For the past ten years, I had searched relentlessly for the legendary Jem Stone of Amelía Hrafnalfarsson, wife of Hakon Hrafnalfarsson, the king's second-in-command. I finally found it. Its power was said to grant any wish-but only to those bold enough to claim it.
Don't call me a psychopath. I'm not. I'm just a crazy archaeologist who would go to the ends of the earth-and beyond-to get what I want.
"Mikael!!"
The shout pulled me out of my tent. Vincent Fisher, my colleague and lifelong friend, stood at the entrance. But he wasn't alone. In front of the tent sat a casket, and around it, four of my other colleagues. My heart skipped a beat.
"What is this?" I crouched to examine it. Strange runes covered its surface, twisting and curling like the letters of an ancient Icelandic script I had only ever seen in dusty old manuscripts. Their meaning was a mystery-but their power felt undeniable.
"We don't know, man," Vincent said. "But it looks like someone-or something-is inside. What do you think?"
I squinted at the casket's side, where an inscription in English caught my eye. I put on my reading glasses. My breath hitched:
" Amelia Freysdóttir , Maiden of Norðhólfur ."
A chill ran down my spine. Why would the king bury a maiden who supposedly killed his wife and daughters along with his most precious jewelry... and in a cave underground, no less?
"This doesn't make any sense," I muttered, straightening. "Vincent, call the others. Move this casket into a secure tent. I need to find out what this really means."
Two Days Later
I had been working non-stop. Studying, testing, repeating the same process until my hands felt numb. The Jem Stones still wouldn't respond-at least, not in any way I could understand. We only had two: the red and the green. The missing five stones remained the key to everything. Every text, every ancient prophecy pointed to one truth: all Seven must be together.
I sat beside the silent casket, burying my face in my hands. Frustration coiled tight in my chest. Why would history paint Amelía as a murderer when everything I found hinted at the opposite? And why had King Bjarke gone to such lengths to hide her away-with the stones, with the casket, with so many unanswered questions?
Then it hit me-I had to open the casket.
I called my team. With every ounce of strength, we cracked the casket open. Two hours later, we succeeded.
And there she was. Amelía. Her hands cradled the stones. She looked as if she were merely asleep. Beautiful would be an understatement. Gorgeous, ethereal, like a vision from another time.
I carefully joined the stones with the others. A brilliant light exploded from the gems, dazzling me. I hesitated-so tempted to touch them-but then...
Nothing.
No light.
No heat.
No vibration.
Just silence.
A heavy, disappointing silence.
Vincent and the others watched me, waiting for a miracle that didn't come. My chest tightened. Ten years of searching... and for what? A myth? A lie?
I swallowed the ache in my throat and forced a sigh.
"Let's call it a day," I muttered. "Maybe I got the translation wrong."
Everyone drifted off, one by one, until the tent was empty. I stayed behind, staring at the stones-beautiful, priceless, completely useless.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled me down. I lay back against my pack and let sleep take me.
The Next Day
Morning came cold and gray over the Icelandic mountains. The wind rattled the tents as if urging us to leave. For the first time in ten years, I felt... empty. The Jem Stones-once the center of my obsession-lay in their protective case, dull and silent, as if mocking me.
We had all agreed there was nothing left to discover. The legends were just that-legends. Beautiful, haunting stories with no truth behind them. Two weeks passed in a blur of packing equipment, logging failed tests, and shutting down our dig site. No one talked about the casket anymore. No one dared mention Amelía. It was easier to pretend the entire expedition had been a long, expensive disappointment.
When the day of our flight finally arrived, we loaded the last of our gear into the van. George volunteered to drive. Vincent sat in the front seat beside him, while Camila and I took the back. The road stretched long and dark beneath the early evening sky. For a while, none of us spoke-each lost in our own thoughts.
Vincent finally reached for the radio, flicking it on. A soft Icelandic ballad filled the car, its melody slow and aching, telling a story of an ancient love lost to time. The song wrapped around us like a warm blanket, easing the quiet tension. Camila leaned her head against the window. "At least Iceland has good music," she murmured. I almost smiled, the melancholy tune stirring something deep inside me. For a fleeting moment, it felt peaceful.
Then-
A sudden burst of white light cut across the road.
"George-!" Vincent shouted, panic rising in his voice.
The headlights hit us like a falling star, blinding and merciless. Tires screeched. I reached for anything-steering wheel, seat, a door-but the world spun violently. Metal slammed. Glass shattered. And then... silence.
Heavy. Absolute.
When I opened my eyes, the freezing air of Iceland was gone. The van, the road, the music, even the echo of crashing metal-vanished.
The ground beneath me was cold stone.
A cave.
But not the dusty excavation site we had spent months crawling through. This one was alive, glowing dimly, the walls streaked with veins of pale blue light. The air hummed softly, vibrating through my bones. I pushed myself upright, heart pounding, throat tight.
"Vincent? Camila? George?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
No answer. Only the faint echo of dripping water.
Then a voice. Soft. Ancient. Melodic, calling my name. Closer and closer. My eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I froze.
There she was. An unbelievably ethereal girl, kneeling beside me, her silver‑blonde hair braided and glowing faintly in the cave's light. Her ocean-blue eyes were piercing, impossible to look away from-captivating me completely.
"My name is Amelía Freysdóttir, maiden of the Norðhólfur Realm," she said, her voice steady, respectful, yet commanding. "This land belongs to the Kingdom of Hrafnheima. May I ask who you are, sire?"
I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I only stared, my mind racing to make sense of what I was seeing. The girl from the casket-the one I had thought was asleep forever-was alive. Here. Breathing. Watching me.
It didn't make sense. None of it did. My pulse raced. My heart pounded. And yet... a strange familiarity tugged at me, deep in my chest, as if I had known her all my life.
"I... I'm Mikael," I finally managed to whisper, my voice cracking. "I... I don't understand... where am I?"
Amelía's gaze softened, yet her posture remained regal. "You are far from the lands you know, Mikael. And yet... perhaps you were always meant to be here."
The cave seemed to pulse with quiet power around her words, and in that moment, I realized that nothing-no legend, no Jem Stone, no prophecy-could have prepared me for what was coming.