"The wind smells like fire," Embla said, staring into the horizon. "But there's no smoke."
Ask didn't answer. He crouched beside the roots of an ash tree, his hand pressed to the bark like it might whisper back.
"Do you feel it too?" she asked.
He nodded. "Something's stirring beneath us. Like breath under stone."
Embla glanced toward the mountains — the ones no map named, the ones that weren't supposed to exist.
"He's waking."
Ask's fingers curled into the moss. "Not fully. Not yet. But the silence is breaking. I heard ravens this morning."
She stiffened. "Two?"
Ask nodded once.
"Then he's watching."
They stood in silence, ancient silence — not empty, but thick with memory. Ask and Embla were not old in appearance. They looked no different from the children who wandered near their forests and streams. But their eyes — their eyes had seen the First Fire.
"We should move," Embla said. "If the ravens found us…"
"…then the eye won't be far behind," Ask finished.
They began packing the remnants of their camp: a hide stretched between stone teeth, a pouch of seeds that never spoiled, and a carved bone totem that pulsed faintly with cyan light. Embla took it gently, wrapping it in cloth.
"We shouldn't be the ones carrying this anymore."
"There's no one else," Ask replied.
"No. Not yet. But he's near."
Ask looked up. "Vilseidr?"
Embla didn't answer at first. Then she closed her hand around the totem and whispered, "He's remembering."
A shadow moved across the sky — not bird, not cloud, but will. Ask turned, eyes scanning the treeline.
"Someone's coming."
"No," Embla said. "Something."
From the brush stepped a woman cloaked in green. Her cane stabbed the ground with unnatural rhythm. Her eyes shimmered with too many years.
"You're early," Embla said.
"I'm never early," the woman replied. "You're just late."
Ask's jaw tensed. "What name do you wear now?"
"Marta," she smiled, as if that was a joke only the world got.
"You've been near the village?" Embla asked.
"I've been near him. You think the seer wakes without echo?" Marta circled the totem once, then peered into the cloth. "He remembers more than you think. But less than he needs."
Ask stepped forward. "Is it time?"
"No," Marta said. "It's not time. But time is thinning."
Embla narrowed her eyes. "Then why are you here?"
Marta's smile faded. "Because Odin remembers, too."
The name twisted the air. Even the trees bent slightly away from the sound.
Ask knelt, setting his hand to the earth again. "He's reaching."
"Always has," Marta said. "But now he hungers. He feels it—the will he thought extinguished."
"A spark," Embla murmured. "A sliver."
"A name," Marta corrected. "Vilseidr. That's all it takes."
There was silence again. Then Embla looked up, eyes alight. "We'll go to the Hollow."
Marta blinked. "The Hollow's sealed."
"It was sealed," Ask said, pulling a worn key from a leather cord. "Before the gods began to forget."
"And you think memory alone will open it?"
"We're not going to open it," Embla said. "We're going to show it."
"To him."
Marta's mouth thinned. "And what if he's not ready?"
"Then the world burns," Embla said without hesitation.
A sharp gust passed through the grove, scattering leaves like feathers. Ask stood, shoulders squared.
"He followed his brother into the abyss once. He can do it again."
Marta's eyes glinted with something between pride and sorrow. "He was Vili."
Ask nodded. "Now he's Vilseidr. And the Nine still call."
From the north, a single raven cawed — not with voice, but thought. Watching.
The three turned west.