Chapter 1 - Shot Fired

  Through the high-powered scope of my HK417, the world narrows to a series of controlled movements—a steady rhythm of breath and stillness. Below, Norwegian diplomats exchange words over polished tables, their body language polite yet tense. On the surface, everything appears calm. Too calm. The air carries a static charge, like the prelude to a storm, a subtle wrongness that prickles at my instincts.

  Absence of the normal, presence of the abnormal—I’ve always trusted that instinct. It keeps me sharp, even when the rest of the world seems to relax.

  Another sweep, methodical this time. There. Movement—too careful, too deliberate. A man hovers at the edge of the courtyard, cloaked in shadows. He’s waiting. The way he clutches his jacket close feels off.

  Finger stays off the trigger, grip steady. Rules of engagement are clear: no shot unless there’s a confirmed threat. He’s tracked carefully, every motion scrutinized for the telltale sign that will tip the balance.

  A slight shift adjusts my prone position. The weight of my gear presses into my chest, vest snug, rifle firm against my shoulder—standard for someone my size. At 6’5”, taking up too much space is a given, but behind the rifle, everything fits.

  I thumb the comms, keeping my voice calm. “All call signs, possible hostile spotted in the northeast quad. This is R658, potential threat—awaiting confirmation.”

  I take a deep breath, steadying myself. I can’t take the shot until I’m certain. Seconds drag on. Then, he shifts. Something metallic glints from under his coat, and his hand moves toward it—fast.

  That’s it. No more waiting.

  “Confirmed hostile. Taking the shot.”

  I settle into position, every motion smooth as I align the crosshairs with his chest, aiming for center mass. My breathing steadies, each inhale and exhale measured and controlled. Inhale… hold… exhale. My finger rests on the trigger, feeling its tension, my aim leading just slightly—waiting for the exact moment he lines up with my sight.

  One last breath out… and squeeze.

  The rifle kicks against my shoulder, the suppressed crack of the shot swallowed by distance. For a half-second, nothing happens—then a fine mist blooms in the cold air, crimson against the gray stone. The man crumples, legs giving out as if his strings were cut. No screams. No second chances. Just silence, except for my own steady breathing, still locked in the rhythm of the shot. One life taken. Mission secure.

  ***

  Ten days since I returned from active duty, and the dream still haunts me—cold steel slicing through the air, only to be stopped by a silver wing. The impact rings sharp, metal on metal, before everything fades to white.

  The doctor called it PTSD, said my mind was processing my first kill, but that explanation feels hollow. It feels more like a memory than trauma. Something more—just out of reach, like a puzzle piece that won’t fit no matter how many times I turn it over in my mind.

  The silver wing reminds me of Skuld, the Valkyrie of fate—a figure from a picture my grandmother gave me as a child. Even now, the memory stirs something deep, a flicker of warmth against the unease. That picture always carried a quiet strength, a reassurance I never fully understood. Maybe that’s why it’s stayed with me all these years.

  I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside, and drag myself out of bed.

  In the dim bathroom, only a faint glow filters through the window. My eyes drift to the mirror—where an unfamiliar girl stares back.

  Startled, my pulse jumps as I turn, half-expecting to find her behind me. But the room is empty. Yet, when I look back, she’s still there.

  Black hair on top, silver underneath, with piercing blue eyes that seem to look straight through me. She’s strong, beautiful—youthful, yet carrying the presence of a warrior.

  Something in me says it’s safe—like there’s a rightness to the strangeness, an unsettling certainty that she should exist. But why is she in my reflection instead of my own rugged features? Maybe it’s the aftereffect of the dreams… or maybe I’m just losing my mind.

  I shake my head and step closer. My hand lifts toward the glass, but she doesn’t move. I flick the light on.

  For a split second, my reflection is just that—my own face, nothing more. The moment stretches, confusion settling in, the surreal weight of it pressing down. Then, she’s there again.

  It doesn’t feel entirely wrong. It’s like I know her. Almost.

  I close my eyes for a moment, pushing aside the confusion and that unshakable sense of… something just out of reach. Exhaling slowly, I turn toward the shower, twisting the knob until the water is just the right temperature.

  The soft hiss fills the room as I step under the warm stream, letting it wash away the last traces of the dream. Heat works into my muscles, easing the tightness, loosening the tension in my chest. For a while, I just stand there, letting the warmth sink in. The memory of the girl in the mirror fades—if only for now.

  By the time I’m dressed, the encounter feels distant, like a passing shadow. In the kitchen, the rich scent of coffee offers a small sense of normalcy. I pour a cup, the heat seeping into my hands, grounding me, yet the image of her still lingers at the edges of my mind.

  I take my time, letting each sip settle. It’s one of those small moments that steadies me, a ritual amid the chaos of everything else. Steam curls from the mug as I lean against the counter, watching the early morning light filter through the windows. It feels good to pause—to just be for a minute before the day catches up with me.

  Eventually, I set the cup down in the sink, give it a quick rinse, and glance at the clock. Time to hit the gym. I grab my bag, pack my uniform, and head for the door.

  The cool morning air greets me, crisp and refreshing. Approaching my oversized pickup truck, I toss my bag into the back seat before climbing into the cab. The engine rumbles to life, a low, steady growl cutting through the quiet.

  I find myself smiling. The truck makes me feel… normal, for once. At 6’5”, the world never seems built for me—doorways too low, chairs too tight, always having to squeeze into spaces. It’s a constant, low-level irritation I’ve learned to live with. But in the truck, everything fits. No hunching, no awkward adjusting—just comfort. A small relief, but one I’ll take.

  I roll down the window as I ease toward the front gate, joining the slow-moving line of vehicles waiting for security clearance. The guard greets me, his voice cutting through the hum of the morning.

  “ID card?”

  “Morning,” I reply, handing it over.

  He gives it a quick glance, then nods. “Thank you, Sir.” He waves me through, his tone casual—just another piece of the routine.

  After squeezing the truck into a standard-sized spot, I take a moment to adjust my beret in the rearview mirror. The reflection isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but it’ll do.

  “Good morning, Corporal,” a familiar voice calls from behind.

  I turn to find Johanson standing there, his easy smile making it a little easier to shake off the morning fog.

  “Johanson,” I say, returning the smile—though it probably doesn’t land quite right. He gives me a knowing look before chuckling. I pop the door open and step out, reaching into the back seat to grab my duffel bag.

  “Some mornings hit harder than others. Had a few beers last night—you know how it is.”

  He nods, leaning against the truck. “Don’t worry about it. We all have days like that.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  There’s a brief pause, and I wonder if today’s the day I say something about the dreams. But I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I force a grin. “Heading to the gym to burn off said beers. You joining?”

  He shakes his head, still chuckling. “Maybe next time. Oh, and by the way—joys of being on duty, right? Not giving you shit, but your family’s been trying to get in touch. Got a call from the duty room—pretty sure it was your mum. Might want to give her a ring when you get a chance.”

  I nod, raising a hand in acknowledgment. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

  That twinge of guilt kicks in again. They’re my family—I should be answering their calls. But sometimes, I just need to disconnect. I have a habit of flicking my phone to Do Not Disturb when I need space, even if it means missing a few calls.

  When I finally check, the screen lights up with missed calls and messages. The guilt hits harder.

  I pause, trying to remember—when was the last time I actually called them? The seven-hour time difference between Norway and Japan doesn’t help. Even being somewhat close to my grandmother doesn’t change the fact that we’re living in two different countries.

  Exhaling, I pull out my phone and scroll past the unread messages before hitting call on Grandma’s contact.

  “Moshi moshi.”

  “Hi, Grandma. It’s Riku.”

  “Hey, son, it’s been a while…”

  “…Mom?” That catches me off guard. Has it really been that long? Last time we talked was… six months ago, after a few drinks and some vague talk about life.

  “Hi, Mom. Hvordan har du det? How are you?” I ask in Norwegian, slipping into habit without thinking.

  “We have been better. Your grandmother was in an accident and is recovering in the hospital. Might be time for you to come home,” she replies in Japanese, her tone level, measured—like she rehearsed it beforehand.

  Shit. The Army isn’t exactly flexible with last-minute leave, but I’ll figure something out.

  “Okay, leave it to me. Vi snakkes snart. Bye.” I start to say, then hesitate, realizing I should switch to Japanese. “Uh… makasete kudasai,” I fumble, the words stiff after two years of barely using the language. It’s like I’m translating in my head, and it doesn’t come out quite right.

  A pause—just long enough to feel it—then she exhales. “Alright. See you soon.”

  Fortunately, my current boss isn’t a complete arsehole. Sure, he’s a fresh-faced LT, but he’s helpful when it counts. Then again, Grandma in the hospital is a solid enough reason to push for leave. A few emails, the necessary hoops to jump through, and I’ve got the green light.

  After that, it’s just a matter of grabbing a plane ticket. A couple of calls, not much hassle, and I’m on a flight—crammed into the economy section. It’s kind of like parking the truck, except this time it’s my ass wedged between two equally uncomfortable passengers.

  At least we all don’t want to be here, so… a win for fitting in with society, yes?

  I doze off for a bit, only to be woken by the usual offering of nuts, tea, coffee, and the inevitable, “Chicken or beef?” from the flight attendant. She’s a cutie—definitely spends a sizable chunk of her paycheck on hair treatments.

  Almost seven hours later, most of me is awake, but my legs are anything but. Economy seats are tight for everyone, and the guy next to me gives a sympathetic glance now and then—like we’re both enduring the same uncomfortable ride in silent solidarity. One of those miseries that doesn’t need words.

  The tires rattle against the asphalt, and relief sets in. I grab my old duffel bag from the overhead, slinging it over my shoulder.

  It’s finally time to see Grandma. I hope she’s okay.

  Thirty minutes later, I step out of the taxi in front of the hospital, running a hand through my hair to shake off the travel fatigue. Hospitals always make things feel heavier than they need to, but I’m hoping this visit stays simple—just see Grandma, handle whatever needs handling, and be done with it.

  I pull out my phone, staring at Mom’s contact for a second. I hesitate. No point in putting this off.

  With a quick breath, I hit call. It rings twice before she picks up.

  “Hey, Mom. I’m out front. Want to meet me in the waiting area?”

  There’s a pause—faint voices in the background—then she responds. “I’m on my way now. See you soon.”

  The call ends. I stare at the screen for a moment, that familiar awkwardness creeping in. Talking to her has always been like this. Stilted. Careful.

  With a shrug, I settle the strap of my bag over my shoulder and head inside to wait.

  A few minutes later, she steps into the room. Late 40s, and she still looks great—fit and strong, like someone half her age. The fine lines at the corners of her deep blue eyes are the only real hint of time catching up. A blend of our Norwegian and Japanese heritage.

  “Hi, Mother. I wish it were under better circumstances, but… Grandma?”

  The shift back to Japanese feels clumsy after so long, like my brain’s still stuck in Norwegian. She frowns slightly at my phrasing but doesn’t comment, just shakes her head.

  “Riku, you look like you haven’t slept in a week,” she says, her tone carrying both concern and a touch of sharpness. “I get that you’re probably exhausted from the flight, but you could’ve called. I would’ve taken you home to clean up before coming here.”

  “Mother is kind. Even so, I wouldn’t want to impose while you’re already looking after Grandma. Please, take a break and go home if you need to.”

  She gives me a thoughtful look, my tone caught somewhere between a harsh remark and a sigh.

  “Mom, sorry, seriously. I don’t want to fight. Things feel tense right now, and this probably isn’t the best time for a deep conversation. I hope we can talk soon. But right now, I’m here to see Grandma.” I keep my tone even, trying not to add to the weight of the moment.

  She exhales but doesn’t push. Instead, she takes a seat in one of the spare plastic chairs. “Room 26, left-hand side, down the hall.”

  I nod and start walking, reading the room numbers on the small brass plates above the doors.

  Finally, I reach room 26. I pause before stepping inside.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I say softly as I walk into her hospital room.

  She’s propped up in bed, a small smile easing onto her face. Despite the sterile setting, there’s a warmth in her eyes that makes everything else fade away.

  Grandma studies me for a moment, then hums. “You’ve grown taller again, haven’t you?”

  I sigh, nodding. “Yeah.”

  She chuckles, soft and familiar. “So, you’re becoming more like the warrior you always wanted to be.”

  My thoughts drift to the picture of Skuld. I give a small shrug. “Sort of.”

  She raises an eyebrow, expectant but patient, waiting for me to say more.

  I hesitate, searching for the right words. “There are… differences.”

  Her smile deepens, a quiet understanding settling between us. She doesn’t press, just nods.

  “Honestly,” I murmur, running a hand through my short hair, “that picture of Skuld… she’s just— I don’t know. Strength and beauty, all in one.”

  Grandma’s smile deepens, a glint of something wise and comforting in her gaze. “I’m glad you see that.”

  I shake my head at her expression—you’d think I was complimenting her.

  The conversation drifts into small talk, and before I know it, time has slipped by. A nurse steps in, letting us know visiting hours are over.

  I lean down and kiss Grandma’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She waves it off casually. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be home in the morning.”

  I nod and step out, making my way back to the waiting area. It’s empty. Pulling out my phone, I call Mom. She picks up on the second ring.

  “Hey, where are you?”

  “I’m in the car out front,” she says.

  “Okay, on my way.”

  I hang up and step outside. The cool air greets me as I spot Mom in the driver’s seat, her window rolled down, lost in thought. A small part of me is relieved that she waited; the tension eases—just a little. I’m not sure how I should feel in this moment, so I settle for quiet.

  I open the door and slide into the passenger seat. The first thing I do is adjust the seat, pushing it all the way back to fit my frame.

  “Thanks for waiting, Mom,” I say, offering a small smile.

  She glances over, her expression softening. “Of course. Let’s get you home.”

  The drive is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Neither of us feels the need to fill the silence. Small steps, I think, as the city fades into the distance.

  When we finally pull up to the house, Mom steps out and opens the door, hesitating slightly, as if waiting for me. I nod at her, some of that old tension fading as I follow her inside.

  Walking into my old bedroom feels like stepping back in time. Nothing has changed. My gaze drifts over the familiar walls, covered with posters of goddesses from both Norse and Eastern mythologies. But it’s the picture in the center, the one of Skuld, that pulls me in.

  I step closer, brushing my fingers along the frame. Skuld, the Valkyrie. Strikingly beautiful. Powerful. Even now, her presence dominates the room.

  I remember coming home from school one day, tears threatening to spill over. The kids had been relentless, picking at the one thing that set me apart—my blue eyes, too bright, too different in a sea of darker shades. A legacy from our great-grandmother in Norway. At that age, different didn’t feel special. It felt like a target.

  Grandma noticed right away. She never asked what was wrong—she never had to. Instead, she just gave me a quiet smile and motioned for me to follow her.

  We went up to the attic, the scent of old wood and dust thick in the air as we climbed the creaky stairs. “I’ve got something to show you,” she murmured, leading me through the stacks of books and forgotten heirlooms.

  Nestled among the clutter, she pulled out a framed picture and placed it in my hands.

  I stared at it, captivated. The woman in the picture was fierce, her blue eyes just like mine, but filled with a strength I hadn’t yet found.

  “This is Skuld,” Grandma said, her voice warm. “She’s a Valkyrie—a warrior of fate.”

  I stared at the picture, something in me latching onto this mythical figure. I wish I could be like her, I whispered.

  Grandma had just smiled and pulled me into a hug. “You already are, honey buns. You have the heart of a warrior.”

  I smile at the memory, warmth spreading through me. Am I a Norse otaku? Nah—I have gainful employment, so it’s fine.

  “She’s beautiful, you know.”

  My mother’s voice cuts through my thoughts, soft but carrying something I can’t quite place. I turn, half-expecting her gaze to be on the framed picture of Skuld.

  “Who?” I ask, caught off guard.

  She’s not looking at the picture. Instead, her gaze is fixed on the tall mirror in the corner of the room, where only a faint shadow remains of my reflection. A quiet shift in her expression—something close to relief, maybe understanding—crosses her face, like she’s seeing something long-awaited finally come to pass.

  “The girl in the mirror,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.

  I stare at her, my thoughts coming up blank. Slowly, my gaze drifts back to the mirror—where the girl stands, watching.

  As if she’s always been there. As if she’s been waiting.

  It’s not just a reflection anymore. It’s something more—tangible, like she’s becoming real.

  A chill settles over me.

  She studies the mirror for a moment longer, like she’s searching for something in the girl’s features. Her smile holds both happiness and sorrow, settling into something in between before she finally nods.

  A quiet affirmation.