The draugr lunged at him, moving far faster than something so decayed should be capable of. Max barely had time to register its movement before a fist—cold, hard, and impossibly strong—slammed into his gut. The force of the blow knocked him clean off his feet, sending him sprawling backward.

He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. Pain radiated from his core, sharp and overwhelming. His vision blurred for a moment, and his mind raced in a chaotic spiral of panic.

This is bad. This is really bad.

Max gasped for air, struggling to think through the pain. He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to push himself upright, but his body refused to cooperate. The draugr was already closing in again, its dead eyes burning with that same unnatural hate, its twisted limbs jerking unnaturally with every step.

But as he lay there, winded and desperate, something else stirred in his mind—something familiar. A memory, jostled loose by the blow.

Twelve years old. Lying in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows across the room. His grandfather’s deep voice, weaving stories of heroes and monsters—of ancient battles and forgotten evils.

“Remember, Max,” his grandfather had said, his voice thick with the weight of old knowledge. “A draugr is best killed before it wakes. You tie their toes together with string, or drive nails into the soles of their feet.”

The memory flickered, and Max could almost hear the rumble of his grandfather’s laughter as he added, “But if you ever find yourself facing a draugr, you should cut off its head. Burn the body, and scatter the ashes in the sea. Because they will try and come back. They always try to come back.”

Max blinked, the words echoing in his mind, cutting through the fog of panic. Cut off its head. Burn the body. Scatter the ashes.

His hand tightened around the staff. The draugr was nearly upon him now, its body twitching as it prepared for another strike. He could hear the low, guttural growl rising from its throat, the sound of death given form.

Max scrambled backward, his body finally responding as he narrowly avoided another blow. Gasping, he pulled himself to his feet, gripping the staff with renewed determination. He’d never fought a day in his life, but right now, it didn’t matter. He just needed to survive.

The draugr twisted its head toward him—a full ninety degrees, the sound of bones and decayed flesh tearing, the wet crunch echoing in the too-still air. Max gagged, bile rising in his throat, but there was no time for hesitation. The creature’s body followed its head, lunging at him again.

This time, Max was ready.

With every ounce of strength he had left, he swung the staff like a baseball bat.

Crack.

The staff connected with the draugr’s head, the impact far louder than it should have been, like a thunderclap that echoed through the clearing. The force sent a shock up Max’s arms, but something else happened—a surge of energy that pulsed through the wood, crackling like lightning.

The runes Max had painstakingly carved into the staff in what felt like another life flared to life, blazing with a brilliant, white-hot light.

The world rippled.

For a split second, it was as if the air itself shuddered, bending under the force of the runes’ power. The draugr staggered, its hateful growl cut short as it jerked back, its head snapping violently from the impact. The glow in its eyes flickered, dimming for the first time.

Max stumbled back, eyes wide as the runes continued to blaze. What the hell just happened?

“Fuck it we’re doing it live!” he yelled and raised the staff to deliver another blow, the adrenaline coursing through his body heightening his reflexes, and giving him the edge he needed. This was it. He wasn't going down without a fight.

He swung hard, the staff connecting with a sickening thud, and it reeled back, blue fire starting to crawl from the impact point, eating into the corpse in slow motion.

For the first time since the fight began, the fear that had gripped him so tightly started to loosen. Max’s heart still pounded, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but his mind was clear now—sharper, more focused. The draugr’s glowing eyes flickered, struggling to keep their hateful fire alight as the cold blue flames crawled over its decayed flesh, eating away at the rot.

“I got you now, you stinking bastard!” Max shouted, adrenaline flooding his veins as he raised the staff high overhead. The runes on the wood flared with that same ethereal fire, and with all the strength he could muster, he brought it crashing down.

The staff connected with the draugr’s skull, the impact reverberating through Max’s arms. A wave of blue flames cascaded down over the creature, washing it in cold fire. The draugr let out a low, gurgling growl, its voice choking off as the flames began to eat through its ruined body.

The once relentless, unnatural movements of the draugr faltered, its jerky steps becoming sluggish as the flames worked their way deeper, burning it from the inside out. It staggered, its body trembling as it opened its mouth to scream, but no sound came—just a harsh, rasping hiss as the fire consumed it.

The creature’s glowing eyes dimmed further, flickering like dying embers. Its limbs twitched in a grotesque rhythm, and with a sudden lurch, it turned, stumbling toward the barrow, toward the darkness that had birthed it.

“Oh no you don’t!” Max growled, stepping forward with renewed determination. He swung the staff again, another powerful overhead blow that connected with a sickening thud. The force drove the draugr down to its knees, its skeletal hands scraping at the dirt in a futile attempt to crawl away.

But the fire had already claimed too much. The blue flames burned through its armour, through its bones, reducing everything it touched to ash.

Max stood over it, breathing hard, watching as the draugr’s body crumbled piece by piece. The creature twitched one last time before collapsing into a smouldering heap, nothing more than a pile of dark ash, the cold fire still dancing over it like an echo of its former self.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. The only sound was the faint crackling of the dying flames, slowly fading into silence.

Max didn’t move. His hands trembled, the last remnants of adrenaline draining from his system, leaving him shaky and lightheaded. He stared down at the pile of smouldering ashes where the draugr had once stood, unable to believe what had just happened. His heart was still hammering in his chest, but the frantic edge of fear had finally loosened its grip on him.

“I’m alive,” he muttered to himself, almost in disbelief. His voice sounded foreign, small in the stillness of the clearing. “I won. Somehow... I won.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, his body sagging as the weight of it all hit him at once. The cold evening air nipped at his skin, and he looked up at the sky—darker now, streaked with the deep purples and oranges of the setting sun

I need to find shelter

The thought crashed on him like cold water, the fight was over but he still had to survive, he glanced around at the forest, it seemed darker and more ominous the shadows seemed darker and hungry.

Where the hell am I?

That question had been gnawing at the back of his mind since he’d woken up in this place, but now it felt even more pressing. He had no idea where he was, how far civilization might be—or if there even was any civilization around here. For all he knew, the draugr might not have been the only thing lurking in the woods.

His eyes flicked to the barrow—the mound of earth and stone from which the draugr had come. Shelter. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only thing that stood out in the immediate area. There could be more draugr inside, but the thought of wandering through the forest in the dark with no plan was even worse. At least the barrow was a defined space, and if anything came after him, he could try to defend it.

He took a hesitant step forward, then stopped, the thought of entering the barrow filling him with unease. There was a sense of wrongness about it, an ancient, lingering malice that seemed to cling to the stones.

But what other choice did he have?

He steeled himself and marched into the old tomb. A Stone doorway greeted him, like the maw of some hungry beast, dark and empty. Stop it Max, psyching yourself out isn't going to help. His heartbeat was still loud in his ears.

The air inside was thick and musty, carrying the heavy scent of earth and decay, but the runes on his staff pulsed with that same cold, ghostly flame, casting a flickering glow around him. It wasn’t much light—just enough to see a few feet ahead—but it made the darkness less oppressive, allowing him to take his first tentative steps into the tomb.

The earthen walls pressed in on either side as he walked, the chamber long and narrow, carved directly into the hill. As he ventured deeper, his footsteps echoed faintly in the stillness, the quiet unnerving after the violent encounter outside. Something about this place feels wrong.

Shelves had been carved into the rock walls, their surfaces lined with rotted chests, ancient and crumbling. Time had not been kind to the place—wooden beams sagged with age, and cobwebs hung like veils in the corners. He swept the staff’s light over the nearest shelf, revealing the remnants of what must have once been treasures—now nothing more than dust-covered relics, long forgotten.

Max’s eyes travelled further down the chamber. At the far end stood a throne, though it was barely recognizable as such. The wood had rotted, its once proud frame sagging, with only faint traces of the craftsmanship that had gone into its construction. Leaning against the wall beside it was a shattered shield and a broken spear, the symbols of a warrior long dead, now lost to time.

The weight of history pressed down on his shoulders, It wasn’t just the cold air or the silence of the tomb—it was the sense of something ancient, something that had been waiting in the earth for centuries. He could feel it now, heavy and oppressive like the very stones of the barrow were watching him.

He heard something else now. A hum, quiet and droning, he couldn't quite place its origin, it seemed to come from all around him, like the earth was alive with something. He hated being in here but what else was he to do? He reached out and touched the throne, its ancient wood brittle and dry. It broke under his hands, at least he’d have fire to warm him. If he could remember how to start one.

He took a few minutes to break the wood into usable chunks, piling it up neatly. “Now what, Max? You’ve got the wood but no way to light it,” he muttered, more to fill the silence than anything. The tomb felt eerie, the hum still pressing in, making the air thick and heavy.

Max glanced at the staff. The runes were still burning with that cold blue flame. Maybe… that’ll work? He let out a breath. “What’ve you got to lose, Max?” he said to the empty air, lowering the staff toward the pile of wood.

Nothing.

The flames didn’t even touch the wood. If anything, they seemed to shy away, pulling back like they were alive—like they didn’t want to soil themselves on something so mundane.

Max let out a yell of frustration, throwing the staff against the wall. It clattered to the ground, the flames flickering dimly in the dark tomb. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes landing on the chest that had weathered the ages better than anything else.

There might be something useful there. He hated the idea of graverobbing, but after what he’d just fought, he wasn’t feeling particularly guilty. The occupant had already attacked him. It wasn’t like they’d need it now.

Come on, Max. You want to freeze to death in a spooky tomb in gods know where? Stop being so squeamish! He shook his head, forcing himself to move toward the chest.

Max knelt beside the chest, the ancient wood creaking under his weight. The hum around him seemed to grow louder, a low vibration that made his skin crawl, as if the tomb itself was watching.

Come on, let’s get this over with, he thought, gripping the iron latch. His hand hesitated for a moment, his mind racing with images of curses, traps, or worse. But he couldn’t afford to hesitate. Not now.

Max yanked the chest open, expecting... something. Anything. His breath caught in his throat as he peered inside, eyes wide, heart pounding.

But there was nothing.

The chest was empty. Completely, maddeningly empty.

For a moment, he just stared, as if willing something to appear in the dark, hollow space. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Are you fucking serious?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His frustration boiled over. He’d fought a corpse, broken into a grave, and braced himself for gods-knew-what—and now, the chest was just... empty?

The hum around him persisted, low and droning, like it was mocking him. The oppressive weight of the tomb pressed down on him even harder. He closed the chest with a loud thud and slumped back, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

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What now? He glanced around the chamber, searching for another option. The staff still lay where he’d thrown it, glowing faintly, but otherwise, he was left with a pile of wood he couldn’t light and the echoing emptiness of the tomb.

Max stomped over to the shelves, his boots kicking up dust that had probably been there for centuries. The oppressive hum still buzzed in the background, but he was done caring about it. If there’s nothing in that damn chest, there’s got to be something here, he thought, rummaging through the decaying remains of whatever the tomb’s original occupant had once prized.

The shelves were lined with rotting chests, crumbled wood, and scraps of ancient cloth. Most of it was useless, worn away by time to little more than dust. He swiped his hand through the debris, frustration building with each empty discovery. Bits of tarnished metal clinked against the stone floor.

Max cursed under his breath. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for anymore—anything that might help him survive. A weapon, food, something that would at least make him feel like he wasn’t about to freeze to death in a tomb full of memories.

He yanked open another crumbling box, but it disintegrated in his hands, leaving nothing but rusted fragments behind. He clenched his teeth. Come on, there’s got to be something here.

Max rifled through the crumbling remains, his hands dusty and his patience wearing thin. Most of what he found was useless—rotted wood, tarnished metal, and old bones that clattered against the stone floor. He was starting to lose hope.

Then, just as he was about to give up, his fingers brushed against something hard and sharp buried beneath a pile of debris. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hand—a small, jagged piece of flint.

Max stared at it for a moment, his mind piecing things together. Flint... if he could find a striker, maybe he could get a fire going. His pulse quickened as he scanned the shelf again, his hands brushing aside more debris.

There—beneath an ancient, rusted clasp—he spotted it. A small, worn piece of steel, tarnished but solid.

Flint and steel.

A wave of relief washed over him. It wasn’t much, but it was exactly what he needed. Max grabbed the tinder from the throne’s wood pile, positioning the flint and steel over it.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

He struck the steel against the flint, sending a few sparks flying into the tinder. It took a couple of tries, but eventually, the dry material began to smoulder. Max blew gently, encouraging the tiny embers to grow. Slowly but surely, a small flame flickered to life.

Max sat back, grinning to himself. “Finally. We have fire. Take that, Fate! Max O’Keefe ain’t dying of the cold!”

He reached for the staff, feeling a pang of guilt for throwing it earlier. The staff had saved him before, and now he regretted handling it so roughly. Cradling it in his hands, he sat closer to the fire, letting its warmth seep into his bones.

The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows along the stone walls. The heat, combined with the weight of the day—the battle with the draugr, the strange tomb, and the constant tension—started to take its toll. Exhaustion crashed over him like a wave, pulling him under.

His eyelids grew heavy, and despite his best efforts to stay alert, they slowly slid closed. The droning hum that had unnerved him earlier now felt distant, softened by the warmth of the fire. It was almost comforting, like a lullaby carried on the air.

With a final deep breath, Max surrendered to it, letting his body relax as he drifted off into sweet oblivion.

***

Max awoke to the cold. The fire had long since burned out, leaving nothing but cold ashes, and his stiff, aching body reminded him just how uncomfortable his sleep had been. Groaning, he pushed himself up from the ground and stretched—immediately regretting it. A sharp, sudden flare of pain shot through his ribs where the draugr had hit him.

He winced, clutching his side. Definitely not healed yet.

Slowly, he turned toward the doorway. The gloom of the ancient barrow was broken by a pale, brittle light that shone from the archway, casting long shadows across the stone floor. It stood in stark contrast to the darkness around him, almost too bright, like it didn’t belong here.

Max frowned, glancing around the tomb. Something felt... off. He couldn’t place it at first, but then his heart skipped a beat.

There were no chests. No shields. Nothing. The debris he’d searched through, the items he’d found... they were all gone. The shelves were bare, the throne crumbled to dust. Everything was just... empty.

What the hell?

His mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. Had he been dreaming the entire time? Or was this some kind of trick? The hum he’d heard before was gone, leaving only an eerie silence in its place.

Max stood frozen for a moment, staring at the bare chamber around him, a chill creeping down his spine. The tomb felt different—more like a trap than a resting place now.

His gaze drifted back to the doorway, the pale light beckoning him. There was no going back. With a deep breath, he gathered his staff and stepped toward the strange light.

As he stepped out, the reality of his situation hit him again. He was in a different world, somewhere dead things walked, his staff burned with cold fire and his survival was not guaranteed.

His stomach growled, reminding him that the last thing he’d eaten was giant turkey leg the day before. He might have survived the cold but hunger would certainly take him just as certainly.

How long before that takes me down? A Week I think. No water will be a few days. His thoughts spiralled. In the chaos of fighting for his life, hunger had been pushed to the back of his mind, but now it was the only thing he could think about.

The sound of wings flapping cut through the cold air. It was loud—too loud—and way too close. Max’s heart skipped a beat. He spun around, eyes scanning the sky, his grip tightening on the staff. The heavy thud-thud of wings beat against the wind, but he couldn’t see anything—until he turned fully around.

He froze.

Standing before him was a witch—at least, that was the first word that came to mind when Max laid eyes on her. She stood silently, her presence commanding and otherworldly.

She was dressed in a white buckskin dress, worn yet striking, its pale colour contrasting sharply with the dark, rich cloak of black wool draped over her shoulders. The cloak was decorated with black feathers, which fluttered slightly in the wind, adding a sense of movement to her still form. A fringe hung from her cap, concealing most of her face, but Max could feel her gaze piercing through it, as though she could see every inch of him.

Her arms were adorned with many beaded bracelets, clinking softly as she shifted, and hanging from her neck was a pendant of bone carved to look like a raven—simple yet unsettling. But what drew Max’s attention most was the seax in her hand. It looked practical, well-used, and, from the glint of light on its edge, very sharp.

Max’s heart pounded in his chest. What does she want?

The witch said nothing at first, her face hidden behind the fringe, the knife hanging loosely in her grip. It was as though she was measuring him, deciding whether he was worth speaking to—or cutting down.

Finally, she broke the silence.

“You should not be here.” Her voice was calm, cold, and certain, as though it was a fact of the universe itself. The wind carried the words like a chill down Max’s spine. “An outlander, dressed like an Albion Highlander, wielding a galdr of oak.”

Her expression was mostly hidden by the fringe of leather strips that draped over her eyes, but the faint smile on her lips was unmistakable as she examined him closely, as if each detail of his presence here told a story she already knew.

“You wear fine talismans of silver and iron—the Stag and the Bear. You have chosen your totems well,” she said, her tone tinged with something that might have been approval, or perhaps condescension. “You look to be well-fed and hearty. A man not yet broken by this world.”

She took a step closer, her bracelets clinking softly, her presence filling the space between them with an eerie calm. “But the question remains—how long will that last, I wonder?”

Max felt the weight of her words pressing down on him, but he held her gaze—or at least the place where he imagined her eyes were behind that fringe. He swallowed, his mind racing for answers that wouldn’t come.

Max’s voice wavered slightly as he spoke, desperation creeping in. “What do you want of me? I mean you no harm,” he pleaded, gripping the staff tightly, his knuckles white. “I don’t know where I am... I got attacked by a draugr and barely survived.”

The witch’s smile widened ever so slightly, though it lacked warmth. She remained still, her gaze hidden beneath the veil of leather strips, but Max could feel her eyes on him, watching, measuring.

“A draugr?” she echoed, as if the word held no significance to her. “And yet, here you stand. Alive.”

Her voice carried no sympathy, only a quiet curiosity. She tilted her head, the fringe swaying slightly with the motion. “The draugr should have ended you. Most would have perished. Yet you live, outlander, and that... is of great interest to me.”

Max swallowed hard, confusion etched across his face. “I don’t know how I did,” he admitted, shaking his head. “All I know is... I hit it with my staff, and then—poof—it went up in flames.” His voice wavered with disbelief as he relived the moment.

The witch studied him for a long moment, her silence heavy with purpose. Then, her voice cut through the air—sharp and cold, but not unkind. “I believe you.”

Max blinked in surprise. “Y-You do?” His eyes widened, half-expecting her to mock him. Instead, her tone was as steady as it was unsettling.

“I cast the runes for the Jarl’s hunting,” she continued, her voice carrying the weight of something ancient. “They spoke clearly, more direct than they have in a long time. They spoke of an outlander.” Her gaze, still hidden beneath the fringe, seemed to bore into him. “They spoke of you.”

Max’s heart pounded in his chest. The weight of her words settled heavily on his shoulders. “Me? How—what do they say about me?”

The witch’s lips curved ever so slightly into a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “The runes do not speak of certainty, but of potential. You were not meant to die easily, outlander. But your fate is still... unwritten.” She took a deliberate step closer, the clinking of her bracelets cutting through the silence like a warning.

Max could feel her gaze, sharp and intense, even though her eyes were still hidden beneath the shadow of her hood. The air between them felt heavier with every passing second.

“I was bid to help you,” she continued, her voice low and deliberate. “The voices of the gods are faint... the Ragnarok-that-was-not has changed things. The threads of fate are frayed, tangled in ways even the Norns cannot see.” Her expression darkened, though her smile remained. “Perhaps you will mend them. Perhaps you will be the spark that sets the world ablaze and delivers a True Ragnarok.”

Max’s breath caught in his throat, the weight of her words sinking in. Deliver Ragnarok? He’d barely survived his first day here, and now she was talking about him setting the world on fire?

“I—I don’t understand,” Max stammered, taking a step back. His voice wavered with disbelief, his heart racing. “How could I…?”

The witch’s expression remained unchanged, her voice cutting through his confusion with cold, unrelenting clarity. “Fate is never averted. Destiny is never set aside. Even in its disarray, you will do what must be done, Outlander. There is no try. You do.”

Her words were not a command, not even a challenge—they were spoken with a certainty that could not be denied. The air around her seemed to still, as though the world itself agreed with her.

Her voice softened and she extended a hand to Max “Come, you are injured and I would be dishonoured to let you die, I extend guest right to you.” The formal way she said the words gave him hope, but he feared it was also a test, in a subject he had never studied.

He reluctantly took it, the shock of her arrival had worn off and the pain in his body flared anew. Her skin was cold yet there was a softness to it.

“Thank you, my name is Maximilian, but please call me Max” he said almost by reflex, this was what you did right?

The moment the words left his mouth, the witch stiffened. Her fingers tightened around his hand, and for the briefest second, her entire demeanour shifted. She seemed... startled as if the simple utterance of his name had unsettled something deep within her. The fringe of her cloak swayed as she turned her face slightly, but her eyes remained hidden.

“Maximilian...” she whispered, almost tasting the word, her voice barely audible. Her hand lingered a moment longer before she released him, her gaze falling away from his.

“Names hold power here,” she said, her voice low and steady, as if imparting a crucial lesson. “Beware who you give yours to, Outlander. I am bound by guest right, and as such, I will protect you.” She paused for a heartbeat, her words carrying an edge of caution. “You may call me Ylva.”

Max blinked, processing the name, his mind still reeling from her earlier warning. Names had power? What kind of power? He glanced at her hand as she withdrew it, the coldness of her skin still lingering in his memory.

“Ylva” he repeated, the name feeling foreign and strange on his tongue. He looked at her with questions in his eyes, but he didn't have the words to ask them.

“I will take you by the secret ways, for we are in the land of Trolls, and lingering here is dangerous. Worse, the Kin of Fenrir call this place home. Now make haste it will not be far. “ with that she strode off, and Max scrambled after her, as fast as his battered body would take him.

For several minutes they walked in silence. max’s pain grunts the only sound. She scanned the horizon, the grassy plains stretched out, hills dotting the land, until she saw what she was looking for, and turned slightly.

She turned her head and spoke in a tone that made Max pay close attention. “The secret ways are dangerous to those who don’t know the path, stick close to me, do as I bid and all will be well.”

Striding towards what looked to Max to be random stones scattered about she oriented herself facing east.

“Come” She motioned for him to join her brusquely. Standing at the tallest of the stones, its surface covered in runic inscriptions, she reached out and traced several of them .

A faint glow emanated once she lifted her fingers away, and the air grew still. No wind blew, no insects buzzed. Dead silence.

As Max stepped onto the earth between the stones, his perception shifted, it felt like he had boarded a boat, gently rocking on the water, the stones were still however. He looked from the tallest stone left and right, and made a realisation. They weren't a jumble, the stones had been placed deliberately, and made a pattern they traced the hull of a longboat, the tallest one the prow.

Ylva touched a final rune and the world twisted, pulled, shrank, and expanded all at once.

Max’s knees buckled as the world twisted around him, his stomach lurching with every bizarre shift of reality. The earth felt like it was falling away beneath him, only to snap back, and his vision blurred in waves. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the urge to heave.

What the hell is happening? Max gritted his teeth, clutching his staff for balance, but even that felt unstable in his hands.

When he finally opened his eyes, the world had righted itself, but something was... off. The colours around them seemed muted, like a landscape painted in half-light. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, and the air felt heavy, as if the entire world was holding its breath.

Ylva stood unmoving, as steady as a pillar of stone, her face hidden beneath the fringe of her cloak. She seemed unaffected by the warping of reality, her calmness only deepening Max’s unease.

Max swallowed hard, his throat dry. “What... what just happened?” His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

Ylva didn’t answer immediately. She reached out, her fingers tracing the last rune, which still glowed faintly on the tallest stone. “We are beyond the paths of men now,” she said quietly. “The secret ways demand a toll from those who do not know them.”

Max sat on the earth that rocked like a boat yet was solid and still, he held onto his staff, head between his knees trying to not throw up.

She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “But you live. That is enough for now.”

“We sail the Sea of Nothingness, the Ginnungagap. Do not step out of the ship. Sit, we shall reach our destination soon”

Max gripped his staff tighter. He remembered his Grandfather regaling him with the tale of Gimnungagap how it was the primaeval void before creation, and how the gods fashioned the realms from Ymir’s body. Here they were sailing on dirt and stone through nothing. He was having a hard time processing this. It was all so new and wrong.

Just yesterday he’d been at the Renfaire with his friends now he was here. His breath was catching in his throat. What the hell am I doing here? This can't be happening. He told himself. It's just some long fucked-up dying dream. The EMTS are doing CPR and here I am having the most trippy hallucination of my life.

No matter how his thoughts raced, it didn't change the fact everything felt so real.

His gaze shifted to Ylva, standing unmoving at the prow. His voice cracked as he forced the question out/

“Where are we going?”

“My home.” Her reply was short, curt, and delivered in a tone that said hold your questions til we aren't sailing though a magic void of death