Circa 400 CE – Scandinavia
Cold wind howled through the fjords. Marcus had crossed forests filled with wolves and silence, his cloak lined with frost and his hair tangled with snowflakes.
The Vikings called him Skjaldvand, "the shield-walker." He traveled among them, laughing over fires, wrestling berserkers, and hunting sea monsters that probably shouldn't have existed.
But whispers followed him: a one-eyed god had seen him in a vision.
Odin.
And one day, a raven landed on his shoulder and said, "Come."
He arrived at Valaskjalf, Odin's high hall. The gods were tense. Loki smirked. Thor sized him up. Freyja studied him.
"You are not of Yggdrasil," Odin said. "But you know its name."
"I've seen many trees," Marcus said, "but this one has roots in every story."
Odin offered him a seat. Mead was poured. Runes were read.
"You will fight in Ragnarok," Odin said, "but not on our side or theirs."
"Neutral?" Marcus asked.
"Above."
They showed him a vision of the world ending—fire, gods dying, chaos. And Marcus, in the middle, surrounded by Valkyries.
As he left, Thor handed him a hammer—not Mjölnir, but its twin, a backup forged by dwarves.
"You'll need it," Thor said. "The sky doesn't fall quietly."