A bitter wind howled through the cavern as Kael stared at the massive slab of ice, its veins of pulsing black light twisting like tendrils seeking release. The air around them crackled with unseen power, and the oppressive weight of something ancient and bound pressed against Kael’s chest. The warband stood tense and ready, their hands tight on their weapons, but there was an unspoken understanding among them—if this seal broke, they would not be facing an ordinary enemy. The Warden of the Abyss turned, its deep-set eyes locking onto Kael. “The Dökkálfar are near. They have come to finish what they started.” Vigdis adjusted the grip on his sword. “Then let’s not wait for them to strike first.” Kael gave a sharp nod. “Freydis, take half the warband and secure the entrance. No one gets through.” She grinned, rolling her shoulders. “Understood.” As she and her warriors moved to position, Kael turned his gaze back to the ice prison. The black fractures were spreading. The

The Abyss had stirred, but now it had erupted. A monstrous presence coiled within the abyss, its form obscured by a void so deep that even the gods dared not peer into its depths. But Loki had no fear. He watched as the ancient prison shattered, releasing what had been bound for eons—a creature whispered about in forgotten legends. The Shadowfiend emerged, its form shifting like liquid night, an abomination of tendrils and jagged fangs. Where it moved, the ground withered, and the air thickened with dread. Loki stepped forward, amusement flickering in his gaze. "You have slumbered long enough," he murmured, tilting his head as the beast turned to him, its hollow, ember-like eyes blazing with an insatiable hunger. "Now, let us remind these realms why they once feared the dark." Far from the abyss, Kael sat by the dying embers of their campfire, his warband resting in uneasy silence. The escape had left them battered, but something far worse gnawed at his thoughts. The runestone

The fires of Svanhild’s Fortress burned steadily, their glow casting flickering shadows on the gathered warriors. The air was thick with the scent of burning resin, the bitter tang of iron, and the quiet murmur of voices awaiting what was to come. The Hersir of the Shieldmaidens stood at the center of the courtyard, her presence commanding. In her hand, she held a ceremonial dagger, its hilt wrapped in wolf-hide, its blade etched with ancient runes of the oath-bound. Eira stood before her, shoulders squared, eyes unwavering. She had trained among the shieldmaidens, molded by their discipline, tempered by their trials. Now, she stood at the threshold of a new purpose. The warband gathered around them, Kael at the forefront, his face unreadable. He had seen Eira’s journey from the moment she was brought to Svanhild’s Fortress to this very moment. He had watched her strength grow, her resilience sharpened like a well-forged blade. Now, it was time to claim her place. The Hersir rai

Kael and his warband stepped through the shimmering veil of the runestone, emerging into the vast and solemn hall of Hliðskjálf. The chamber was eerily silent, its once-glorious banners of Asgard absent, leaving only the haunting echoes of forgotten divinity. The air pulsed with ancient power, a hum of energy that prickled against Kael’s skin. Yet no gods welcomed them—not at first. Eira inhaled sharply beside him. “Something watches us,” she murmured, her fingers tightening around her blade. “Not an enemy, but not an ally either.” Then, the silence broke. A low, resonant hum filled the air, and the shadows stirred. From the heart of the hall, Odin’s presence materialized—his form emerging as if woven from the very fabric of fate. His single, piercing eye gleamed with unfathomable knowledge, and though his expression was calm, there was no warmth in his gaze. Thor stood to Odin’s right, Mjölnir resting against his palm, his jaw set in grim determination. Freyja lingered in the

The war table inside Skarnholm’s great hall bore the weight of steel and intent. By torchlight, Kael and Ulfvar stood over a detailed map of the realms—its valleys, strongholds, and cursed lands marked in runes and faded ink. “Our scouts saw the corruption spread eastward,” Ulfvar said, fingers tapping a jagged ridge etched into the parchment. “If it festers there any longer, the trade roads will fall.” Kael nodded. “Then we strike first. Swift and sharp. Before Loki force grows bold.” Ulfvar’s warbands readied with practiced precision—skalds sang old songs while steel was sharpened. The banners of Skarnholm flew high, defiant against the gray sky. Kael stood among them, his sword strapped across his back, and Eira by his side—her eyes scanning the horizon, silent but alert. They marched under frost and thunder, their breath rising like ghosts. When the enemy came, it wasn’t men—it was something twisted. Creatures bathed in fire and shadow, their forms unrecognizable beneath