Chink-chink...

  Luke Martin's boots echoed against the polished stone, the sound bouncing through the cavernous halls as he made his rounds. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps, their harsh glow casting long, jagged shadows across the marble floor.

  At 1:00 AM, the Burial Cultures Wing, known among the guards as the “Tomb Wing”, of the National Museum was, quite literally, a tomb.

  Silent. Still.

  Luke had grown used to the quiet. His only company was the dead. Dozens of bodies from every continent, preserved in glass cases or arranged in authentic burial displays. The air here was colder, a persistent chill that clung to his skin like damp linen.

  Sometimes, when fatigue set in, his mind played tricks on him. The glass cases would reflect his own face, but now and then, in the corner of his eye, it looked like someone else's.

  This place was perfect for a horror movie.

  He often imagined it: Egyptian mummies, Northern European bog bodies, and Chinchorro mummies rising from their slumber to fight for the Ming Dynasty burial chamber, dismantled piece by piece in China and painstakingly reconstructed here. Its stone guardians still stood at attention, ever watchful. A luxury home for the dead. A prize worth fighting for, especially when the rest had lost their homes and now slept in cold glass coffins.

  As for Luke's own sense of home, he’d worked as a night guard here for nearly seven years. The job paid enough to keep a roof over his head and cover the occasional greasy takeout, but not much else.

  That might change tonight.

  He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingertips brushing a hard object. His palm was damp with sweat.

  His patrol route was predictable as clockwork: north section at the top of every three hours, east section at quarter past, basement archives at half past, and the special exhibits wing at quarter till. Between rounds, he’d return to the security desk, where a bank of monitors displayed grainy black-and-white footage of silent corridors and still exhibits. The screens flickered occasionally, casting a pale, sickly glow over the cluttered desk, coffee-stained paperwork, a plastic-wrapped, half-eaten sandwich.

  But that night, he decided to make a small change.

  This round, he’d start with the east section first.

  To check on Bob.

  Bob was the only other guard on the night shift for the Tomb Wing.

  He was stationed in the east section, near the side entrance that led directly to the wing, while Luke was posted at the opposite end, closer to the main entrance. They rarely saw each other during their shifts, relying instead on the crackling radios clipped to their belts to communicate. The Tomb Wing stood apart from the main building, connected only by a long, narrow passage.

  Technically, Bob was supposed to patrol too, but he’d convinced their manager that the side entrance required constant supervision. Since Luke’s post was inside the museum and other security staff covered the main building, his station could be left unattended during rounds. So the patrol duties fell entirely to Luke.

  The real reason behind Bob’s request became obvious within a week of Luke starting the job: Bob slept through most of his shift, slumped in his chair with his cap pulled low over his eyes. The arrangement let him live almost like a day worker, coaching his grandson’s Little League team, hosting Sunday barbecues, making it to weekly bowling nights, while drawing a paycheck for essentially being unconscious.

  “I’m the only person in the world getting paid by the snore,” Bob liked to joke, patting his modest belly. “Professional sleeper, with benefits and a pension.”

  Luke had to admit, it didn’t sound like a bad gig. He’d even considered applying for Bob’s post once the old man finally retired.

  “Getting any action tonight?” Bob’s voice crackled through the radio just as Luke approached the east section.

  “Just the usual. Dead bodies staying dead,” Luke replied, his tone dry. He forced a chuckle, more out of habit than humor.

  Bob was awake, for now.

  Luke turned left, heading toward the north section. He decided to stick to his usual route this round.

  Exhaling, he let himself relax a little.

  He’d check on him again later. He still had an hour.

  Outside the museum, Luke’s life was sparse, almost nonexistent. He usually woke around 4:00 PM, the sunlight already fading, and shuffled to the kitchen to microwave whatever frozen meal was cheapest that week. He ate in front of the TV, flipping through channels until it was time to head in for his shift.

  10:00 PM to 6:00 AM, six nights a week. The hours carved dark circles beneath his eyes and left his body stuck in a sleep schedule that severed him from normal life. He was like a ghost haunting the edges of daylight, drifting through a city that barely noticed him.

  On his day off, he’d catch up on laundry. Sometimes he’d visit his mother in the nursing home across town. She barely recognized him anymore… sometimes she called him by his father’s name, sometimes by none at all. Still, he went.

  It wasn’t much of a life. Predictable. Safe. Uncomplicated.

  Until one week ago, when everything changed.

  Seven days earlier.

  The text arrived at precisely 8:47 PM, just as Luke was lacing up his boots for another night shift. His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the screen lighting up with a single line from a blocked number, no sender, no name, but the message was crystal clear:

  $100,000 for a simple task.

  Put something under an exhibit in the special exhibition. Exhibit #S4873. No damage. No one harmed. Just placement.

  Luke stared at the screen, fingers hovering over Delete.

  It had to be a scam. A prank.

  But the specificity gnawed at him.

  Exhibit #S4873he knew that one.

  He’d worked at the museum long enough to recognize most catalog numbers. That was part of the special exhibition, the only piece not sealed inside a case. The only one where slipping something underneath would actually be possible.

  A Viking warrior, laid out with his sword under open glass. The first time Luke had passed it during rounds, the display had struck him as odd.

  He’d asked Lindia, his supervisor, about it during a morning handover.

  “Owner’s request,” she’d said with a shrug. “Anonymous private collector. They loaned it with specific instructions.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Between us? They’re paying the museum enough to call the shots. Director Jenkins wasn’t happy about the open case, but hey, they're the owner. And when the check’s got that many zeroes…” She trailed off, waving a hand. “Rich people. Weird requests.”

  Luke had nodded. Not his job to question exhibitsjust to guard them.

  But now, a cold weight settled in his stomach.

  This wasn’t random.

  Whoever sent the message knew where he worked, what he did, and exactly which exhibit to name.

  His thumb hovered over Delete again.

  But… $100,000.

  That kind of money changed everything. His mother could have a private room at Sunset Gardens instead of sharing a four-bed ward. He could leave behind his leaky apartment and its sputtering heat. Maybe even buy a car instead of relying on buses that always made him late. Put a down payment on a real place. A future.

  He set the phone down without replying and finished gearing up, mind racing.

  Could be a trap. A test of integrity. A bad joke

  But who’d go to that much trouble?

  The thought clung to him on the bus ride, through the staff entrance ID check, and as he changed in the musty locker room.

  When he opened his locker that evening, an envelope fluttered to the floor.

  Luke glanced around.

  The room was empty.

  With trembling fingers, he picked up the unmarked white envelope and tore it open.

  Inside: $20,000 in crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  “Jesus.”

  He shoved the cash back inside and jammed the envelope into his pocket, pulse roaring in his ears.

  The hallway outside had cameras. The locker room didn’t, a privacy win from the union years ago.

  Whoever left this knew the building.

  Knew the blind spots.

  Knew him.

  As he walked to his post, the envelope burned against his thigh.

  A down payment. One-fifth up front. The rest upon completion.

  That night, his patrols were ragged. His eyes kept flicking to the Viking display, studying it every time he passed. No cameras pointed at it. Another detail he’d never questioned, until now.

  By morning, his decision was made.

  He replied to the text:

  What’s the item? And when?

  The answer came seconds later:

  Tomorrow night. Instructions will follow.

  The next evening, Luke arrived at work an hour early, something he’d never done before.

  When Bob raised an eyebrow at his unprecedented punctuality, Luke explained that he needed to catch up on paperwork.

  “You feeling alright?” Bob asked, half-joking.

  Luke forced a laugh. “Performance reviews are coming up.”

  Bob snorted. “Twenty years here, no one’s ever gotten a raise from those. But knock yourself out.”

  At 11:30 PM, his phone buzzed:

  Back service entrance. Package in utilities box #3. Place tablet directly under the corpse’s back within six days. Must touch skin. Confirm when done.

  His ribs tightened around his heart as he slipped into the service corridor.

  If anyone asks, I heard a noise back here, he rehearsed silently, shaping an alibi as he walked.

  The utilities boxes, used mostly by maintenance staff to store tools and spare parts, lined the dim hallway. Box #3 sat in the far corner, its metal surface filmed with dust.

  He opened it. The latch yielded with a soft but decisive click that echoed too loudly in the empty corridor.

  Inside, an oilcloth-wrapped bundle rested on top of old parts and tools, no larger than his palm. A card sat on it: Luke.

  He picked it up. Something solid shifted inside, something round.

  Who could’ve left this?

  His mind scrambled through possibilities: a fellow guard? A curator lingering after hours? Box #3 was rarely used, its contents hadn’t been touched in months.

  Maybe a visitor had slipped it in during the day. Or even earlier in the week.

  Noticing the smear of his own fingerprints in the dust, he wiped the lid clean with his sleeve.

  Should’ve brought a cloth, he thought, patting down the dusty fabric.

  After one last glance down the silent hallway, he slipped the bundle into his inner jacket pocket.

  The weight felt conspicuous against his chest as he resumed his rounds, forcing his stride to stay steady, his expression neutral.

  On the way back, he ducked into the washroom, one of the few places without cameras.

  He unwrapped the bundle.

  Beneath the oilcloth was a second layer of soft lining. Inside lay a bone tablet, yellowed with age and etched with a strange symbol: a snowflake-like shape with eight distinct petals. The grooves were stained dark brown, nearly black. It looked ancient.

  Luke’s throat tightened. So this is what I’m supposed to bury beneath a dead Viking’s spine.

  The air around him seemed colder. He shivered, goosebumps prickling his arms.

  Plenty of time to plan, he told himself.

  Just don’t get caught. You need this job.

  The next six days passed in a blur of indecision.

  Each day, Luke wrestled with himself, half desperate for the money, half hoping for a last-minute cancellation.

  But silence held.

  No word came.

  Now, the deadline had arrived.

  Tonight, there was no turning back.

  Luke had memorized the museum’s camera rotations years ago. From 1:58 to 2:04 AM, the special exhibitions wing went dark, six precious minutes between sweeps. Enough time to place the package unseen. Even if he were caught, the footage would auto-delete in thirty days unless flagged.

  At 1:50 AM, he detoured past Bob’s station. The veteran guard slumped in his chair, cap pulled low, rhythmic snores rising from beneath the brim.

  Luke exhaled.

  Good.

  Bob rarely patrolled during night shifts, three times in seven years, not that Luke was counting, but even that slim chance removed brought him relief.

  He headed for the special exhibitions wing, timing his arrival for 1:57. The Viking warrior lay just as it had for months.

  1:58 AM. Showtime.

  Luke stood before the exhibit. The corpse’s parchment-like skin stretched taut over its bones, its empty eye sockets staring eternally upward.

  Light glinted off the sword at its side, the blade still sharp after a thousand years.

  For a moment, he froze. Was he really going through with this?

  Then he pictured his mother, crammed in a shared dementia ward, calling out into the night with no one to comfort her. He pictured a home. A real one. Not a cracked-ceiling apartment with a broken radiator.

  That settled it.

  He pulled out the package. Unwrapped the bone tablet.

  With gloved hands, he stepped up to the display.

  The Viking’s head rested on a replica wooden headrest, carved in the period style.

  Luke slid one hand beneath the mummified shoulder. The flesh yielded slightly, frigid and brittle as ancient parchment.

  He slipped the tablet under the spine.

  And then, the corpse’s head shifted. Just slightly.

  Physics, he told himself. A shift in balance. That was all.

  He gently eased the shoulder back into place.

  And then the light hit the face differently.

  The lips, withered and sewn shut for centuries, seemed to curve.

  Not into a grimace.

  Into a smile.

  Luke recoiled so fast he nearly toppled the display. His heart hammered in his throat as he reached out, steadying the ancient head.

  Shadows, he told himself. Just shadows. Flickering lights from the motion sensors. Had to be.

  At 2:02 AM, he was ten paces down the corridor, footsteps muffled against the marble.

  At 2:05, he sent a one-word text to the unknown number:

  Done.

  The reply came instantly:

  Payment complete. Never speak of this. Consider the prepaid a bonus.

  As Luke rounded the corner, the motion-activated lights in the Viking exhibit flickered on.

  Behind him, in the silent hall, something creaked.

  When he clocked out that morning, he didn’t check his bank balance until he was on the bus ride home.

  The number on the screen made him gasp aloud, drawing curious glances from the other passengers.

  $100,000.

  Exactly as promised.

  Luke leaned back in the stiff plastic seat, a strange mix of relief and dread washing over him.

  It was done.

  He had the money.

  Whatever he’d been part of was over.

  So why did it feel like something had just begun?

  The next seven days were the longest of Luke’s life.

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  Each night, he braced for alarms, shouting guards, and inevitable discovery. During his rounds, he lingered by the Viking display, scrutinizing it from every angle. The tablet remained hidden beneath the warrior’s back. If anyone noticed anything unusual, they said nothing.

  On the third night, a faint, ethereal luminescence pulsed beneath the corpse, visible only when Luke crouched at a certain angle.

  By the fourth, the right hand had unmistakably shifted closer to the sword hilt. The fingers were beginning to curl, as if preparing to grasp it.

  The fifth night brought sound.

  At 1:37 AM, standing sentry by the case, Luke heard it: a slow, rhythmic whoosh-whoosh, like labored breathing.

  He froze, straining to listen.

  It lasted only a few seconds. Then silence.

  Just the building settling, he told himself.

  The sixth night almost brought relief. A small group of researchers toured the Viking exhibit. Luke hovered nearby, pretending to check the seals on other cases while eavesdropping.

  They discussed the remarkable preservation of the body and the historical placement of the sword, but nothing more. No mention of movement. No suspicion.

  On the seventh night, the corpse looked different somehow. The skin appeared less desiccated. The posture more... relaxed.

  You're losing it, Luke told himself, forcing his feet to carry him away. No damage done. No one hurt. Just some rich eccentric collector’s prank.

  Then came the eighth morning.

  Luke woke lightheaded, almost giddy. The dread that had hung over him for a week had evaporated overnight.

  At work, Exhibit #S4873 looked exactly as it always had, withered, still, and perfectly ordinary.

  See? he chuckled in the locker room.

  All in your head. Just a guilty conscience playing tricks.

  Outside, the first snowflakes of winter began to fall…

  Each one crystalline.

  Each one perfect.

  Each one oddly eight-pointed.

  Two months after that night, Luke sat across from a real estate agent, signing papers for a modest two-bedroom house just fifteen minutes from his mother’s nursing home. He’d put down a substantial deposit, ensuring the mortgage would be manageable on a guard’s salary. The rest of the money had gone into a fund for his mother’s care, enough to upgrade her to a private room with a garden view and extra therapy sessions.

  “Congratulations, Mr. Martin,” the agent beamed, sliding the keys across the polished mahogany desk. “It’s yours.”

  The keys pressed cool and solid into Luke’s palm as he stepped into the afternoon sun. For the first time in years, he had something to look forward to beyond routine and repetition.

  That evening, walking from the bus stop toward his soon-to-be-former apartment, raised voices cut through the twilight. Three men had cornered someone against the brick wall of the convenience store. As Luke drew closer, he recognized the lone figure, Nick Petersen from apartment 4B, two floors above his own.

  Nick was a strange one. Quiet, reclusive. People in the building called him the fortune teller, he read palms and tarot cards for extra cash. Luke had never gone in for that sort of thing, but they shared a silent neighborly rhythm: a nod in the hallway, a mumbled morning at the mailboxes.

  Two winters ago, when Luke had slipped on ice and twisted his ankle, it was Nick who helped him inside, made sure he was okay, then vanished upstairs without fuss.

  “Your mother’s waiting for you,” Nick had said that day, voice distant and odd. Luke had written it off, until twenty minutes later, the nursing home called. His mother had experienced a rare moment of clarity. She was asking for him.

  Now Nick was pressed against the wall, pale and trembling as the three men loomed over him.

  “You ruined everything, freak,” the largest man snarled, fisting Nick’s collar. “She left me because of your fortune-telling bullshit!”

  “I just showed her what the cards revealed,” Nick replied, disturbingly calm. “The truth isn’t mine to change.”

  Luke hesitated, hand hovering near his phone. He wasn’t a fighter, six feet of lanky museum guard didn’t scare anyone. But the memory of Nick’s quiet kindness pushed him forward.

  “Hey!” Luke called, pitching his voice low and firm, like he did with drunk museum patrons. “Problem here?” His security badge caught the streetlight.

  The three men turned. Luke looked official enough in his uniform, and sometimes that was enough.

  “Just teaching this fraud a lesson,” said the man holding Nick. “Mind your business.”

  “Let him go,” Luke said, his throat dry. “Or I call the cops.” He pulled out his phone for emphasis.

  Tense silence. Then the man shoved Nick aside with a grunt. “Consider yourself lucky, ‘witch’,” he spat. “This isn’t over.”

  As the men slunk away, tossing threats over their shoulders, Nick adjusted his rumpled shirt and fixed his glasses with trembling fingers.

  “Thank you,” he said evenly. “They would’ve broken my fingers. Readers need their hands.”

  Luke shrugged, uneasy. “What was that about?”

  Nick gave a faint, amused exhale. “Heartbreak makes men dangerous. I told his girlfriend the truth, their relationship was doomed. He blamed the messenger.”

  They walked back to their apartment building in silence. At the entrance, Nick reached into his pocket and held something out.

  “For you,” he said, placing it in Luke’s palm. “A token of gratitude.”

  Luke examined it, a small pendant shaped like an anchor? No, not quite. It was crafted from tarnished silver, oddly heavy for its size.

  “Mj?lnir,” Nick said. “Norse protection charm.” His gaze flicked to Luke’s collarbone. “Wear it. The veil’s thinning around you.”

  Luke almost laughed, until he noticed Nick’s pupils were dilated, his breathing shallow. Not eccentricity. Fear.

  That night, Luke strung the pendant on a leather cord. It settled against his chest with unexpected warmth as he stared at the glowing house keys under the lamplight.

  Three days later, Luke’s routine patrol took him past the Viking exhibit again. A strange sensation prickled the back of his neck. He circled the display once, then started to walk away.

  He’d nearly convinced himself everything was normal, until the air turned arctic.

  His breath fogged in spectral white plumes. AC must be broken, he thought, fumbling for his radio. Climate control failures were serious, exhibits could be ruined in hours.

  “Bob, you reading this temp drop in...”

  A thunderclap detonated outside, rattling the windows. Luke spun toward the sound. Through the glass, he saw black clouds boiling across what had been a clear evening sky, rolling in like a storm on fast-forward.

  A dry crack echoed behind him.

  His head snapped back toward the exhibit. The radio slipped from his fingers.

  Exhibit #S4873 twitched.

  The corpse’s fingers moved, creaking as leathery tendons flexed around the sword’s hilt. Its chest rose, rattling with a wet, wheezing breath.

  Impossible. Yet it was happening.

  “… you seeing this weather?” Bob’s voice crackled from the dropped radio. “Sky just went black as...”

  Another thunderclap drowned him out. The lights flickered. Emergency mode engaged, flooding the hall with hellish red.

  The Viking corpse sat up.

  Milky eyes rolled toward Luke, not seeing, yet somehow unmistakably aware.

  “No,” Luke whispered. “This isn’t happening.” His shoes squeaked on the marble as he backed away.

  But it was.

  The warrior swung skeletal legs over the edge of the display. Joints cracked and popped as it stood, moving with jerky, deliberate resolve. The sword rose in its hand, blade catching the red light, still sharp after a thousand years.

  Luke turned to run.

  His heel hit a slick patch on the floor. He stumbled, windmilling for balance.

  The creature lunged.

  The sword came down.

  Luke raised his arm, instinctive and useless.

  The pendant on his chest seared like a hot brand.

  The blade met his arm, and a blinding blue explosion erupted between them, hurling the warrior backward into its shattered display.

  Luke stared in disbelief at his unscathed arm, then at the pendant, Mj?lnir, now glowing with a pulsing blue radiance.

  “Thor’s hammer. A protection charm.” Nick’s voice echoed in his mind. And now, it made terrifying sense.

  A cracking sound, like splintering ice, echoed through the hall.

  The warrior rose again.

  Its mummified face twisted in rage, yellowed teeth bared in a silent scream. In its left hand, it now clutched the bone tablet, the same one Luke had hidden beneath its body. The eight-petaled symbol etched into the surface pulsed with a sickly crimson glow, like a heartbeat from another world.

  This is my fault.

  The realization hit like a physical blow. I woke this thing.

  Around him, the emergency lights flickered and buzzed, casting long, grasping shadows across the hall, everything painted in blood and ink.

  Luke stumbled backward as the warrior advanced. The pendant seared hotter with every step it took, like it was gathering power, answering the horror it had been made to oppose.

  “Luke!” Bob’s voice echoed down the corridor, followed by pounding footsteps. The perpetually drowsy guard skidded into view, eyes wide with rare alertness. “What the hell is…”

  The words died in his throat as he took in the nightmare: the animated corpse, the unnatural storm raging outside, the eerie blue light leaking from Luke’s collar.

  “Bob, run!” Luke shouted.

  The warrior’s head snapped toward the new voice.

  Before Luke could warn him again, Bob did the last thing he expected, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a battered Altoids tin labeled: “Troll Repellent, 2003.”

  “Always knew this day would come,” Bob muttered, pinching out coarse salt. His hands were steady despite the chaos. “Twenty years of night shifts... I didn’t sleep through all of them.”

  With practiced precision, he flung the salt into the creature’s face. The granules struck with a hiss, like water hitting hot iron. The warrior shrieked and recoiled, clutching its ruined face.

  Before Luke could process Bob’s sudden transformation from sleepy slacker to supernatural fighter, the air beside him shimmered, like heat waves on pavement. With a sound like tearing fabric, Nick appeared, landing in a crouch beside him.

  Gone was the meek fortune teller. This Nick wore a long trench coat embroidered with glowing Norse runes. His gnarled staff crackled with blue energy.

  “You… how...?” Luke stammered.

  Nick’s eyes flicked to the pulsing pendant. “Mj?lnir’s beacon,” he said, already turning toward the threat. “It called me.”

  A sword swing forced Luke to dive aside. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Draugr first,” Nick snapped. “Questions later.”

  Draugr. So the nightmare had a name.

  The creature howled, a sound that vibrated through Luke’s bones, and charged.

  Bob, showing surprising agility for someone who usually napped through his shifts, hurled another handful of salt. It struck the draugr with a sizzling burst. Blackened flesh peeled away like burning parchment.

  “Temporary fix! Won’t hold it long!” Bob shouted, fumbling in his pocket for more salt.

  Nick planted his staff. The carvings flared with the same blue light as Luke’s pendant. His voice rolled into a chant, guttural and ancient, words Luke instinctively knew weren’t meant for human mouths.

  “Luke!” Nick barked between verses. “The hammer… use it!”

  Luke yanked the pendant from his neck. The moment his fingers closed around it, molten energy surged up his arm. The tiny amulet unfolded like steel origami, transforming into a full-sized warhammer that hummed with contained lightning.

  Its weight felt impossibly right.

  “The runestone!” Nick shouted, pointing at the artifact clenched in the draugr’s left hand, glowing now with a malignant red light. “Destroy it!”

  With strength he didn’t know he had, Luke swung the hammer.

  Time slowed.

  The hammer struck the stone.

  A cataclysmic explosion of light and sound erupted. The shockwave blew out the remaining display cases and sent all three men skidding across the marble floor.

  The draugr let out an inhuman howl, not of pain, but of release.

  For a brief moment, its milky eyes cleared. It looked directly at Nick, something almost human flickering in its gaze.

  “It thanks you,” Nick whispered, though Luke had no idea how he understood.

  When the dust settled, the draugr lay still.

  Its desiccated body collapsed in on itself, deflating like a brittle balloon. The runestone had shattered, black shards already crumbling into dust before their eyes.

  Whatever force had animated it was gone.

  The corpse’s form slowly stiffened, returning to the still, mummified state it had once been in, just another relic, drained of the unholy power that had bound it.

  A thousand miles away, a mansion perched on a cliff’s edge.

  Three stories below its foundations lay a vault-like study, a shrine to obsession. The walls, hewn from rare Icelandic stone and etched with Elder Futhark runes, flickered weakly… then went dark.

  Inside, a middle-aged man stood frozen, eyes locked on Draugrfljótr.

  The ritual dagger lay shattered at his feet, its blackened shards useless now.

  His spectral viewing pool ruptured with a shriek, splashing liquid shadow that scorched his carefully trimmed beard.

  Cracks split across the ancient runes carved into his oak desk, oozing trails of smoking marrow.

  He staggered back, hissing as droplets of liquid shadow burned through his Italian silk robe.

  He had spent decades preparing for this moment.

  “Impossible,” he whispered, watching hairline fractures spread across his summoning circle, platinum inlaid with crushed amber and bone dust from Norwegian burial mounds.

  His gaze darted to the preservation chamber beyond the reinforced glass.

  The corpses, twelve perfectly preserved bodies from across the world, acquired at the cost of $58 million, convulsed once.

  Twice.

  Then collapsed into accelerated decay.

  Centuries of preservation undone in seconds.

  The backlash rippled upward through the mansion.

  In the marble atrium, water in his prized aquarium, home to species thought extinct, began to boil.

  Priceless illuminated manuscripts in the library spontaneously ignited.

  In the temperature-controlled wine cellar, vintages worth millions detonated in a symphony of glass and ruin.

  Security systems screeched in digital agony.

  Guards clutched their earpieces, faces twisted in pain.

  Lights strobed violently, then failed.

  “No. No, NO!” he howled, lunging for his spellbook, Odin’s Forbidden Skald.

  The pages bled black ichor.

  “I accounted for everything! The celestial timing was perfect!”

  But he knew.

  Someone had interfered.

  Someone powerful enough to unravel his working at its peak.

  The old texts had warned of backlash, how stolen energies, if misaligned, would rebound, exacting a price in flesh, fortune, and power.

  He felt it now.

  A hollowing.

  As if his very essence were draining away.

  Decades of stored magic seeped from him like sand through an open palm.

  His hands, once capable of summoning ghostfire, now trembled with mortal weakness.

  Above, in the panic room, a vault trembled.

  Inside, an ancient amulet flared emerald once… then crumbled to dust.

  He dropped to his knees amidst the wreckage of his ambitions, the taste of ash thick on his tongue.

  Outside the bulletproof windows, unnatural storm clouds coiled over the private peninsula.

  Lightning struck his collection of rare sports cars, one after another, igniting the garage in a blaze of twisted steel and burning vanity.

  But worse than the fire…

  Worse than the destruction…

  Was the hollowing.

  Strength drained from his limbs.

  The stolen years, decades siphoned from forgotten souls, paid in blood and buried gold, were returning to the dark.

  His skin, once youthful and taut, sagged.

  Wrinkles etched themselves into his face like knife cuts.

  His hair thinned, turned gray, brittle as ancient parchment.

  No one had known.

  No one had suspected.

  He had been an old man wearing a mask of youth, his reflection a lie woven by forbidden magics.

  And now, the debt had come due.

  He was ruined.

  And whoever had done this... would pay.

  If he could survive the night.

  His limbs trembled. His vision blurred.

  And with every breath, he felt himself fading.

  Still gasping, Nick stepped closer, his rune-stitched coat whispering.

  "You were a pawn, Luke. That wasn't just an artifact… it was a binding stone, tethering the dead to a living master. Eternal servitude, forced."

  Luke's breath hitched. "How could you know that?"

  Nick's staff cast a faint blue glow across his sharp features. "The same way I knew your mother would call that winter night. The same way I saw the darkness clinging to you when you took that money."

  Understanding dawned. "You're not just a fortune teller…"

  "No," Nick said, his staff pulsing blue. "I'm a seiemaer… a Norse seer. I've tracked this collector from Oslo to New York. He’s not just some eccentric; he’s building an undead legion to guard his family’s treasure." The runes on his coat shimmered faintly. "We got lucky. The ritual was incomplete."

  Luke swallowed hard. "What if it hadn’t been?"

  Nick’s knuckles whitened around his staff. "A fully bound draugr?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Nearly indestructible. Eternal. And utterly loyal."

  He paused, then added, "That stone you placed? It was the final piece. The creature needed to return to consecrated ground with it. If we’d been even a day later…”

  The unspoken consequence hung in the air, thick and acrid as ozone after a lightning strike.

  First light was still hours away. The museum was bathed only in moonlight, the unnatural storm having vanished as mysteriously as it arrived. Now the sky was unnaturally clear.

  Emergency crews swarmed the site, blaming the destruction on an "electrical surge caused by extreme weather"strangely limited to the special exhibitions wing.

  Luke, Bob, and Nick sat slumped on the front steps, wrapped in silver emergency blankets that crinkled with every twitch. A paramedic had shoved lukewarm coffee into Luke’s hands, mistaking his thousand-yard stare for trauma from a lightning strike.

  "So let me get this straight," Luke said, breaking the long silence. His voice was raw. "You're an actual witch who hunts magical artifacts." He pointed at Nick, then turned to Bob. "And you’re… what? Some kind of undercover monster hunter?"

  Bob chuckled, brushing salt granules from his pants. "Retired, mostly. Family trade." He took a sip of coffee, looking smug. "Thought this museum gig would be a quiet retirement… keep an eye on cursed stuff, maybe nap more. Got half of that right, anyway."

  Luke ran a hand through his hair. "All these years I covered your shifts, thinking you were just lazy."

  "Tactical conservation of energy," Bob said, tapping his temple.

  Nick produced the hammer pendant, small and innocuous again, and let it dangle in the pale light.

  "You should keep this," he said, pressing it into Luke’s palm. The metal pulsed faintly, still warm from last night’s magic.

  Luke stared at it. "Why me?"

  "Mj?lnir doesn’t choose warriors. It chooses survivors." He gave a dry smile. "Also, you reek of mead and regret. The gods love that."

  Luke closed his fingers around the pendant. "What now? With the collector, I mean."

  "He knows the ritual failed," Nick said, watching forensic techs wheel away what was left of the Viking exhibit. A muscle twitched in his jaw. "The binding stone’s destruction… let’s just say it wouldn’t have gone unnoticed." His fingers absently traced the runes on his staff. "Men like him usually retreat to lick their wounds."

  A slow, dangerous smile crept across his face. The moonlight light caught the scars Luke hadn’t noticed before.

  "If he survives the backlash, that is. Power like that doesn’t forgive failure."

  Luke hesitated, then asked quietly, "And the money? My house… my mom’s care…?"

  Nick’s stern expression softened. "Call it hazard pay. But next time, maybe avoid mysterious job offers from eccentric billionaires." He paused. "You did good, Luke. Better than most would’ve."

  Luke nodded slowly, the weight of the night still sinking in. Then, abruptly:

  "Why here? He had the corpse and the artifact. Why not just do the ritual at his place? Wouldn’t that be safer?"

  Nick wiped sweat from his brow. "This museum sits on an old battleground. The residual energy… it makes dark rituals easier. Like kindling for magical fire."

  Something clicked in Luke’s mind. His chest tightened. He turned to Nick, eyes narrowing.

  "You knew. You knew this would happen. Why didn’t you stop me sooner?"

  Nick at least had the decency to look sheepish. "The collector’s slippery. Escaped me twice before. I needed to confirm the location. And when you took the job…"

  "I was bait." Luke expected anger, but he was too tired. Only numb resignation remained.

  Nick shook his head. "I saw potential. That hammer?" He nodded to Luke’s clenched fist. "It doesn’t glow for just anyone."

  He clapped Luke’s shoulder with a grin. "Drinks tonight. My treat."

  Luke rolled his eyes, but a smirk betrayed him. Oh, I’m ordering something ruinously expensive. After all he’d been through, Nick owed him at least a glass of that 25-year Macallan from the whiskey bar near…

  Bob cleared his throat loudly. "If we’re doing liquid therapy, I expect a full Islay flight. None of that blended swill you usually drink."

  Around them, the city began to wake, just another ordinary morning.

  Blissfully unaware of the shadows that stirred beneath its skin.

  First light painted the museum’s battered fa?ade in pale gold. The storm’s unnatural chill had lifted, leaving behind the crisp freshness of a new morning.

  Bob stretched with a satisfied groan, his joints popping like firecrackers. “Funny thing,” he mused, scratching at his salt-and-pepper stubble. “My retirement papers come through next month.” He shot Luke a sideways glance, all too innocent. “They’ll need someone to fill my post. Someone who knows what to look for.”

  Luke’s thumb traced the hammer pendant’s intricate carvings. Just days ago, his world had been simple, predictable shifts, a leaky apartment, the quiet despair of never getting ahead. Now he knew better, knew that the world was stranger, older, and far more dangerous than he'd ever imagined. Ancient magic pulsed beneath the city’s modern skin.

  But the pendant warmed at his touch, a silent promise: he wasn’t alone in knowing.

  “I might be interested,” Luke said, surprising himself by meaning it. “Though I can’t promise to match your legendary napping skills.”

  Bob’s laughter rang out across the plaza, startling a flock of pigeons into flight. “That’s probably for the best.”

  As the three men sat watching the sun rise fully over the museum, Luke realized that, for the first time in years, he felt truly alive.

  Three days later, Luke scrolled through news alerts on his phone while waiting for his shift. A headline stabbed at his screen:

  Tech Billionaire Marcus Harrington Found Dead in Bizarre Circumstances

  The article detailed how the reclusive collector had been discovered in his study, surrounded by Norse artifacts, his face frozen in a rictus of terror. Authorities cited “no signs of violence,” but noted the room’s temperature had plummeted to arctic levels. The final paragraph made Luke’s fingers tighten around his phone: “A source close to the investigation mentioned ‘unusual markings’ on the body consistent with...” before cutting off with a [Subscribe to read more] prompt.

  “Norse artifacts again,” Luke muttered, the hammer pendant warm against his chest.

  The museum buzzed with uncharacteristic energy when he arrived. Lindia cornered him in the locker room, her clipboard clutched like a shield.

  “Emergency reshuffle… the Viking exhibit’s being moved to the permanent collection,” she said, leaning in close. Her perfume barely masked the scent of stress-sweat. “The owner’s family donated everything. Word is there was a clause in his will: ‘Should death claim me, the warrior returns home.’ They have no idea where home is, so they just donated everything. Creepy, right?”

  Luke managed a weak nod, his throat suddenly dry.

  “Anyway,” Lindia continued, “specialists arrive tomorrow to seal the case. Just keep extra patrols tonight.”

  His radio crackled as she left. Bob’s voice came through, gruff and familiar. “Rookie, heard our bony friend’s sticking around?”

  “Permanent residency,” Luke confirmed.

  “Funny how things work out,” Bob said, tone casual but pointed. “Stop by my station later. Got some… light reading for your new position. You should know what to look for.”

  That night, as Luke made his rounds through the now-quiet exhibition hall, he paused by the Viking display. The warrior lay still and desiccated, just another ancient corpse. But as Luke studied the leathery face, he could’ve sworn he saw the faintest trace of a smile on the withered lips.

  “Welcome home,” he whispered, fingers brushing Mj?lnir beneath his shirt.

  The pendant rested against his chest, warm and solid. His routine was broken, and whatever came next… he was ready.

  The new private room at Sunset Gardens was too quiet. No roommates arguing over game shows, no nurses chatting in the hallwayjust the hum of the air conditioner and the tap-tap of IV drips.

  Luke’s mother sat perfectly still in her armchair, smiling at an empty corner.

  “Oh yes, the sword under the floorboards,” she whispered to no one. “Grandpa told you about that too?” Her gnarled hands mimed pouring tea into thin air.

  Luke froze in the doorway. The medication sheet said 2:30 p.m. usually her clearest hour.

  “Such a good listener,” she crooned, tilting her head as if someone had spoken. Then, with sudden lucidity, she turned to Luke. “Your friend left this.”

  From beneath her shawl, she produced a business card. The embossed logo caught the light, eight jagged petals, like a frozen explosion.

  HARRINGTON TECHNOLOGIES

  The card smelled faintly of peat smoke and something metallic.

  The End

  https://youtu.be/mdQZOI9IXHc

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