Meanwhile, in a place unknown to most.
In a room resembling a stone fortress, a furnace blazed fiercely. An emblem of an eagle clutching a wreath, with a swastika at its center, gleamed in the firelight.
The Third Reich had fallen, but not all its followers perished on the battlefield.
The mustached leader had taken his own life in his bunker. Yet some, still clinging to hope for their nation, had fled and gone into hiding.
A bespectacled man worked at a desk in the chilly office, his fingers stiff as sticks but signing documents and issuing approvals with practiced ease.
With the mustached leader gone, he was the new Führer of the empire. His choice now was to ally with Hydra, bereft of the Red Skull, to weather this winter.
The sound of military boots echoed down the corridor. A short figure entered, his face concealed by a purple mask, like a lampshade come to life.
But no one dared underestimate him now.
Rumors claimed he'd orchestrated the Red Skull's demise, betraying him to the SSR and Captain America, though no proof existed. Even the Red Skull's loyalists couldn't topple Baron Zemo on mere suspicion.
"Ten thousand soldiers? Do you realize what you're asking? We have twenty thousand troops left, and you want half for a secret mission? Baron, you're testing my patience."
Young Zemo's face was hidden, his expression unreadable, but his tone suggested he was prepared.
He placed a wooden box on the desk, opening it to reveal its contents to the bespectacled man.
"Fortunately, you're a patient man, Commander Himmler. This is our shared luck."
The box held flat, pebble-sized stones, dark and unremarkable at first glance. But under the firelight, their uneven surfaces revealed intricate carvings resembling bird claws.
"Good heavens, these are…" Himmler stood, leaning closer to inspect the box.
Zemo plucked one stone and placed it in his hand for a better look.
"Indeed, Commander. Legendary artifacts."
Himmler adjusted his glasses, examining the stone closely. "No mistake. Runes from the Eddas, tied to a spatial access point. Without it, these runes are useless."
Zemo took back the rune, securing it in the box. In the firelight, his hood glowed red.
"I mentioned luck because I've just located such an access point."
Himmler, a collector of occult artifacts for the mustached leader, was an expert in such matters. Zemo's words instantly clarified the implications.
He sat back down, grabbing the phone without hesitation.
"Mobilize the troops. Assemble ten thousand armed SS soldiers immediately. Prepare to follow Baron Helmut Zemo's command."
Hanging up, he looked at the young Zemo, far more cunning than his father.
A glint of firelight flashed across Himmler's round glasses, as if he glimpsed hope.
"Baron, you have your army. But you know what this means, don't you?"
Zemo raised a fist in Hydra's salute to the fatherland.
"Of course. Deutschland über alles!"
Amid roaring flames, a gaunt, shriveled figure crouched on a throne, watching souls in his eternal realm endure endless torment.
Hellfire surged into the souls, inflating them into giant blisters that burst, only to reform anew.
The crackling pops formed a rhythmic symphony, and he swayed to its tune, delighted.
"Your Majesty, your letter."
A round, fleshy demon hopped over rivers of lava, sweating profusely as it handed a parchment to the throne's occupant.
"Fool, this isn't a letter! It's a contract. Let's see… oh, quite interesting."
The king's shrill voice berated his minion. He casually smothered the creature's head with molten lava, ignoring its writhing as he focused on the parchment.
After a moment, a smile crept across his red face.
"Gather the Maids of Destruction. Give them an army. I need these daughters of Bor to handle some real business."
The writhing demon scrambled away, fleeing into the distance.
"As you command, my supreme Majesty."
"The World Tree is ablaze."
In a dark palace lit only by ghostly flames, two figures stood in the vast, empty hall.
A woman reclined on a throne, while a long-haired man stood below the steps.
He'd received word from spirits that the flames signaled Ragnarök's approach and immediately informed his queen.
"Not yet. The dead rise only when black rain falls from the sky."
The queen, barefoot and clad in thin green gauze, seemed unhurried.
From behind her throne, a massive furry head emerged, its green-glowing eyes marking it as a giant wolf.
She reached into its mouth, stroking its teeth—the only place in this realm with a different temperature.
It was colder there.
Her gaze pierced through the palace gates, surveying her dark kingdom with calm, distant eyes.
It wasn't time. Fenrir was meant for the Wolf Winter. This fire was odd.
She could wait. She'd waited long enough already.
The man's left hand was Uru alloy, a blocky, dwarven-crafted prosthetic, cubic and mechanical.
But as a man—or rather, a ghost—he was slick. He understood his queen's intent.
"I'll prepare the army."
"Go. Wake the warriors and stay ready. You don't need me to take the field myself, do you?"
"Of course not. It's been ages since I saw my two dear brothers. I miss them."
Giggle. "Then send them my regards."
The goddess's clear laughter echoed through the obsidian palace. Those two fools still didn't know their big sister existed.
...
Vanaheim.
Queen Gullveig received Surtur's emissary in her opulent white marble palace. The envoy's red robes stood out like blood on snow.
"His Majesty Surtur has shown his sincerity. What of the alliance, Your Majesty?"
Gullveig, Freya's sister, had lost her father to Odin long ago, a death the Asgardians called peace.
Odin had taken her sister, forcing Freya into marriage. Had Gullveig not been so young, or Vanaheim not needed a puppet ruler, her fate might've been the same.
Now, the World Tree's fire was visible across the realms—a clear sign of Ragnarök.
The prophecy's sequence was off, but that was a minor issue.
Surtur's emissary offered fire seeds, granting every Vanir the power of flame. In exchange, they'd ally to raise an army and overthrow Odin.
Gullveig didn't hesitate. The flames were proof the time had come. She'd avenge her father and sister.
In her heart, her sister was dead.
The woman in Asgard was no Vanir, just Odin's plaything—her enemy.
"Summon everyone—man or woman. Arm yourselves, saddle the warhorses!" Gullveig rose from her throne, her maids draping her in silver armor. "Tell your master Vanaheim joins the fight. We'll strike Asgard from behind."
"A wise choice, Your Majesty."
...
In the cosmic void, massive warships glided silently, their crews spotting the firelight. They'd returned.
"Leader, we just passed a Kree fleet," reported a pale-skinned, red-eyed humanoid to the figure on the bridge.
The bridge was pitch-black, yet they seemed to see in the dark.
"The Kree are heading to Nidavellir, the dwarves' realm?"
The leader gazed ahead calmly, their destination elsewhere.
"If our navigation is correct, yes. They haven't detected us. Should we ambush them for resources?" the lieutenant asked, stars streaking past.
"No need. The Kree are prickly seeds. Our target is softer fruit. Redirect to Alfheim. Time to visit distant kin."
The leader's smile was cold enough for any fool to notice.
"The World Tree burns, and Odin slumbers. It's a golden opportunity. Why not strike Asgard?"
"Not yet. I'm not the only one who hates Odin. The crows will feast on carrion. Attacking Asgard now would only pave the way with our own bones until all the Cursed Warriors are ready."
"As you command, Leader."
...
At the roots of the World Tree, in an indiscernible space, sunlight bathed a fragrant meadow.
The flames hadn't reached here. Everything was as it had been.
Beneath the tree lay a vast grassland and a small pond, where blooming water lilies swayed in the breeze, their petals trembling, releasing a subtle scent.
Three women wove silken threads, spinning the endless tapestry of fate.