Rain hammered the city like a fist. Streetlights smeared across the pavement, every puddle a fractured mirror of neon and sky.
Ragnar Hale sat in his truck across from a corner gas station and listened to the storm. He'd told himself he only wanted coffee — anything to keep the road between him and the quiet that chased his thoughts.
Inside, fluorescent light hummed. A woman held her small boy close at the snack aisle. A man in a red work jacket thumbed through magazines. A teenager mopped near the coolers. Ordinary. Safe enough that for the first time in a long while, Ragnar's shoulders loosened.
The bell above the door rang.
Two men came in, soaked through, eyes sharp. The younger one trembled; the older moved with the cold economy of a man who'd done this before.
"Everyone down!" the older barked.
The cashier froze. The mop clattered to the floor. A man in a corner — mid-60s, damp collar, hands shaking — started to raise his palms.
The older robber's pistol cracked.
The man folded like paper; a dark bloom spread across his shirt. The woman screamed, burying her son against her chest. The air turned tight and metallic.
Ragnar's grin of muscle and habit snapped into place. He watched them for a breath — angles, lines of fire, exits, civilians — and knew the math. If you think they'll stop at money, you're wrong. He'd seen that face before. These men wouldn't walk away.
He moved.
Distance collapsed. The first round tore through his shoulder, hot and bright; he kept going. A second slammed into his ribs, another into his thigh. The younger robber fired again and missed; Ragnar shoulder-checked him into a display. Candy and plastic rained down. The younger gasped, tried to regain his gun — Ragnar wrenched it free and struck his head into the counter until he stopped moving.
The older freaked. He stepped out with practiced aim and found Ragnar closing. Two more shots punched into Ragnar's gut. Pain flared white and then dull. Blood warm and heavy between his fingers as he yanked the pistol up and slammed it into the older man's jaw. The gun fired once more in the struggle; then the robber dropped.
Silence fell like a blanket. Rain on the roof, a humming fluorescent line, the small, ragged sobs of the woman.
The cashier was shaking behind the counter but alive. The mop-kid crouched, face as pale as the tiles. One life was gone in a red circle near the cooler.
Ragnar stood on shaking knees, breath tearing in ragged pulls. He looked at the two bodies on the floor — one moving slow, one not at all. He tried to feel victory. He felt only the hot salt of blood along his hands and the pressure building inside his chest.
He had been shot more times than he wanted counted. Shoulder, ribs, thigh, gut — enough. The world narrowed. He knew, with a terrible clarity, that he was dying.
He didn't panic. He had never panicked in a place where things mattered. Instead he stumbled out of the store, boots slipping on wet concrete, and found the truck where he had left it idling. He opened the driver's door and slid down onto the seat like a cracked man folding into himself.
Outside, rain beat the windshield. Inside, the engine ticked. Blood pooled beneath him and he pressed a hand so hard against his side the leather grew damp. Each breath felt thinner, like rope fraying in his chest.
He let himself listen to the city: a siren far off, tires hissing on wet tarmac. He looked down at his hands and counted scars he knew by sight — the old grooves and the new — and thought of names that would never make it to his lips. The thought came light and clear: This is how it ends.
He braced one hand on the wheel and let the waiting begin.
Footsteps padded up behind him on slick pavement. He turned his head. The woman — tear-streaked, hair plastered to her face — the child clinging to her side, and the man in the red work jacket stood under the neon awning, soaked through. The cashier had come with them; the mop-kid hovered by the doorway.
The man in the jacket's voice trembled. "Thank you. You saved us. You—"
The woman's hand found Ragnar's wrist, palm to the fading throb of his pulse. "Please," she sobbed, "don't—stay with us. You saved my boy. Please stay."
Ragnar's lips curved into a ghost of a smile. His breath fogged the glass. "You two… keep each other safe."
The boy's fingers clung tighter. "Don't go, mister!"
"Protect your mom," Ragnar whispered. "That's your job now."
The older man took a step forward. "We called an ambulance, it's coming—"
Ragnar's eyes softened. "Good." A pause. "Get them inside."
The boy pressed his forehead to Ragnar's knuckles. The woman hesitated, then obeyed. They went, leaving him to the rain and the hum of the engine.
Ragnar leaned back, eyes half-closed. The world dulled around the edges. He thought of the men he'd lost, of the promise he'd made that no one else would die if he could help it. He'd kept that, at least.
The rain blurred into white.
---
> "You were not meant to die."
The voice was everywhere and nowhere. Ragnar opened his eyes to a horizonless hall of light. Twelve thrones surrounded him, each occupied by a being of power that bent the air.
One, radiant in gold, spoke first. "You charged into death for others. Fearless. Unordered."
Another, cloaked in shadow: "A mortal who kills to save, yet claims no glory."
A third: "His death was not written. The thread slipped."
Ragnar stood straight out of habit. "If this is judgment, make it quick."
Soft laughter rolled through the hall.
"No judgment," said the eldest. "Only choice. Fade into peace… or live again in a world beyond your own. You will keep your memories, your strength, and be marked by four of us."
Flame flared across his chest — War, granting the gift of combat instinct.
A silver mist traced his temple — Fate, granting warning of danger.
Violet light circled his wrist — Space, granting the endless storehouse.
Then a fourth figure, robed in pale blue script, extended a hand.
> "And my blessing," the god said, voice calm as turning pages. "Tongues of Astern. You shall speak and write all words of the world you enter, so ignorance will not chain you."
Symbols of light sank into Ragnar's throat and eyes, vanishing like breath into air.
He felt the weight of all four settle into him.
"If I refuse?" he asked.
"Then you fade," answered the shadowed one.
He exhaled slowly. "Not yet."
The twelve rose, voices woven into thunder and wind.
> "Then rise, warrior. Step into Astern. Let honor guide your path."
Light consumed him whole.