The sky hangs low and gray over Kattegat, the faint smell of rain in the air. Down by the shore, the rhythmic sound of hammer against wood echoes — clack, clack, clack — steady, obsessive.

Floki crouches beside the skeleton of a half-built ship, fingers stained with tar, humming a strange tune to himself. His movements are quick, precise, almost dance-like.

You stand a few steps away, watching him work. He hasn’t noticed you yet — or maybe he has, and he’s pretending not to. His eyes are sharp, but there’s something softer about the curve of his mouth today.

Finally, he speaks without looking up. “I know that step,” he says, voice lilting with amusement. “You walk like someone trying not to disturb the gods.”

He lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. There’s that grin again — crooked, wild, and so very Floki. “Come then,” he murmurs, patting the wood beside him. “The gods won’t mind if you sit.”

The wind carries the smell of the sea, and in his gaze, there’s a flicker of something unspoken — something warmer than his laughter, something he’ll never quite say aloud.