The body was brought to the 68th precinct morgue two hours after the discovery.
The gurney rolled down the corridor of white tiles, the wheels screeching like a lament. The smell of formaldehyde and disinfectant wrapped around the corpse like a second shroud. The technicians spoke in low voices, as if the dead man could hear them, as if the dead man could still get up.
Dr. Hartmann, the medical examiner, approached the steel table. He was a thin man, bald, with reading glasses and an expression that hadn't changed in thirty years. But that night, something in his eyes was different. There was fear.
He didn't show it.
But it was there.
He uncovered the body.
The fisherman was still there — gray, blue, split open, with the crows driven in like nails. The skin had turned cerulean under the neon light. The lips were cracked, the blood dry and black.
Hartmann sighed. "Let's begin."
But before he could touch the body, something happened.
The first crow moved.
It wasn't alive. It couldn't be. It had been driven into the fisherman's chest for hours. The blood had clotted around the beak. The feathers were encrusted with blood and mucus.
But the wings opened.
Slowly, as if something was pushing them from the inside. The black feathers lifted, creaked, spread out. The sound was like tissue paper tearing, a dry, unnatural rustle.
The second crow followed.
The wings snapped open, the feathers spread wide, as if the bird was about to fly.
The third crow didn't open its wings.
The claws began to move.
Small movements. Imperceptible at first. Then more decisive. The talons — black, hooked, sharp — began to scratch the corpse's skin.
Hartmann stepped back. His foot struck the instrument cart, metal clinking.
"What the fuck…" he muttered.
The third crow's claws moved faster. They scratched the flesh. They didn't cut it. They scraped it. As if they were digging. As if they were looking for something beneath the skin.
The sound was wet, slimy, like claws moving through dead flesh.
The fisherman's body lifted slightly.
Not a muscular movement. Not a reflex. It was as if something beneath him was pushing him upward. The back arched for a second. The mouth opened.
And the water began to pour out.
From the corpse's mouth came a jet of water.
It wasn't a trickle. It was a flow. A dense, black, salty flow, as if the fisherman's lungs had been full of sea the whole time and were now giving it back.
The water poured onto the steel table, ran toward the edge, dripped onto the floor. The sound was a gurgle, a sob, a drowned breath.
Hartmann's eyes widened. "Christ…"
The water kept coming. It didn't stop. As if the body was a fountain. As if the sea was inside him. As if the fisherman had been filled with ocean and now the seal had broken.
The smell grew stronger. Salt, rot, algae, something ancient and deep.
On the steel table, the water mixed with the dried blood. It became a black puddle that spread slowly, like a rising tide.
Hartmann stepped back further. His back struck the wall. His breath was short.
"Someone call the captain," he said. His voice was a broken whisper. "Now."
A technician ran out.
And as the door opened, the morgue air mixed with the sea air.
The crows began to dry out.
Their feathers, once glossy and black, became dull, dusty, as if the salt was eating them from the outside. The skin of the claws shriveled. The beak turned whitish, encrusted with white crystals like ice.
The salt came out of the corpse's skin, passed through the feathers, settled like dew.
The crows looked like sardines.
Dried. Salted. Dead twice.
Hartmann watched the scene. His mind refused to process it. The open wings, the claws digging, the water pouring out, the salt drying them.
"This isn't a murder," he muttered. "This… this isn't human."
The morgue door opened with a dry click.
David Cross walked in.
He didn't look like a FOID agent. He looked like a professor, or a librarian. But his gaze was cold, calculating, and his hands knew what to do with violence.
He wore a dark coat, a black scarf, and a badge no one would notice unless they knew how to look for it.
He stopped in front of the table.
He looked at the body. The crows. The water. The salt. The open wings. The claws that had dug.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Then he turned to Hartmann.
"Doctor, tell me what you saw."
Hartmann swallowed. His voice was hoarse. "I saw… I saw the crows open their wings. The claws dig. The water come out of the mouth. The salt dry them. It all happened in minutes."
Cross stepped away from the table. He pulled out a device — small, black, with no visible buttons. He opened it. The hologram of an operator appeared above the screen.
"Cross, from 68th precinct morgue. Report at 23:47."
The operator's voice was neutral, mechanical. "Ready to receive."
"Victim: male, Caucasian, approximately 55 years old, fisherman. Found at Pier 47 at 06:00. Wounds: three crows driven into heart, throat, and left eye. Signs of ritual. Runic symbol carved into the chest. The victim showed signs of… unnatural post-mortem movement."
The operator hesitated. "Movement?"
"Crow wings opened. Claws in motion. Water coming from the victim's mouth. Salt forming on the crows. All occurred in my presence."
Pause.
"Cross… are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
The operator was silent for a moment. Then: "Are you saying there's serious activity?"
Cross looked at the body. The crows. The water. The salt.
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"Send the recovery team. Don't touch anything."
Cross closed the device.
He turned toward the door.
But before leaving, he looked at the body one last time.
"I'm not sure a team can contain this," he muttered to himself. "I'm not sure anyone can contain this."
He walked out. The door closed behind him with a dry sound.
The crows were still. The body was still. The water had stopped.
But the salt continued to shine under the neon light.
Like stars.
Like eyes.
Thora was sitting on the bed when she felt the beat.
It wasn't a noise. It was a vibration. A wave passing through the floor and rising along her bones like an echo.
She closed her eyes. The beat was familiar. She'd felt it in dreams. In that room — in that life — it had never happened.
She stood up.
Her body moved without her giving it orders. Her legs, her torso, her arms — everything moved toward the window as if someone had given her a command older than her.
Her hands touched the window glass. The glass was cold. But beneath her fingers, the cold transformed into something else. A pulse. A slow, deep heartbeat coming from the street.
Thora looked out.
She was there.
Mia.
The Valkyrie of the Moon.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. Still. Hands at her sides. The dark cloak, the edges embroidered with runes that glowed with their own light.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a shadow. It was real.
Thora felt the beat accelerate. Her blood moved like a river finding its mouth.
For a moment, it was as if time had stopped.
Then Thora went out.
She didn't dress. She didn't stop. She opened the door and walked down the steps. Her bare feet touched the concrete of the sidewalk, and her skin felt the weight of the street, of the night, of New York breathing.
She stopped in front of Mia.
They were less than a meter apart. The moon was full, high, too white.
Mia didn't speak.
Thora looked at her. It was no longer the dream. It was no longer the shadow. She was there, real, alive, with those eyes too light, too ancient, too still.
"You are…" Thora began.
"I am Mia."
The voice was a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade.
"I know," Thora replied. "I saw you in dreams."
Mia wasn't surprised. "I know. You called me."
Thora felt a stab in her chest. "I didn't call anyone."
"Not with your voice." Mia took a step forward. "With your blood."
The night wind ruffled Thora's hair. Mia's cloak didn't move. As if it were made of something that didn't belong to this city.
"The Father of the Sea…" said Thora. "He's awake."
"He has come to claim his daughter's death," Mia added.
Thora felt the blood freeze in her veins.
"His daughter?"
"The prophecy is not only about the choice," said Mia. "It's also about what made that choice necessary."
Thora was silent for a moment. Then: "Why did you come?"
Mia looked at her. Her eyes were two abysses, and Thora felt herself falling.
"You and I need to talk."
Thora felt her body pulse. Her blood beat strongly, like a song she had never forgotten.
"What do you need to tell me?"
Mia raised a hand. A ring glowed on her skin — Draupnir, Odin's ring. The runes pulsed with a cold light.
"The moon is full, Thora. And the night doesn't wait."
Thora felt her body grow heavy. The night grew colder, deeper, older.
Mia turned toward the street.
"Wait," said Thora.
Mia stopped.
"What should I do?"
Mia turned. Her figure was carved into the night.
"Come with me… to the Church of Olav, and there you'll find the answers you seek."
The moon shone brighter.
And Thora took a step forward.
The Church of Olav stood at 317 East 52nd Street, hidden among the Manhattan buildings like a secret the city had forgotten.
"This is a Norse church," she said. "A place of refuge for sailors, for travelers, for those seeking home in a city that isn't theirs."
Thora looked at the building. It seemed quiet. Normal. But she felt something beneath her skin, a hum rising from the ground.
"Why did you bring me here?"
Mia didn't answer. She pushed the door.
It opened without a sound.
The interior was silent. There were no worshippers. No lights on, except for a few candles. The smell was a mix of incense, old wood, and salt — the salt Thora smelled everywhere now.
Mia led her through the nave, past the altar, to a side door hidden behind a red velvet curtain.
"This is the crypt," she said. "Only a few know it exists."
Thora followed Mia down a spiral stone staircase. The steps were worn, smoothed by centuries of footsteps. The air grew colder, denser, older.
The crypt was small. The walls were of rough stone, moisture deposits glistening like tears of salt. But on the opposite wall, there was something Thora hadn't expected.
An axe.
It wasn't a real axe. It was a shape. An engraving carved into the stone, deep, ancient. A long handle and a wide blade, and around it were carved runes that seemed to pulse in the candlelight.
Beside the engraving, on a lectern of dark wood, lay a manuscript.
The pages were of parchment, yellowed, worn at the edges. The writing was in Old Norse — Thora recognized it without knowing how. As if the blood in her veins knew how to read what her eyes had never seen.
Thora approached. Her fingers brushed the parchment. It was warm.
"What is it?" she asked.
Mia stopped behind her.
"It is the prophecy of your bloodline."
The valkyrie read.
> *"The male heir of the blood shall be called to the choice.*
> *The time of the twilight of the gods draws near.*
> *He shall take up the axe and drink the blood of his enemies.*
> *And stand with the primordial void that has taken form in the Father of the Sea.*
> *Or fight him to the death.*
> *One blood. Two choices.*
> *The bloodline shall be saved. Or the bloodline shall be consumed."*
Thora felt the world waver.
"My brother…" she murmured. "He is the one. The male heir."
Mia nodded.
"The prophecy speaks of him. Of your bloodline. Of the blood that runs in your veins."
Thora clenched her fists.
"It's my axe, Mia. The one I left with Uncle Erik."
"I don't want him to have to choose alone," she said. "I don't want him to have to fight alone."
Mia stepped closer.
"Then he won't."
Thora looked up.
"What should I do?"
Mia placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Take the axe. So his hand can choose which side to spill the blood of his enemies."
The crypt was silent. The runes on the wall pulsed. The carved axe glowed as if it were alive.
Thora understood.
It wasn't a prophecy. It was an instruction.
And she would do her part.
Rhea dropped onto the sofa with a sigh that seemed to come from the foundations of her body.
The apartment was a studio in Brooklyn, a cube of exposed brick and exposed pipes and life lived badly. The walls were covered in posters of unknown bands, tattoo prints, black and white photos of women with bodies covered in ink. The floor was worn wood, stained by spilled ink, spilled beer, a life dragging itself along. The sofa was a wreck of dark fabric, full of cat hair and cigarette burns — a black cat, skinny, with yellow eyes, watched her from the windowsill like a silent judge.
On the low table, the ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. A small mountain of crushed filters and gray ash that had been accumulating for days. A can of beer, now warm, sweating, resting on a cardboard coaster that had long since lost its function.
Rhea looked at her clothes.
Her black t-shirt was stained with ink — blue and black splatters that had dried on the fabric like tiny galaxies. Her jeans were worse: black ink smears on the thighs, a green stain near the knee, a halo of something she didn't even remember anymore. Her hands were dirty — not with ink, but with tiredness.
"Look at that piece of shit and what he did to me," she muttered.
Her voice was hoarse, tired. She ran a hand over her face. Her makeup was smudged under her eyes. Her day had been a total disaster: the strange guy in her shop, the machine that had melted like plastic in the sun, Ksenia appearing out of nowhere like a storm.
And then that thing on the guy's back.
That symbol.
Rhea had seen many tattoos. She'd done many. But that stuff wasn't a tattoo. It was something else. It was as if the guy's skin had been carved, as if someone had used a red-hot knife — or something worse.
She hadn't slept well since then. She couldn't get it out of her head.
She picked up the beer can. Brought it to her lips. It was warm and bitter, but she didn't care. She took a long sip.
The cat looked at her.
"Don't look at me like that," she said.
The cat didn't answer. Cats never answer.
Rhea put the can down. Lit a cigarette. The smoke rose toward the ceiling, mixing with the stale air of the apartment. The window was slightly open, but not enough air came in to change the smell of the place — a smell of ink, burnt coffee, cat, and a life that had never settled.
Her phone vibrated on the table.
Rhea looked at it. Ksenia.
Message: "Cassandra's out tonight. I'm coming to you. We need to talk."
Rhea snorted. Cassandra was her girlfriend. The "almost wife" as Ksenia called her when she wanted to provoke. Always breathing down her neck: "Don't get another piercing," "Don't hang out with those people," "Don't you think you're overdoing it?" A constant, oppressive presence, like a second shadow that never left.
Rhea replied: "Ok. But don't bring your shadow."
The message sent.
"No piercings, no piercings," she mimicked Cassandra's voice, crooked and nasal. "But if I get a piercing on my ass, maybe she'll calm down." She laughed to herself.
She finished the beer. Opened another one.
The TV was on by itself, as always. Rhea had never bothered to turn it off before going to bed. It was just background noise — the silent companion of a life too silent.
The channel was on a news report. Something about a dead fisherman in Red Hook.
Rhea wasn't paying attention. She was too tired. Too full of that feeling, the one she couldn't shake off.
The cigarette burned between her fingers.
Then, something caught her attention.
On the TV screen, a frame — the FOID symbol? Or something else? It had appeared for a second, like a transmission error, a glitch. And then it disappeared.
Rhea got up from the sofa. The cat watched her without moving.
She approached the TV. Turned off the power. Turned it back on. The signal was back to normal.
But she had seen something.
It wasn't the FOID symbol. It was older. Stranger. And it looked like what she had seen on the guy's back.
She sat down in front of the computer. The laptop was always on, open to a search page. Her fingers moved over the keyboard, uncertain, as if her hands knew what to do before her mind did.
In the search bar, she typed:
"strange scars & mystical symbols"
She pressed enter.
The results weren't many. Images of tattoos, of sacrifices, paintings with blood and then in a page of Norse mythology she found a photo.
A rune.
Simple. A straight line, two diagonals, a diamond.
Rhea looked at it. Her heart stopped.
It was identical to what she had seen on the guy's back.
The name under the image said: Othala.
Rhea read the description. It meant heritage. Legacy. Blood. The rune of lineage, of family, of blood that cannot be denied.
Her heart started beating again. Too hard.
She picked up her phone. Opened Ksenia's message. Her fingers trembled as she typed.
"I found something. The rune on that guy's back. It's called Othala."
Pause. Then she added:
"It's not a tattoo. It's an ancient symbol. Norse mythology.. fuck, Ksen.."
The message sent.
Rhea left the phone on the table. She looked at it. Looked at it again.
The cat jumped down from the windowsill and came to rub against her leg. She didn't look at it.
After a minute, her phone vibrated.
Ksenia.
"I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't go out."
Rhea felt the rune on her hand pulse — but she had nothing on her hand. It was her own blood beating, her fear, her curiosity.
She lit another cigarette.
The smoke rose toward the ceiling.
And the night continued.