A warning? Absolutely.
This isn’t just mythology. It’s history—ourhistory.
The faces decorating these walls belong to murderers, conquerors, deceivers. They turned Giants into monsters, turned themselves into Gods, rewrote the past until even those who lived through it began to doubt what truly happened, a truth my father has yet to fully reveal to me.
He says the past is too painful. I call bullshit.
My father wants me to be reminded of the pain he will inflict onme: the way he expects me to inflict it on those who set off this war.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Every breath I take here is another reminder of what’s at stake—and what I can potentially lose if I don’t fall in line.
He may as well have pumped the scent of blood through the dorm.
My fingers twitch at my sides with the need to hit something. Instead, I swallow the absolute fury in my soul.
Reeve spreads his arms wide. “Looks like you’ve already noticed, but every floor has a theme. We chose this one after we watched that really sick movie about—”
“Don’t care,” I interrupt, even though I’m grateful for the distraction from the gravity of my situation. “Also.” I point at theThorposter, where he looks ridiculous, holding a giant hammer, golden braids running down his back. “He had red hair.”
We continue down the hall. I point at another picture and try not to flinch. “And Odin? He didn’t lose his eye right away. He willingly dropped it into Mímisbrunnr—Mimir’s Well—in exchange for wisdom of the past, present, and—yay for the world—” I gulp. Ha, true story. “The future.”
Reeve’s smile falters. Just for a second. What did I say?
“So you’re a comic book nerd? Or—God, please tell me you’re not a lit major. Those parties are always the worst.”
“Just because some of us can read doesn’t mean we can’t let our hair down, too.”
“Oh, lit majors know how to party,” he says, shaking his head. “They just can’t hold their liquor. Nothing kills a vibe like someone quoting Yeats before puking on your shoes.”
I snort despite myself. In another life, I might’ve liked Reeve. There’s something almost enviable about the way he doesn’t take anything seriously.
He looks up at the poster of Odin on his throne, faceunreadable.
A chill slides down my spine—and not the kind that inspires reverence. The kind that tells you to run before the God on the wall decides you’re prey.
“I wonder,” he muses.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Just saying, after gaining so much wisdom, if I knew all the secrets of the world, I don’t think I’d bother trying to save it.”
A deep, cold feeling twists in my stomach, instantly making me feel sick. “Why is that?”
“Because.” Reeve points for us to keep walking. “Knowing the secrets of the world means you want to save it from itself. But saving the world often enough while getting zip in return does nothing but make you bitter. It wakes you up and makes you realize the truth.”
“What’s the truth?”
“You should have always let it burn.” Reeve stops in front of a door withReywritten on the hanging white board in bubble letters, and he hands me a black packet. “Get your shit settled. Today’s likely the last day you’ll have entirely to yourself for a while.” He taps something on his iPad, then, as if moving through a list of items, continues. “All your meals are taken care of and will be at the dining hall, but they only serve until eleven at night, so make sure you don’t take a nap and forget. You’ll need your strength for your first semester.”
I almost laugh. I won’t be here long enough to worry about the upcoming semester.
“We do things different here. You’ll see.” Reeve eyes me up and down. “If you need me, I’m just one floor below you, where I can promptly escape through the front doors—just in case my brother sets the place on fire. Also, if you’re stuck in the building, I won’t save you, so you’ve been warned. Oh, and if you botherme over stupid shit, I’ll make your life an even bigger hell.”
Nice pep talk. Very encouraging.
I shift my weight and prod a bit. “Aric,” I say carefully, pulling my key card from my bag. “He seems angrier.”
Reeve exhales like the question alone is exhausting, tilting his head as if considering what to say. “He’s never angry, not in the way you’re thinking.” His fingers drum across the iPad. “Anger would be easier. It’s loud. Predictable. But Aric? He’s the kind of quiet that follows you, makes you paranoid, makes your skin crawl at times.” He sighs. “It’s like sleeping with one eye open next to a predator knowing that one wrong move”—he levels me with a stare—“will wake him.”
