved it. There was a patch of red skin still visible over the places the Kött's teeth had chummed into me. At the sting of the cold water against my hand, though, my eyes found the patch of red skin where the Hundar's sál had slipped into my skin.

I'd need to tend to that soon.

I could feel his eyes on me as I diligently washed my hands — being careful of the wound on the back of my hand —, the weight of them heavy and insistent, but my father made no move to speak. His quiet, unwavering persistence felt like an implicit dare to continue our conversation. However, as I delayed as much as I could having to turn back, all I could think about were his words.

I know that I might lose you, one day.

They echoed in the hollow confines of my mind, bouncing off the walls of my skull until they reverberated into a deafening cacophony.

I huffed out a bitter laugh, feeling bile rise in my throat.

The thought made me want to scream — to lash out and shatter everything around me. The mere idea that he regarded me as some kind of precious commodity was, in and of itself, a laughably absurd concept.

When I finally turned back to him, drying my hands on a tattered towel draped over the side of the washstand, I found his gaze still fixed on me — steady and unyielding — even as a storm raged within me. "At least you're honest," I said coldly, each word pronounced clearly and deliberately for effect. "It's more than you've been, in past times."

His nose twitched, the only sign of his irritation at my sharp tongue. He shifted from the foot of the bed where he'd taken up residence and moved towards me. "Only adversity can make great kings."

"No," I snapped, holding up a hand to stop him. The action made the burn on the back of my hand sting and I winced. My heart pounded against my ribcage like a battering ram — loud and desperate. "Don't you dare use that argument against me."

He stopped mere feet from me, his gaze holding a world of conflict. His eyes, usually as unreadable as a blank slate, now mirrored the same turmoil I felt knotted within my own gut. "Please," he said, his voice carefully leveled. "I am not —"

"Stop," I cut in sharply. "If you came to talk about the beasts and what happened today, we'll talk about it, but if there's anything else you'd like to discuss …" I felt the muscles on my jaw clench. "Then, I think it's time for you to leave."

A tired sigh escaped his lips, and he looked away for a moment. When his eyes met mine again, they were softer than before but no less intense. "You need to be careful. What happened today was not only reckless, but it was also unnecessary."

I gave my own sigh of impatience. "I already had the pleasure of hearing that speech from Thora, so, please, move along to the part I haven't heard yet."

"Thora is wiser than you, then, it seems." His eyes hardened and I felt the sting of his accusation quite more deeply than I'd expected. "You're not invincible," he said, his voice rough with an emotion I couldn't pinpoint. "I know you know this. But I also know that you believe no monster can match your strength."

I did know that.

I did not, however, think that no beast could match my strength — I knew for a fact that not to be true.

"I'm more than capable of handling myself," I snapped back.

"Is that why you ran into the forest yesterday to fight those Hundar alone?"

I squared my shoulders, refusing to feel like I was being questioned but noticing that, somehow and for some unknown reason, I was putting up the barriers I needed in order to defend myself. "No. It's because the loss of human lives weighs heavily on me and I knew that I could help better than anyone."

"Indeed, it is a heavy burden to carry." He nodded, pacing back and forth from one side of the door to the opposite, and back again. His staff disappeared from his hand, making him look more human and, if that was possible, more troubled. "But is that the only reason you did it? I know you loathe the thought of me, my son, but I know you as if you were my own soul. I know that you didn't rush into that forest simply because you wanted to help." His eyes lifted to mine, blue and see-through enough that I could see in them the answer he was seeking from me. "Did you?"

I swallowed, hesitating to answer because the truth he was implying lived buried so deep inside of me that I rarely ever gave it air to breathe, suffocating it under the weight of all the different burdens I'd come to carry over time. "If you know the answer, why are you asking me?"

Odin stopped. "I want to hear it from you."

I clenched my fists to stop them from shaking, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. His words sent a ripple of unease through me. I cast my gaze downward, staring at the worn stone floor before I dared to meet his gaze again. "Why does it matter?" I finally muttered, my voice scraping out harsher than I intended.

"It matters because it matters to you," he replied, his tone laced with a strange kind of tenderness foreign to our conversations. "Because it's what's been driving your most reckless actions through the choices I've watched you make all these winters. It's the reason Thora was so angry at you, because, like I, she knew you didn't do it only for the novelty of saving human lives."

My chest tightened at his words — an unexpected jab I wasn't prepared for.

This was so much easier when we were at odds, when we were hurling accusations and harsh truths at each other. This unexpected vulnerability and open sincerity were far more difficult to navigate.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "And what other reason is there?"

He stared at me for so long it felt like he wouldn't answer, but then the words I'd been so unwittingly smothering inside of me fell out of his lips. "You're tired."

My lips parted.

He bridged the distance between us in the blink of an eye. "You're tired of fighting. Tired of waiting. Tired of moving on," his voice was nearly a whisper that curled its way around my spine, stiffening my entire body. He shook his head brokenly, his lips thinning into a straight line. "Fighting this battle is all you've ever done. And though you were once devoted to it, now you use all this resentment you harbor for the world and everyone in it as a way to fuel your resolve to keep fighting because you're afraid of what will happen if you let go. If you stop fighting." He sighed deeply, placing a hand on my shoulder. I was too astonished to pull away. "But you're tired, aren't you? And that has been making you reckless, blind to the danger. Because it doesn't matter to you what happens."

You've given up.

Those words haunted me to this day. On my mother's deathbed, the loss that'd nearly broken me in half, those words had been whispered in my ear as a reminder of what I'd become. Of all I'd turned into. Winters had passed since, but the words remained with me nevertheless, because other than being her last words, they hadn't been a declaration of love or an apology, but instead the weight of her disappointment. At the time, I hadn't been able to get over how selfish she'd been, placing the entire length of her disappointment on me at that last moment, when she knew I couldn't change what I'd done or the path I'd chosen. Back then, it'd made me hate her even more. Made me resent her even more, for daring to speak those words to me when she knew all the reasons why I'd become all I was. But as time went by and some of the anger and the hurt washed away, I realized her selfishness wasn't truly what I hated about what she'd said, nor the words itself. It was because that small sentence was the perfect summary in detailed measure of my own bitterness and resentment for the world around me when I rushed to blame it for all I'd lost, instead of embracing all it'd given me.

But what had it given me, truly?

Eternal life?

I nearly scoffed at that.

Eternal life was nothing but a curse I'd been handed. I'd watched everyone I've ever cared about die, while I remained, young and beautiful, as they grew old and perished.

Was there anything worse than outliving all the people I loved for whom I'd willing give my life for?

Worse than losing all the people I could be led to fight for?

Worse than keep on loving people there was no longer a point fighting for?

"I…" My voice caught in my throat, the rush of emotion too close to the surface for my liking. I swallowed hard, forcing back the threatening tears as I stared at Odin.

"You've been tired for a long while, haven't you?" He asked quietly, as though he'd read my thoughts. "You carry so much weight, much more than anyone should ever be forced, and even though we all can see how much it pains you, somehow you still manage to make it look easy."

"Pain? How it pains me?" I laughed bitterly. "Is that what you call it?"

I'd thought of better words for it.

"What else would you call it?" His eyes softened as he watched me, his gaze never wavering from mine. "No matter how much it hurts, you push through the despair, through the emptiness, and you've kept fighting all this time."

Of course, I did.

What other choice did I have? I couldn't die, so that was out of the question. My only other choice was to watch as the world descended into chaos, and I don't honestly think I would be capable of that.

I wasn't like Odin.

"Yes," I gritted out, voice bitter like poison. "Though I've come to realize that it's a pointless effort. I sacrifice myself every day, going out to fight beasts and protect the human world, but at the end of the day, I'm only standing watch as the world rips itself apart while I keep trying to hold it together long enough so I can have a chance to save it."

"It is never pointless to fight for the survival of a vulnerable people," he reminded gently, letting his hand fall from my shoulder. "But if it's a pointless sacrifice, then, why?"

I froze. "What?"

His brows rose. "Why do you keep doing it?"

"I —"

"Because you still have hope, don't you?"

"Hope?"

The word sounded absurd to me.

How could there be any hope left amidst this chaos?

"Yes," he responded firmly, stopping once again to fix me with that steady raven-like gaze of his. "Against all odds, hope is silent but resilient. It's resistant even in the face of overwhelming despair." He paused for a moment before continuing tentatively like he was treading on thin ice. "Maybe… maybe you hope to find a reason worth living for once again."

I blinked at him in surprise.

His words echoed within me like a distant bell gonging on a foggy morning — indistinct but undeniably there.

A reason worth living for.

Wasn't that what I'd been looking for that all this time? Searching for a purpose and meaning among the ashes of a world on the brink of war, constantly besieged by forces that sought to tear it asunder? Had I not thrown myself into the midst of those ashes time and time again, hoping to find some semblance of redemption or resolution?

"Maybe," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, but the truth is the admission felt raw, exposed, like a wound freshly opened.

Odin did not press me further, for which I was grateful. Instead, he stepped back and offered me a half-smile. Fractured as it was, it still held a measure of comfort that was rare for him. "Maybe," he repeated my words back to me, his gaze steady on mine. "But hope is not enough if you do not have something to tether it to."

That was it.

This is what Odin was trying to tell me — the need for balance between duty and desire, between the world's needs and my own. The balance that kept hope alive instead of letting it become another source of torment.

Balance.

Give and take. Push and pull.

I shook my head, struggling to reconcile with his words. "What could possibly be left for me here?"

His smile deepened slightly at this. "That's the thing about this world," he began in that age-old voice of his that seemed to carry the weight of eons within its depth. "It is always filled with potential. Potential for good and for bad, for peace and war, for sadness and happiness… but most importantly, potential for balance."

Happiness.

The concept seemed so foreign to me. I'd never felt happiness before. Never witnessed it. There had been moments when I'd thought that maybe I'd held happiness in my hand, but those moments had always been shadowed by the tendrils of a life so dark, so miserable, so abhorrent that it always seemed to make the glow of any joy wisp away like smoke. I'd heard people talk of happiness many times, saying they were happy for this or that, but I didn't think either of them ever knew what true happiness was or what it meant. To me, it had always been a forbidden word. Like my exhaustion, it lived buried underneath all the layers of barriers I'd placed between us, so it couldn't drive me mad with the possibilities of what-ifs and would-haves. To me, it was nothing more than a secret buried, a long-lost hope forever forgotten.

One I'd managed to ignore for long enough to barely sting anymore.

I wouldn't let it out now.

"I don't believe in happiness."

Odin clasped his hands behind his back, giving me a dubious and curious look. "You don't?"

I shook my head slowly. "Happiness doesn't exist."

His eyes, filled with a thousand stories and wisdom born from an eternity of observing the world, met mine. "It does," he assured me, his voice soothing like a lullaby, a soft whisper in the vast doubt of the world around us. "Perhaps not in the way you expect it to. True, it's not always grand or conspicuous. Sometimes it's smaller things, such as the warm feeling of an embrace, or the sound of laughter, or the sight of the sun glowing in the sky." He began to pace around the room, his fingers gently brushing against aged furniture covered in a fine layer of dust. The golden light flickering in through the window reflected in his eyes and I saw something akin to melancholy crossing over his face. "It's easy to miss such moments when your eyes are drawn towards the shadows and your heart is tuned only to the roar of pain."

His words hung heavy in the cool air of the room.

They tugged at something within me — an echo of recollection perhaps, or simply the resonance of his wisdom sinking into my weary heart.

I bit my lower lip, letting his words sink in.

What he was saying was so foreign to me, yet so compelling, that it left me feeling untethered.

"I…" I began but found no words to express my turmoil.

Odin smiled weakly. "Other times, happiness might come in the form of a person, who breathes new life into an old existence and makes all those moments suddenly matter."

My gaze whipped to his, my head tilting to the side as suspicion took root in me. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His gaze drifted away towards the sinking sun. "The only type of love you've met, my son, is the type that hurts and leaves scars, but that is not the only kind there is. What you had, all those winters ago, was conditional love, dependent upon your status, your behavior, and social order, because the people who gave it to you were guided solely by that. But some people don't need any of that. Their love is simply given, without any conditions, and though it isn't any truer than any other, it is a love that even the strongest man might just die for."

I swallowed hard as a pang shot through my chest.

My mind was instantly flooded with memories — of shared laughter that felt like healing, of silent tears wiped away by gentle hands, of companionship when the world had turned its back.

A person who breathed happiness into my life.

Odin turned back to face me, his eyes glowing warmly with wisdom and understanding. "Love, Thor, can be your tether. Your hope. Your light in all this darkness."

The notion was ridiculous, yet it tugged at something deep within me. Could it really be that simple? Could one person really hold the power to heal all the wounds I'd accumulated over the winters?

I scoffed, shaking my head. "And who might that be?" I asked with a bitter chuckle. "Who would love the King's Slayer, the one who brings death and destruction in his wake?"

But even as I said it, my mind was painted with images — of long hair catching in the moonlight, wild and curly, waving in the soft breeze of the night flooded with the sulfuric smell of sál.

Her.

Odin was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps someone who sees not only the storm you carry but also the calm hidden beneath it. Someone who knows your thunder does not define you." His gaze was thoughtful as he added quietly, "Someone who sees you for you. Not your name, your birthright or your responsibilities."

His words sent a jolt through me.

Suddenly, my heart ached with an intensity I hadn't felt in ages.

"I don't believe in happiness…" I whispered softly, the words barely a breath escaping my lips.

Odin looked at me quietly, his ancient eyes softening. "Love is a powerful thing," he reminded me. "It can heal even the deepest wounds. Even the ones we thought would never stop bleeding. And the most precious kind of all tends to grow stronger in the face of adversity, which I think you'll find your future to have loads of."

His words rang true, resonating deep within my soul as if it were an ancient truth awakening from its slumber. "But how…" I started, unsure how to voice my thoughts.

Odin gave me a small smile, resting a hand on my shoulder. "You are a God, my son. Your wyrd has always been set."

God.

I'd hardly ever even used that word to refer to myself in all these winters. To me, it'd always felt something weirdly surreal, distant, and imagined. It was a fable whispered to the ears of a young man, who wanted nothing more than to be told he had been born for any reason other than to be the world's punching bag. When I'd first heard referenced to me, I'd thought it was a lie. Later, it became a burden that I carried, like I did my past and the world I'd been forced to become the protector of. Though I'd seamlessly embraced the role of Slayer and all it inadvertently brought along, somehow I'd managed to ignore that part of the truth. At the time, it's been easier to give myself up to the role of Slayer instead of focusing on what all that'd transpired had turned me into. Easier than facing the truth of who I was and why I'd been born. And then time took upon itself the task of making me forget those truths were even there, making them words I'd once heard that had no measure of importance in my reality except the contempt I offered it.

Like time could erase the truth of who I was the same way I'd erased my truth from history.

But as my father's words hung in the air between us, the weight of that title seemed almost crushing. Being a God was not just about power or immortality. It came with responsibilities and expectations far beyond what any mortal could bear.

And yet, here I was, struggling to even come to terms with who or what I was supposed to be.

Three hundred winters too late, it seemed.

"I don't feel like a God," I finally said, breaking the silence that had fallen over us.

"You were never meant to just feel like one," my father replied calmly. "You were meant to the the greatest of us all, and though I know that you will be, one day, I also know that you are not, yet."

The word 'God' was not a word my father was known for throwing around, as well. In some part of my mind, I knew that to be true. He'd only ever said these words to me once, after I'd Ascended, but I'd never really accepted it because I'd never truly felt like a God. Instead, I'd always chosen to call myself an Ascended, because that was truly what I'd been since that night.

I wasn't human anymore, but I also wasn't entirely a God yet.

There were parts of me that were still much too human to be godly.

"Yes, but how do you know —"

He chuckled. "I need you to keep your hope for the days to come. The end is coming, as is your wyrd," he cut in softly. "Maybe when it does, you can finally make peace with your past and move on from it, at last." His hands clasped together in front of him and he appeared deep in thought. The setting sun cast long shadows over his countenance, highlighting the wiry furrows of age and tension that marred his face. He was no longer just my father, but Odin, the Allfather — a figure of immense power and wisdom who carried the weight of all Nine Realms on his shoulders. "You will find your strength. Your breath and your heart. Then, and only then, will you become all that you were meant to be."

"What exactly would that be?"

"My son, Thor, and the God of Thunder."

I froze.

He rarely ever used my true name before. He knew I disliked it and since every time he'd tried to use it, I'd lashed out at him, so at some point, he'd stopped. To me, that name, like all the ones that'd come before, was a name that lingered on the tongue like a bitter aftertaste, a reminder of a past life that I had long since tried to forget. And yet, with those words, my father brought it all back to the surface, like a forgotten wound that still held the power to hurt.

His gaze snapped back to mine with such intensity it was as if he could see straight through me. "You are Thor Odinson, my son, and rightful heir to the throne of Asgard," he continued, his words terse but his voice gentle. "That is all you need. All you are. You are the balance. The son I birthed to be the weapon against the darkness. Life might have been cruel to you, but you are meant for a wyrd greater than yourself or even me. And if you want to survive the darkness coming, you need to understand that you are steeped in the balance the way no God can ever be and your actions will shape the entire Cosmos," he paused and his eyes hardened to blue steel, his jaw clenching. "Accept it or death will be your end."

"I can't die."

"Thor…" He shook his head and a sad smile crossed his lips as he pushed blonde strands of hair from his forehead. He gave a dejected nod, and his eyes lifted to mine with an honesty that cut me open. "I'll come to you a fortnight from now," he told me, voice hollow. "By then, you'll understand what I mean."

I swallowed hard. "Are you implying that's a lie, too?" My voice sounded deathly quiet. He didn't answer or react, but Odin's eye twinkled with just the right amount of sorrow to let me know that was exactly what he was saying. My fingers clung onto the window sill, craving for something solid to hold onto as my world threatened to spin out of control. "Then, tell me the truth, now. Why wait a fortnight?"

"Because it's the day you'll finally learn your wyrd and shoulder it, whether you are ready for it or not."

"What —"

He blinked out of existence.

Leaving me standing there, my body frozen in shock.

Outside, the evening sun had vanished completely leaving behind a trail of twilight stars that flickered against the canvas of night.

All these winters, we kept arguing because of all the lies he'd told me. All the half-truths. All the cryptic answers. From the moment I'd been born, my life has been steeped in lies and there had been a day, a long time ago, when he'd sworn to me that it was over. That the lies and omissions were over. That he'd tell me the truth, always, no matter how hard it was or how hurtful.

He'd sworn.

And yet…

Here we were.

Another half-truth.

Another fucking lie.

A bitter laugh echoed through my throat as the irony of it all washed over me.

I was supposed to be a God, yet the vulnerabilities of mortals clung to me like a second skin.

For a moment, I contemplated whether my father was right. Had I run away from who I was? Or was it simply that I was not ready to accept my fate? Anger surged through every fiber of my being at the thought of having to bow down to some predetermined destiny thrust upon me by those who claimed to know what was best for me.

And yet…

Isn't that what I'd been doing all my life?

I looked down at my hand, sighing at the prospect of having to tend to it and wrap it —

My heart nearly stopped.

It was healed.

The burn on the back of my hand. It was completely healed. Flawless skin stared back at me from the spot where the Hundar's sál had fallen. He'd left but he'd healed me. He'd noticed the burn. He hadn't said anything, had chastised me for being careless, but he'd still healed me.

Some might think he actually cared.

***

I was awakened several hours later.

I wasn't sure what woke me up. For the most part, I wasn't even sure if there even had to be a reason. I wasn't a sleeper. Ever since I'd Ascended, I hardly ever needed sleep. For the most part, it was something I did out of habit, for the peace it brought me and the excuse to leave all my worries at the door when I walked into a bed-chamber and laid myself down on a bed. Sometimes, of course, it also proved convenient as it helped me heal from some of the nastiest injuries, easing the pain and regenerating my body entirely more wholly. Yet, it wasn't something I inherently needed as a biological need. It was something I took for the advantages it had.

Though, obviously, it hadn't always been that way.

I lifted my hands above my head, looking at the healed skin on my wrist and arm.

I'd always known I wasn't normal, but ever since I'd Ascended, I'd realized just how 'not normal' I truly was by both human and god standards. As a human, I had never caught ill. I'd never been sick a day in my life, in fact, and I healed whatever injury I had at a much quicker rate than anyone I'd ever met. I was also faster and mildly stronger than other people. But after Ascending, though all those aspects had been improved, they hadn't been completely amplified to the extent Gods such as my own father had them. I wasn't all-knowing. I couldn't teleport. I still got hurt, though only at the hands of beasts and no longer by the hands of Clay Children. I still slept. I still ate. And though I could navigate Asgard, I wasn't capable of withstanding being there for long periods of time.

I hadn't made the complete transition into a God — who possessed all those traits.

To more people than I thought, that fact was reason enough for concern.

I sighed.

Fretting over my vulnerabilities was something Thora and Calamnai enjoyed doing far more than my father did, though — thankfully. Otherwise, his visits would be far more frequent and I wasn't entirely sure I'd survive that.

"Steel."

I whipped my gaze to the door. "Kozun." I rose on my elbow. "Is something wrong?"

"It's the guard," he answered in his oddly quiet and serene manner that left me to wonder the exact gravity of his presence. "His condition is worsening. I think if you want to talk to him, it's best that you do it now. He's conscious, but I'm afraid he won't be for much longer."

With a nod, I rose from my bed, detangling my legs from the sheets. I walked across the room, pulling on a fresh tunic and fastening my boots. Without a second look at the darkened room, I left and followed Kozun down the small corridor to the room next door.

As I crossed the threshold, the scent of death nearly nauseated me. I'd never forget the first time I'd smelled it, so long ago, and though time had somewhat made me slightly more indifferent to the smell, it never stopped amazing me how easily I could smell the illness in the Children of Clay and how putrid said smell was. It was overwhelming and sickly sweet, like a mixture of rotting flowers and decaying flesh. It clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, leaving a metallic tang on the tongue.

It was a scent that I'd never been able to truly become accustomed to, a reminder of the darkness that lurked around the world, ready to plunge its hand into the essence of any being at any time.

Kozun walked to the battered man lying on a bed to the left. Kozun had changed his clothes and I could see clean bandages lying around him in the bed, but the sheets were stained with splotches of blood and he was breathing irregularly and with considerable effort. He was pale as death itself, his breathing shallow and ragged and when he moved, he winced.

"I kicked the others out. They're downstairs at the tavern," Kozun reported grimly as he stopped and knelt by the bed. "I've done all I can. But he keeps getting worse. The bleeding won't stop. His lungs have been pierced, as well as one of his kidneys, I believe."

I took a deep breath and nodded, the metallic taste of blood haunting the air.

Following Kozun, I knelt next to the dying man. At the sound of my knee hitting the floorboards, his eyes fluttered open as he acknowledged my presence. A weak wave of recognition crossed his gaze before being replaced by a grimace of pain. "Slayer." He said my formal title with a sigh, his lashes fluttering. When they reopened fully, they focused on me with great effort. His lips moved soundlessly as he struggled to get words out. "My name is Lorn Ethelson. I know my death approaches, but I need to tell you."

"What you need is rest, now," I urged gently placing a hand on his shoulder while trying not to cause him more distress.

Ignoring me, he shook his head slightly and continued to force words out from his throat. "No." He coughed. "No. I need — I need to tell you what happened."

I nodded, urging him silently to continue.

He stared up at the ceiling of the humble room, the light in his eyes fading with every passing second that he remained silent, and yet still, he persisted, one of his hands curling on the collar of my tunic firmly. "We were ordered to travel to Hargard at first light."

"Why?"

"She caught wind that you were in the North and sent us for you."

Suspicion grew in my chest like a raw burning. "She sent for me?"

A gentle tug at my chest told me that Thora was close by, and although she didn't say anything, she was awake and watching. A wave of peace and stillness was exuding from her that was quite refreshing after feeling her worry and anger earlier.

"We don't know why. We were given provisions and sent on our way with the task to bring you back to the fortress."

My heart kicked wildly in my chest. "Fortress?" I repeated.

There is only one fortress this far in the North, Steel, Thora reminded me gently.

I know.

You know what this means.

Of course, I did.

It has to be her, I thought back.

"Were her orders to bring me back dead or alive?"

My heart skipped a beat when Lorn finally managed to turn his head to look at me, when I saw the twin pools of despair looked out from under heavy eyelids, frighteningly raw and wild with pain and even though I couldn't explain how I knew it, I knew the answer he was about to give me.

"Alive at all costs, even if injured," he whispered, a shudder running through his battered body. "There've been beast attacks on the fortress. Five of our men and one of the girls were killed yesterday by a flying beast. We tried to fight it but it flew off. Our cattle has been disappearing for a few days, now, and we think it was the beast, too. With a source of food at its will, it won't just leave," he stopped, giving me a fervent look. "We need help, but I'm not sure that's the reason she sent us here."

I would guess asking for my help would be one of the very last things she'd ever want to ask of me.

"Who is this woman?" My voice sounded strangely raspy.

"Her name is Keiserinne."

Keiserinne?

If my knowledge of the old languages didn't fail me, it meant 'empress' in the common language.

There's no way that is a real name, Thora weighted in.

Agreed.

As long as I knew, the day I'd sworn I was done dealing with the problems of the Clay Children, I'd left only one person alive within those walls, exactly sixteen winters ago. The weather and distance from any of the neighboring villages was a problem most would avoid having to deal with, keeping anyone from settling in there.

Despite all the time that'd gone by and the time I'd spent away slaying beasts all over the continent, I'd tried to keep tabs on her the same way I did the rest of the royal family. For the most part, it was something I now did out of habit, tracking their essence the same way I breathed or sensed beasts.

So, I knew she was still alive.

When I'd left, I'd warned her that it was best for her to not raise any attention to herself, since everyone thought she was dead, but I hadn't ever seen or heard from her since. Partly, I knew that made sense, after what had transpired between us, but if she'd remained in the fortress all this time, then she'd been quite diligent about keeping herself out of the rumors whispered into my ears.

Smart girl.

Don't compliment the bloodthirsty woman that's probably going to put a sword through your chest the second she sees you, Thora sneered.

I wanted to laugh but the soldier's eyes ensnared me as he pulled me down closer to his face. "She's ruthless and dangerous. Be weary of her, Slayer."

"So, what happened in the forest?"

"We were followed by a pack of Hundar and when they attacked, there was hardly anything any of us could do. We fought bravely, but half my squad was dead by the time you arrived, and the rest perished even with your help."

I felt Kozun's eyes on me, heavy and insistent, waiting for me to make the next move. The air seemed to thicken in anticipation but all thought eluded me as I struggled to process what I'd just heard.

"Did they follow you from the fortress? Could they be nesting near the fortress?" My question hung in the air, and I desperately yearned for an answer.

I was answered with silence and a quiet sigh. His eyes fluttered closed, and his hand loosened its grip on my tunic.

"I don't know," he breathed out, his words barely a whisper. "But if you don't help… they'll all die." His words were punctuated by raspy gasps for air, each one seeming to take more out of him than the last.

There was a moment of heavy silence.

A chill ran down my spine as I considered the implications of what he was saying. I knew this was bound to happen at some point. Despite the location, the Stalsgard Fortress was a place of enormous power, carried into the sentient stones that made up its walls, so it was only a matter of time before the beasts tried to feed off it. Ever since their creation, the beasts were attracted to ichor because it was one of the few things that satisfied their needs, though they usually hungered for human blood and flesh for the mere mayhem of it. They were naturally drawn to the North, and even if somewhat protected by the shroud of the weather, it was no surprise that they'd ended up finding it.

"Don't —" Lorn coughed again, and blood coated his lips. He took in one last sharp breath and deviated his eyes to the ceiling. "Don't let them die, Slayer."

His last breath was oddly serene.

More of a sigh, really.

The final exhale escaped his lips, a peaceful release,, incredibly gentle for an ending so improper. His chest rose and fell for the last time, the sound a mere whisper in the silence of the room. Only the soft murmur of distant voices outside breaking the silence. It was a tranquil moment amidst the chaos of life and death, as if the universe itself had paused to witness this passing.

Kozun leaned closer.

There were no tears in his eyes, but I could somehow feel his soul crying for this man he'd lost in his case as he reached over and gently closed Lorn's eyes.

I felt a cold shiver run through me as I sat back on my heels.

He had died far from home, this Lorn Ethelson, among strangers, bearing news that seemed to bode ill for all of us.

"I'll see to it that he's properly buried," Kozun murmured solemnly, dragging me back from my thoughts. He rose slowly, his figure seeming even larger than before against the dim light of the room.

"I'm sure you will," I replied softly, my gaze never leaving Lorn's lifeless form.

There was a sense of unease in the room now. A tension that hadn't been there before. What was I going to do now? How would I face her? If it was her? And of the man's warning were to be taken into account, then what were her true intentions in sending for me? In wanting me brought to the fortress? Did she mean to keep her promise? To kill me? I wouldn't be surprised. After all, that's what she'd promised, so long ago.

But what if it is her? What if she truly did this? What are you going to do? Thora's aprehension was a mix between concern and fury.

I could feel Thora getting closer and her emotions swamped through the bond. If it's her, I will deal with it, I answered darkly. After I deal with the beasts circling the fortress, preying on whoever's living there.

You can't kill her.

I know, I admitted, rushing up the stairs two at a time. But I have to keep my promise.

Even if it kills you?

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of all the thoughts swirling in my mind and all the ghosts of the past looking through the windows I'd blinded so many winters ago. She can try to the best of her abilities, but she can't kill me.

That doesn't mean you should protect her. She'll turn on you the second she sees the opportunity.

What choice did I have?

As an Ascended, I was bound by my oaths and vows. And though I hadn't ever vowed directly to her, a larger oath kept me faithful and loyal to her and those that came before and after her. There was nothing that could change that.

I rose stiffly. "Bury him and find the others. I'll be in my room."

Kozun nodded.

I didn't give him time to say anything else before I turned on my heel and returned to my room. As swiftly as I could, I packed my belongings into a rug-sack, tightened all my scabbards into place as well as the weapons that went into them and pulled on my long cloak. Finally, I leaned against the window, staring out at the world beyond, illuminated by the full moon in the dark sky above. Its pale light cast eerie shadows across the landscape, adding to the sense of urgency and determination that fueled my restlessness.

Thora landed gracefully on the parapet on the other side of the glass. So, we're going, aren't we?

I nodded.

She sighed, a silent shiver making her feathers rustle against the chilly breeze. You do realize she won't be the child you remember, right? The weak and scared girl you marched to her death?

She was right, of course.

No, she won't be, I responded rather curtly, my eyes unwavering from the stark moonlight spilling down on the world. We'll be meeting the older version of the bitter girl that promised she'd see me dead before her time among the living ended.

She gave out another sigh, her gaze cast far into the distance as she turned her small body to the side. For all off our sakes, Steel, I hope that version is less determined than the one we both knew.

I grunted in agreement.

I wasn't sure what I was hoping for myself. A part of me wanted her to be the gentle, innocent girl I'd met, a headstrong young woman with a peculiar sense of justice. But another part feared it. Feared that when I stared into those royal-blue eyes I'd never forget, I'd see the same girl from before, even as she plunged her sword into my heart for the atrocities I'd put her through.

That would only make it worse.

Because if she was indeed a brand-new woman, changed and evolved from the past we both shared, that meant I wouldn't have to see the monstrosity of my sins reflected there. Even if all she nurtured for me now was hate, if she'd somehow changed from the child I remembered, then I would have able to bear that stare. But not if she'd stayed the same. With a thousand questions gleaming in her eyes and even more accusations, glinting like weapons that pierced my heart more than her words or actions ever would.

After what felt like a long time, there was a knock on the door.

"Kozun said we need to talk," Jasiel said.

I nodded.

"What happened?" Theron questioned.

I turned to face the four faces now looking up at me, filled with questions that matched most of my own. "We have beasts to kill."

And the beasts I was referring to might not only be the actual beasts slaughtering innocent women used against their will to do unspeakable things, but also whatever nightmares I'd left haunting that place the day I'd left.

"You're going to have to be a tad more specific," Ahya replied with sarcasm, lips tipped down in a scowl.

"I know why the squad we found in the forest came here," I explained, sounding out of breath to my own ears. "They came for us."

You're not telling the entire truth.

For now, it's all they need to know, I answered numbly. When the time is right, I will tell them all the truth. But not now. First, I need to see her. See what she'd become. See what'd happened through all this time.

Lying is never a good option, no matter the circumstances, Thora chastised, annoyed by my choice to keep the truth to myself for now. It's what got you here in the first place.

Thora, this is not the time.

She flew off the parapet. Sometimes, I want to stab you myself, were her parting words.

I sighed.

"I said they were here for us," Theron grumbled under his breath, forcing my focus back to him. Taking a long breath, he met my gaze. "Where did they come from?"

"It's a long story," I said, feeling the memories of my past all resurface as the thought of going back to the place where I'd been exiled for nine winters against my will, forced to become something I resent being to this day, and how, centuries after, I'd left her exiled there, too. "I'll tell you on the way."

I dreaded the thought of returning.

It never got any easier.

Guess putting three centuries' worth of time between me and what'd happened hadn't changed how I felt about it.

And though I knew that too much time had passed for the North to still remember, I also knew that the second I stepped foot in that Gods-forgotten place, the ghosts of those times would whisper the secrets the dead took with them to their graves.

The secrets I'd worked very hard to bury along with their bodies.