“Ole-Martin.”

  Marty flinched. His full name, spoken perfectly, with a Norwegian lilt no one here used—except his mother.

  He opened his mouth.

  No sound.

  The man breathed, then spoke again — in rough old language Marty knew from childhood:

  “Tiden er inne. Jeg har kommet for deg.”

  The time has come. I have come for you.

  Behind Marty, Erik croaked, “Marty... what is this? Who is this guy?”

  Marty barely heard.

  The world shrank to the figure.

  The longship.

  The armor.

  Not real.

  And yet — The storm answered the man’s presence.

  The air bent around him.

  Marty’s knees buckled.

  The name surfaced:

  Thor.

  Not comic-book Thor.

  Real Thor.

  Wounded. Dying.

  The man stepped forward, dropped his shield with effort, hands raised, slowly, painfully.

  Marty sank to his knees, powerless.

  Thor’s hands settled on Marty’s head.

  No gentleness.

  No cruelty.

  Only a weighty burden.

  Words slid into his bones — older, colder, raw as winter.

  Power struck.

  Not pain.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Pressure crushing his soul.

  Skin burned.

  Heart slamming.

  The winter wheat shuddered.

  The pond buckled, ripples racing outward.

  The 4Runner flipped, shrieking metal, and crashed into the ditch.

  Marty screamed — tried to — no sound.

  Visions tore through him:

  A golden-haired woman dragged into shadow.

  A one-eyed figure looming over a battlefield slick with blood.

  A hammer sinking into black water, its light fading.

  Through it all, friends’ terrified cries — muffled inside his skull.

  Then — sharp — the storm pulled back, leaving something wild, vast, unbearable.

  Thor staggered.

  Met Marty’s gaze one last time.

  “Ta det... Ole-Martin. Bli verdig til det.”

  Take it… Ole-Martin. Become worthy of it.

  He collapsed.

  A faint smile touched his face, as if some weight had lifted.

  He tried to rise again—shuddered—then fell for the last time.

  Thunder rolled, low and distant, grieving for a lost friend.

  Marty forced himself upright, legs trembling, head spinning.

  From the surrounding fields, a man stepped forward — grim, sharp-eyed.

  He checked Thor’s body, then straightened, mouth tight.

  Another figure moved behind — a dark-haired woman, colder than midnight air.

  She snapped, urgent:

  “Gather your friends. Now.”

  Marty stared.

  “Who? What?”

  “No time,” the man said, moving.

  Marty hesitated, instincts screaming run or fight.

  But something new and raw inside him said they weren’t enemies.

  Not friends.

  Necessary. Safe.

  The woman moved to the ditch with the overturned 4Runner.

  She murmured something over Brad, Erik, Seffie — terror draining from their faces, replaced by dazed bewilderment.

  Not kindness.

  Survival.

  She turned toward the car in the ditch, waved a hand.

  Water surged from the pond, lifting the 4Runner upright and rolling it back onto the road before retreating to its banks.

  Wind followed her hand, drying the vehicle.

  She yanked open the passenger door.

  “Take them home. We’ll handle this.”

  Marty clenched hands.

  She gave a look — command.

  His body moved.

  He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key.

  Nothing.

  Dead click.

  He slammed his hand on the dash.

  Energy cracked from his palm.

  The dashboard flickered.

  Engine roared.

  He stared at his hands, breathing hard.

  The woman nodded approval.

  “Drive.”

  He jammed reverse, peeled away.

  Friends slumped silent in back.

  As Marty and friends sped down empty country roads, Marty glanced in the rearview mirror.

  The woman knelt by Thor’s body, lifting his shield with quiet reverence.

  Thunder rumbled, low and grieving.

  Inside Marty, something ancient stirred — wide as the night sky.

  Become worthy of it.