The sky is overcast, the weight of the clouds pressing down on the earth like an omen. The air is cold, biting even for someone like her, who hasn't felt the sting of winter in centuries. Nevaeh stands alone before the pyre, the flickering flames reflecting in her dark eyes. The crackling of the fire is the only sound, but it does little to drown out the roar of emotions inside her.

Helga's body is wrapped in a simple shroud, the kind she herself would have chosen. No finery, no ceremony—just the cold efficiency of death. The flames lick at the edges of the cloth, hungry and unforgiving, consuming the last physical remnants of the only person who ever saw past the armor, past the arrogance, and still chose to stay. Nevaeh watches as the fire climbs higher, reaching out with greedy fingers to claim the body within, and she feels something twist painfully in her chest.

She takes a swig from the bottle of vodka in her hand, the liquid burning a path down her throat, but it does nothing to numb the ache inside. It's a cruel irony, she thinks, that she, the fallen warrior, will never reach Valhalla. And yet here lies Helga, a mortal with no knowledge of gods or realms beyond this one, who deserves that honor more than Nevaeh ever could. Helga, who lived her life with a strength that was quiet and relentless, who bore the weight of unimaginable loss with a dignity that Nevaeh could never fully understand.

Nevaeh's eyes are dry, but the tears are there, just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. She swallows hard, forcing them back, refusing to give in to the weakness. Helga wouldn't want that. Helga wouldn't want her to crumble now, after all these years. But the pain is there, gnawing at her, tearing at the carefully constructed walls she's built around herself.

For 28 years, Nevaeh has lived in this small, unremarkable town, slowly shedding the layers of the warrior she once was. She has learned to care, to feel, to let herself be human. And it's all because of the woman who now lies in ashes before her. Helga was more than a mentor, more than a friend. She was the anchor that kept Nevaeh grounded, the one who reminded her, day after day, that there was more to life than glory, more to life than the endless pursuit of power.

Nevaeh lifts the bottle to her lips again, her hand trembling slightly. She takes another long drink, the vodka tasting bitter, almost rancid on her tongue. It does nothing to ease the hollow feeling inside her, the emptiness that seems to expand with every passing second. She looks at the flames, their heat warming her face, but inside she feels nothing but cold.

She thinks of the first time she met Helga, how the woman had looked at her with those sharp, assessing eyes, unafraid and unimpressed. Helga had taken her in, a stranger, a warrior with a broken spirit, and given her a home. She had taught Nevaeh how to live again, how to find meaning in the simple, mundane tasks that made up the fabric of mortal life. It had been a slow process, painfully slow, but Helga had never wavered, never given up on her.

And now she's gone.

Nevaeh closes her eyes, letting the memories wash over her, the good and the bad, the moments of harsh lessons and rare, fleeting tenderness. Helga was never one for sentiment, but in her own way, she had cared. Nevaeh had seen it in the way Helga's hand would linger on her shoulder after a particularly grueling day, or in the way she would set aside the best piece of meat for her at dinner. Helga had never said the words, but Nevaeh had known.

She opens her eyes, staring at the pyre, watching as the flames consume the last of the shroud. Helga's body is nearly gone now, reduced to ash and embers, and with it, a part of Nevaeh feels like it's being burned away too. The thought of continuing on without her, of waking up tomorrow to an empty cabin, fills Nevaeh with a sense of dread she hasn't felt in years.

The bottle of vodka is nearly empty, and she drains the last of it, the alcohol doing nothing to dull the sharp edge of her grief. She tosses the bottle aside, listening to the hollow clink as it hits the ground. For a moment, she considers walking into the flames, letting them take her too, but she knows it wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't change anything. Helga is gone, and no amount of fire or fury can bring her back.

Nevaeh's hands clench into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She has faced death before, in countless battles, seen friends and enemies alike fall beneath her blade. But this is different. This is not the quick, brutal end of a warrior's life on the battlefield. This is the slow, inevitable decay of time, the quiet stealing away of life's breath, leaving nothing but cold, hard reality in its wake.

She looks up at the sky, the clouds thick and oppressive, blocking out the stars. Helga had once told her that the dead became stars, watching over those they left behind. It was a comforting thought, but Nevaeh knows better. Helga is gone, truly gone, and all that's left is the darkness.

The flames are lower now, the pyre reduced to smoldering embers. Nevaeh feels a single tear escape, sliding down her cheek. She brushes it away angrily, refusing to let herself break. Helga would hate to see her like this, weak and vulnerable. But the truth is, Nevaeh doesn't know how to go on from here. Helga was her compass, the one who kept her grounded in this strange, mortal world. Without her, Nevaeh feels adrift, lost in a sea of emotions she can barely control.

She takes a deep breath, the air cold in her lungs, and forces herself to step back from the pyre. There's nothing more she can do here. Helga is gone, and all that remains are the memories and the lessons she left behind. Nevaeh has to be strong, has to carry on, because that's what Helga would have wanted. But it's a hollow comfort, and as she turns away from the dying fire, Nevaeh feels the first cracks forming in the armor she's spent so long building.

She walks away from the pyre, her steps heavy, the weight of grief pressing down on her like a physical burden. She doesn't know what the future holds, doesn't know how she'll face the days to come without Helga by her side. But one thing is certain—Nevaeh Hunt is no longer the same woman who arrived in this town 28 years ago. She's different, changed by the love and loss of the only person who ever truly understood her.

As she disappears into the darkness, leaving the burning pyre behind, Nevaeh feels the weight of Helga's absence like a physical ache in her chest. She knows she'll never be the same, but she also knows she has to keep going, for Helga's sake, if not her own.

The night closes in around her, cold and unforgiving, and Nevaeh walks on, alone but not broken. Not yet.

The bottle feels heavier than it should, each swig bringing Nevaeh closer to the bottom, yet the void inside her remains unfilled. The sky remains a sullen gray as the day drags on, reflecting the bleakness in her heart. She wanders through the village, her steps unsteady on the cobblestone streets, though not from the alcohol alone. The grief weighs her down, pressing on her shoulders like an invisible yoke she cannot shrug off.

She passes through the town square, where the familiar faces of villagers glance at her with a mixture of pity and fear. They know her, the mysterious woman who appeared decades ago, the one who never aged, who lived alone with the old lumberjack. They know better than to approach her, especially now, when her aura is so dark, so unapproachable. But Nevaeh barely notices them. They are shadows on the periphery of her vision, insignificant in the grand scheme of her pain.

The small temple, a relic of a bygone era, stands at the edge of the village, half-forgotten and rarely visited. It's a simple structure, built of stone and wood, weathered by centuries of wind and rain. A place once sacred, now left to gather dust as the old beliefs faded into obscurity. Nevaeh finds herself standing before it, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the bottle of vodka hanging limply from her hand.

She pushes open the heavy wooden door, its creak echoing in the empty space. The air inside is musty, thick with the scent of age and neglect. The walls are lined with faded tapestries depicting the gods in their glory—Thor with his hammer, Freya with her chariot, Odin with his ravens. Nevaeh's eyes fix on the statue of Odin at the far end of the temple, towering over the small altar like a sentinel. His one eye, carved from stone, seems to follow her as she approaches, his expression stern and unyielding.

She stumbles to her knees before the statue, the cold stone pressing into her flesh through the thin fabric of her clothing. For a long moment, she says nothing, her head bowed, eyes fixed on the ground. The silence in the temple is oppressive, broken only by the sound of her labored breathing.

But inside her, the storm rages.

"Odin," She finally speaks, her voice rough, strained from the effort of holding back tears, "Is this what you wanted? To break me, to strip me of everything until I'm nothing but a shadow of who I was?"

Her words hang in the air, unanswered, but she presses on, her voice growing stronger, fueled by the fire of her grief and anger, "You cast me out, banished me to this mortal realm, where I would live but never die, never be granted the honor of Valhalla. You stripped me of my purpose, my honor, and now... you take the only thing that gave me solace in this cursed existence."

She raises her head, her eyes blazing with unshed tears as she glares at the statue, "Do you revel in this, old man? Watching me suffer, watching as everything I cared for turns to ash? What did I do that was so unforgivable? I was your warrior! I fought for you, bled for you, killed for you! And this is how you repay me?"

Her voice cracks, the tears she's been holding back for so long finally spilling over, burning her cheeks like acid, "Helga... she didn't deserve this. She was good, strong, and kind. And you let her die, while I... I remain here, untouched by time, forced to endure this endless torment."

The statue of Odin remains silent, its stone face impassive, offering no comfort, no answers. Nevaeh's hands curl into fists on her knees, her nails digging into her palms as she fights to keep control, to not scream at the unfairness of it all.

"You bastard," She spits, the words venomous, filled with years of pent-up resentment, " You are no god of mine."

The sound of her voice echoes through the empty temple, the force of her words reverberating in the cold, damp air. She breathes heavily, her chest heaving as the last of her strength leaves her, and she slumps forward, her forehead resting against the base of the statue.

There is no comfort here, no peace to be found in this sacred place. Only the cold, unyielding stone and the weight of her own despair.

From the corner of her eye, Nevaeh catches a flicker of movement. She lifts her head slightly, her gaze shifting to the window above the altar. There, perched on the windowsill, is a raven, its black feathers glistening in the dim light. It watches her with an intensity that sends a shiver down her spine, its beady eyes reflecting a knowledge far beyond its animal nature.

Nevaeh's blood runs cold as she realizes what the raven represents. She knows Odin's symbols well, and this raven is no mere bird. It is one of his messengers, perhaps even a part of him, sent to watch her, to mock her in her moment of weakness.

She straightens, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, her jaw clenched in defiance.

"Are you watching, Allfather? Are you enjoying the show?" She hisses at the raven, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Do you see what you've reduced me to? A drunken fool, weeping at the feet of a statue."

The raven remains silent, its gaze unblinking, and Nevaeh feels a surge of anger so intense it nearly chokes her. She struggles to her feet, her movements unsteady, and takes a step toward the window, her eyes locked on the raven.

The raven blinks once, a slow, deliberate motion, before it spreads its wings and takes flight, disappearing into the gray sky beyond the window. Nevaeh watches it go, her heart pounding in her chest, and a bitter laugh escapes her lips.

" Coward," She mutters, shaking her head, "Just like him."

She turns away from the window, her gaze lingering on the statue of Odin one last time.

With that, she turns on her heel and walks out of the temple, leaving the echoes of her words to fade into the silence. The cold air outside hits her like a slap, but it sobers her, clears her mind. She has no more tears to shed, no more words to say. All that's left now is the long, lonely road ahead.

She glances up at the sky, where the clouds are beginning to break, revealing slivers of pale sunlight. There is no comfort in the light, only the harsh reality of the world she now inhabits.

Nevaeh's steps are heavy as she pushes open the door to the tavern, the familiar creak of wood welcoming her into the dim, smoky interior. The place hasn't changed much over the years—scarred wooden tables, a bar stained with countless spills, and the same old scent of stale beer and sweat. The patrons are a mix of locals and travelers, their voices a low murmur beneath the sound of clinking glasses and laughter that feels too forced to be genuine.

She walks to the bar with purpose, the bottle of vodka in her hand now empty. She slams it down on the counter with a thud, earning a glance from the bartender, an old man with a weathered face and gray hair that has grown thinner over the years. His name is Erik, and he's watched Nevaeh drink her way through the decades, from a young warrior filled with fury to the woman she is now—a stranger even to herself.

"Another," She says, her voice rough with the residue of earlier tears and the weariness that's settled into her bones.

Erik nods, silently reaching for a bottle behind the bar. He knows better than to ask her any questions. She's never been the type to pour her heart out to anyone, especially not to a man whose age reminds her just how long she's been trapped in this eternal cycle of grief.

As he pours, Nevaeh's eyes scan the room, taking in the familiar faces of locals and the less familiar ones of travelers. It's a typical crowd, save for one man sitting at a corner table. He's taller than most, his frame broad and strong, with dark hair that curls slightly at the ends. His blue eyes stand out even in the dim light of the tavern, and there's something about him—something different.

It's not just the way he looks, though he is handsome in a rugged, almost boyish way. It's the way he holds himself, the calmness in his demeanor that sets him apart from the rough-and-tumble crowd around him. But it's his accent that truly stands out when he speaks to the bartender, asking for another drink with a politeness that's almost foreign in a place like this.

American. What the hell is an American doing in this tiny Norwegian village?

Nevaeh takes the drink Erik places in front of her, nodding her thanks without meeting his eyes, and takes a long, burning swig. The vodka sears her throat, but she welcomes the pain. It's a familiar companion, one that dulls the sharper edges of her mind.

She's about to turn away, to retreat to her usual corner of the bar where she can drink in peace, but the man's voice catches her attention again.

"You look like you've had a rough day," He says softly, his tone more an observation than a question.

Nevaeh turns her head slightly, narrowing her eyes at him. She doesn't respond immediately, sizing him up. He doesn't seem like the type to cause trouble, but she's learned not to trust appearances. And she's not in the mood for conversation, especially not with a stranger.

"What's it to you?" She finally replies, her voice edged with sarcasm.

The man smiles slightly, a gentle curve of his lips that's more comforting than it should be, "Just thought you might want someone to talk to. Sometimes it helps."

"Talking never helps," She snaps, turning her gaze back to her drink, "But thanks for the offer, Boy Scout."

He chuckles softly at the nickname, undeterred by her sharp tone.

"Suit yourself," He says, taking a sip of his own drink.

Nevaeh rolls her eyes, dismissing him. She's dealt with plenty of men like him—men who think they can fix whatever's broken in her with a few kind words and a sympathetic ear. They never last long. She always sends them packing, one way or another.

But this one... there's something about him. He doesn't have the usual look of desperation in his eyes, the one she's seen in countless men who thought they could save her from herself. No, this man seems different. He doesn't have that arrogance, that belief that he's the hero in this story.

She shakes her head, taking another swig of vodka. It doesn't matter. He's just another man passing through, another face she'll forget by morning.

As she drinks, a man from the far end of the bar sidles up next to her. He's drunk, his breath reeking of alcohol, and his eyes are bleary as he looks her up and down with a lecherous grin.

"Hey there, pretty thing," He slurs, his words barely coherent, "What's a girl like you doing all alone? You need some company?"

Nevaeh doesn't even look at him, her focus remaining on her drink.

"Walk away," She says, her voice low and dangerous.

The drunk man either doesn't hear her or chooses to ignore the warning in her tone. He reaches out, placing a hand on her arm, his fingers squeezing just a bit too hard, "Come on, don't be like that. I'm just being friendly."

Clark, who's been watching the interaction with growing concern, starts to rise from his seat, his protective instincts kicking in. He's seen enough in his travels to know when a situation is about to turn ugly, and he's not about to let this man harass a woman, even if she seems more than capable of handling herself.

But before he can take a step, Nevaeh moves.

Her hand shoots out, grabbing the drunk man by the wrist with a grip that makes him yelp in surprise and pain. She stands up from the bar stool in one fluid motion, her eyes locking onto his with a cold, deadly precision.

"I said," She hisses, twisting his arm until he's on his knees, his face contorted in agony, "walk away."

The entire tavern falls silent, all eyes on the scene unfolding before them. Erik, the bartender, watches with a grim expression, his hands resting on the bar as he silently judges the newcomer who dared to cross Nevaeh.

Clark pauses, half-standing, unsure whether to intervene or stay out of it. He can sense the immense strength in the woman before him, and not just physical strength. There's something else—something that tells him she's not like anyone he's ever met.

The drunk man whimpers, his bravado completely shattered as he realizes he's made a terrible mistake.

Nevaeh holds him there for a moment longer, her grip unrelenting, her gaze like ice. Then, with a disdainful flick of her wrist, she releases him, sending him sprawling onto the floor. He scrambles to his feet, his pride in tatters, and stumbles out of the tavern without another word.

The room remains silent as Nevaeh turns back to the bar, lifting her drink to her lips as if nothing happened. Erik silently slides another bottle of vodka her way, understanding her need for more without asking.

Clark finally sits back down, watching her with a mixture of awe and caution. He's met powerful people before, but this woman is something else entirely. He doesn't know what her story is, but he's certain it's not a happy one.

The door to the tavern slams shut behind Nevaeh as she steps out into the night, her boots sinking into the mud as the first drops of rain begin to fall. The wind howls through the narrow streets, carrying with it the scent of the coming storm—one that promises to be fierce and unforgiving. The sky above is a dark, swirling mass of clouds, and the distant rumble of thunder echoes through the mountains.

She pulls her coat tighter around herself, her eyes narrowed against the biting wind. The alcohol buzzes in her veins, dulling the edges of her thoughts but not enough to drown out the anger that still simmers beneath the surface. The encounter with the man in the tavern—Clark, or whatever his name was—has left her even more agitated. She doesn't need his pity or his concern. She doesn't need anyone.

As she trudges forward, determined to put as much distance between herself and the tavern as possible, the rain begins to fall harder, a relentless downpour that soaks through her coat and into her skin. The streets are empty, the villagers having retreated indoors to wait out the storm, but Nevaeh presses on, uncaring of the weather or the danger it might pose.

Behind her, the door to the tavern creaks open once more, and Clark steps out into the rain, his eyes scanning the darkened street until he spots her figure in the distance. He hesitates for only a moment before calling out to her, his voice firm but laced with concern.

"Wait!" He shouts, his words nearly drowned out by the wind, "It's not safe out here!"

Nevaeh ignores him, her pace quickening as she pushes forward, her shoulders hunched against the rain. She doesn't have time for this, doesn't have the patience to deal with some well-meaning stranger who thinks he can save her from herself.

Clark's brow furrows in frustration as he watches her retreating form. He's used to people being wary of him, used to being careful about how much of his strength he shows, but there's something about this woman that compels him to follow. Maybe it's the way she carries herself, the weight of something unseen pressing down on her shoulders, or maybe it's the way she dismissed him so easily, as if he were nothing more than a minor inconvenience in her life.

But the storm is growing worse by the minute, and Clark can't just let her walk out into it without at least trying to stop her. He breaks into a jog, his boots splashing through the puddles as he catches up to her.

"Hey, wait!" He calls again, louder this time, his voice cutting through the wind.

Nevaeh doesn't turn around, her focus fixed on the path ahead. Her anger is a living thing now, coiled tightly within her, and the last thing she needs is some do-gooder following her around, trying to tell her what to do.

Clark reaches out, his hand closing around her arm in a firm but gentle grip, trying to stop her without hurting her.

"Please, listen," He says, his tone pleading, "This storm is dangerous. You shouldn't be out here."

For a moment, Nevaeh freezes, her body tensing at the contact. Her heart pounds in her chest, a rush of adrenaline surging through her veins as she slowly turns her head to look at him. His face is shadowed in the darkness, the rain running in rivulets down his skin, but she can see the concern in his eyes, the earnestness that makes her want to scream.

"Let go," She says, her voice low and dangerous.

Clark hesitates, his grip loosening slightly but not enough to let her go completely, "I'm just trying to help—"

"I said, let go!" Nevaeh snaps, shoving him aside with a force that sends him stumbling backward.

Clark's eyes widen in shock as he catches himself, barely managing to stay on his feet. He's strong—stronger than anyone she's ever encountered—but the sheer power in her push catches him off guard. For a moment, he's too stunned to react, staring at her as the rain pours down around them.

Nevaeh doesn't wait for him to recover. She turns on her heel and continues walking, her boots splashing through the mud as she heads further into the storm, her mind a chaotic swirl of anger and frustration. She doesn't know where she's going—doesn't care, really—but anywhere is better than here.

Clark watches her go, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes as he tries to process what just happened. She shouldn't be able to do that—no ordinary person should have the strength to push him like that, to move him at all. But she did, and now she's walking away, right into the heart of a storm that's growing more dangerous by the second.

He shakes his head, determination hardening his features as he starts after her again. He can't let her go—not like this. She's strong, yes, but there's something else at play here, something that makes him feel like he needs to help her, even if she doesn't want it.

"Wait!" He calls out once more, his voice strained against the roar of the wind.

Nevaeh doesn't slow down, doesn't even acknowledge him. Her hands clench into fists at her sides, the tension in her body building until it feels like she might snap.

Clark quickens his pace, his strides longer now as he tries to catch up to her. The rain is coming down in sheets, obscuring his vision, but he doesn't let it deter him. He has to reach her before something terrible happens, before—

Suddenly, Nevaeh stops, spinning around to face him, her eyes blazing with fury. Clark skids to a halt, taken aback by the intensity of her glare. Before he can say anything, before he can even think to react, she steps forward and punches him square in the chest.

The impact is like nothing he's ever felt before. It's as if he's been hit by a freight train, the force of her blow sending him flying backward through the air. He soars hundreds of feet, his body tumbling through the rain until he crashes into the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The wind is knocked out of him, and for a moment, he lies there, stunned, staring up at the stormy sky as the rain pelts his face.

His mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened. How did she...? No one should be able to do that to him, not even the strongest of humans. But she did. And now she's standing over him, looking down at him with a mixture of anger and something else—something he can't quite identify.

Nevaeh's chest heaves with the force of her emotions, her knuckles still tingling from the impact of the punch. She stares at Clark, her expression hard, unyielding, as the rain pours down around them. He looks up at her, his blue eyes wide with shock, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

Finally, Nevaeh breaks the silence, her voice cold and cutting, "I don't need a hero."

With that, she turns away, leaving him lying there in the mud as she walks off into the storm, her figure gradually disappearing into the darkness.

Clark struggles to his feet, his body aching from the impact, but he doesn't try to follow her this time. He stands there, watching as she vanishes into the night, his mind reeling from what just happened. He doesn't understand—how could he? But one thing is clear: she's not just anyone.

She's something else, something powerful and broken.

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