Clouds rolled low over the jagged peaks, their bellies swollen and dark, mirroring the tension crackling through the clearing where Marty stood. Summer closes early at this altitude.

  This was his last training session. The final test before leaving Valhalla.

  The ground beneath him was trampled dirt and stone, scarred by months of combat. He had bled here, broken bones here, had Roskva heal them. Now, he was something else entirely.

  Across from him, Thialfi stood at ease, rolling his shoulders, his grin wolfish. His bare arms were corded with muscle, his stance loose and confident. Beside him, Roskva crouched low, her dark eyes gleaming beneath her wild mane of hair.

  Now, as he squared off against them, he didn’t just brace for their attacks. He reached out, sensing the shift in the air, the weight of the world pressing against his skin.

  The storm was listening.

  Thialfi moved first, a blur of speed. Marty barely dodged the first blow—a hammering fist at his ribs—before twisting to avoid a sweep at his legs. He countered, striking, but Thialfi was already gone, moving faster than any human should.

  A gust of wind struck Marty’s side.

  He barely had time to turn before Roskva attacked—not with fists, but with the world itself. The ground buckled, mud sucking at his boots. A fresh gust shoved his shoulder, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, Thialfi struck again.

  Marty threw up an arm as the punch connected. The impact staggered him, but he didn’t fall.

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  Not this time.

  Thunder rumbled in his chest.

  If they were going to throw the world at him, he would answer in kind.

  The mud hardened beneath his feet, frost lacing through the soil. The wind that had sought to unbalance him swirled instead at his back.

  He struck.

  Lightning licked along his arms, sparks jumping as he met Thialfi’s next blow. The impact cracked the air, static rolling outward. Marty twisted, ducked beneath Roskva’s pull, and slammed his palm to the earth.

  A shockwave burst outward.

  Thialfi stepped back, eyes narrowing. Roskva hesitated, her connection to the land wavering.

  Marty grinned.

  He was winning. For the first time, he was keeping pace. The storm bent to him. He had come so far.

  And then the voices whispered.

  You are not alone.

  It wasn’t just his strength.

  The wisdom, knowledge, fury of thirty-five lives pressed into his bones. He hadn’t earned this alone. He had inherited it.

  Pride flickered in his chest.

  And Thialfi saw it.

  He struck fast, a single blow to Marty’s ribs. Pain flared, grounding him. Before Marty could recover, Roskva twisted the wind again, the earth shifting.

  He hit the dirt, breathless.

  Dust swirled.

  Marty lay staring at the sky, ache spreading through his ribs. The voices had been right.

  He wasn’t alone.

  And he wasn’t ready.

  Thialfi loomed over him, offering a hand. His grin was sharp but not unkind.

  “Still mortal, gutta mi.”

  Marty exhaled, took his hand. As he stood, the storm’s weight settled back into silence—waiting for him to listen.

  matched them.

  The earth listened.

  Pride.

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  Did Marty actually fail this test… or was Thialfi testing something deeper than fighting skill?