The harbor lay silent beneath the weight of the mist, the air thick with the scent of salt and the ghostly hum of distant waves. Ships rocked gently in the dark waters, their masts piercing the sky like the ribs of long-forgotten vessels lost to time. But this was no ordinary harbor. Travelers spoke of strange occurrences in these waters, of ships that sailed in at dusk and vanished before dawn.
The old mariners called it Gjallarhavn, the Veiled Harbor, a place where the living and the dead brushed shoulders beneath the fog. They whispered of Hel’s ships, silent and spectral, drifting through the mist on their way to the underworld. Some believed that on certain nights, when the sky burned pink and gold, the veil between realms grew thin, and those who set sail might find themselves lost not at sea, but beyond it.
A lone boat, its hull dark and worn with age, floated at the edge of the docks, lanterns flickering in the damp air. Was it bound for distant shores, or for the realm of the gods? No one knew for sure. But in Tromso’s harbor, the mist does not only conceal—it beckons.
