*Erik*
“We are descendants of the God Thor, himself,” my father would always tell us with pride. I’m not sure I ever actually believed him. Still, seeing the necklace my father had made of the God’s hammer and wore daily is comforting.
He took me on my first raid as a boy, and we went to a monastery. He took a golden cross, a sign of the Christian God, and brought it back. It was melted down and formed into the hammer, adorned with red stones that were taken from the crown of the King. I had killed him.
“Someday, this will be yours,” Father would tell me. “You did well, Son.”
But then the curse came, and as my father was stuck as a wolf, the Mjolnir was never found.
“How…,” I stutter, not sure what to say. “Where…”
“Have you seen it before?” she asks me, and I realize she
