Norway. 1937.
The mist clung to the fjord like an unshakable ghost, blanketing the rocky cliffs and icy waters in a suffocating shroud. The only sound was the faint whisper of wind threading through the towering pines, as though the land itself held its breath.
Within a small cabin perched precariously on the edge of the fjord, a soft clatter broke the silence - - the mechanical rhythm of a typewriter, steady yet urgent, like a heart racing against time.
Professor Ingrid Halvorsen sat hunched over her desk, her fingers striking the keys with a desperation that belied her calm demeanor. Around her lay the chaos of a life consumed by discovery: brittle scrolls covered in spidery runes, ancient stones carved with symbols older than memory, and books whose pages threatened to dissolve under the weight of time.
At the center of the desk, glowing faintly in the flickering light of an oil lamp, was her prize. A fragment of crystal, jagged yet pristine, etched with patterns that seemed alive, pulsing faintly as if in response to her touch. The Shard of Asgard.
Her fingers paused. The cabin fell silent once more, save for the low whistle of the wind. Something had changed, though she couldn’t say how. She straightened, her gaze darting toward the window, the frost on the glass distorting the outside world into ghostly shapes.
Then she heard it. The low growl of engines.
Her chest tightened as headlights pierced through the mist, their beams sweeping across the fjord. Trucks - - large, hulking shadows - - rolled to a stop just beyond the cabin, their tires crunching against the snow. Men poured out, their movements swift, precise, and unmistakably military.
The swastika emblazoned on the sides of the vehicles glinted in the cold moonlight. Ingrid’s breath caught. It was too soon. She had hoped for more time. She rose from her desk, her movements quick but steady, and reached for a small leather satchel hanging from the back of her chair.
The Shard pulsed brighter now, casting her face in an otherworldly glow as she slid it into a hidden compartment beneath the desk. Her hands lingered on the edge of the drawer for a moment, trembling with a mixture of fear and reverence. The first shout echoed outside. German, sharp and commanding.
Ingrid grabbed a dagger from a shelf above her desk, the blade more ceremonial than practical, but it would do. She stepped back into the shadows of the cabin just as the door splintered inward, a violent crash that sent shards of wood flying.
The man who entered first was tall and lean, his black uniform immaculate, his presence cold and calculating. His eyes, pale as the northern sky, scanned the room with the detachment of a predator sizing up its prey. He was followed by armed soldiers, their rifles raised, their boots leaving heavy prints in the snow-dusted floor. “Ingrid Halvorsen,” the man said, his voice calm, almost polite, as though he were greeting an old friend.
“You’ve been most helpful to us already. But now, I’m afraid your time here is finished.”
She stood her ground, gripping the dagger tightly. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. The Shard isn’t a relic for your Reich. It’s a warning.” The man tilted his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. He stepped forward, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, as his men began tearing through the room.
“A warning,” he repeated, as though savoring the word. His gaze fell on the hidden compartment, where one of his soldiers was already prying it open. “No, Professor. Warnings are for the weak. This... this is power.”
The soldier withdrew the Shard, its glow illuminating the room in an ethereal light. For a moment, even the Nazi soldiers hesitated, their faces pale in the crystal’s otherworldly presence. The professor lunged. A futile move, perhaps, but her instincts refused to let her stand idle. The soldier nearest to her grabbed her wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency until the dagger fell to the floor.
"You don’t understand,” she hissed, her voice trembling with fury and fear. “The gods will not allow this.” The man stepped closer, taking the Shard in his hands. Its light danced across his face, casting his sharp features in an almost divine radiance. “Let the gods try,” he said simply, turning toward the door as his men dragged Ingrid outside.
She screamed in Old Norse as the soldiers tossed a torch onto the cabin floor. Flames erupted, licking hungrily at the wooden walls, swallowing the remnants of her life’s work. The convoy rolled away, its silhouettes disappearing into the mist, leaving only the burning cabin and the acrid scent of ash behind.
Princeton. 1937.
The Princeton campus hummed with the life of mid-autumn. Students in crisp coats hurried between buildings, clutching books and papers as golden leaves swirled in the brisk wind. Inside a packed lecture hall, the air buzzed with anticipation as a man stood at the chalkboard, sketching with broad, confident strokes.
"Now,” said Indiana Jones, turning to face the room, “what do we learn from this?”
He gestured to the rough diagram of an ancient artifact - - a ceremonial urn. A hand shot up in the front row. “That archaeology isn’t just about finding treasure?” The class chuckled, and Indy allowed a small smile.
“Exactly. It’s about preserving history, understanding cultures, and sometimes, figuring out what not to open.”
The laughter grew, and Indy leaned back against the desk, scanning the room with an almost restless energy. He was good at this, sure, but the lecture hall wasn’t where he belonged. Not really. The door creaked open at the back of the room. Marcus Brody slipped inside, his expression unusually grim. He carried a thick envelope under one arm, and his steps were purposeful as he approached the front.
Indy’s brow furrowed as the class began to gather their things. “All right, that’s enough for today. Don’t forget your essays - - due Monday.” The students filed out, leaving Indy and Marcus alone. "Marcus,” Indy said, straightening. “What’s going on?”
He grabbed his jacket and fedora from the desk, his jaw tightening.
“This just arrived,” Marcus said. His tone was serious, and Indy felt a flicker of unease.
“What is this?” Indy asked, pulling open the envelope. Marcus hesitated, watching Indy scan the first page - - a short, urgent letter written in Ingrid Halvorsen’s neat handwriting.
"She’s missing, Indy,” Marcus said quietly.
Indy’s head snapped up. “Missing? What are you talking about?” "Disappeared a week ago,” Marcus replied. “The last anyone heard from her was this letter, sent from Norway. No one knows where she is - - or what happened.” Indy set the letter down, his brow furrowed. Ingrid Halvorsen wasn’t the type to just vanish. She was one of the most brilliant and stubborn people he knew, a woman who could outthink even the most seasoned scholars and navigate the harshest terrains. For her to disappear wasn’t just strange - - it was impossible. The letter was short, cryptic even:
Indiana,
If anything happens to me, you must finish what I started. You’re the only one I trust.
“Finish what?” Indy muttered. “This doesn’t make sense. Was she working on something dangerous?” Marcus shook his head. “We don’t know. All we have are scraps of her notes - - runes, sketches, a few translations. They don’t form a clear picture.” He pulled out a second envelope and handed it to Indy.
“These were sent with the letter. Maybe they mean something to you.” Indy unfolded the papers, his eyes scanning a series of jagged runes and rough sketches of artifacts. One drawing caught his attention - - a fragment of something crystalline, its sharp edges glowing faintly in the margins of her sketch.
“Runes,” Indy said thoughtfully. “Norse?”
Marcus nodded. “Ingrid specialized in Viking mythology and Nordic artifacts. She was obsessed with the old legends. But she was always careful - - she never let her research put her in harm’s way.”
Indy’s lips pressed into a thin line. That didn’t sound like the Ingrid he knew. “Where was she last seen?” “Somewhere in the fjords near Tromsø. She’d been working out of a small cabin there for months.” “Alone?”
“She had a colleague - - someone from the university in Oslo - - but no one’s heard from him either.”
Indy leaned back against the desk, his fingers brushing over the papers. He couldn’t shake the unease creeping into his chest. Ingrid wasn’t just a colleague - - she was a friend. If she was in trouble, it wasn’t just academic curiosity that would drive him to find her.
“She’s in over her head,” Indy said finally. “Or someone’s made sure she is.” Marcus sighed. “I thought you might say that.”
Indy folded the papers, sliding them back into the envelope. His hand lingered on the edge of the desk, his jaw tightening.
“Looks like I’m going to Norway,” he said.