They wore flower crowns and antlers, draped in shimmering gossamer, with glowing blue threads weaving through their fingertips. Butterflies fluttered around them.
The threads' origins and destinations were unknown, their task merely to untangle the intricate knots.
A maiden, a matron, and a crone.
Before them, a small golden Viking ship floated in the pond, delicate as a model, teetering toward a water lily as the breeze stirred.
Would the ship capsize? Or would the lily wither?
No one knew.
The youngest, a girl of fourteen or fifteen, yanked at a tangled skein with rough hands, speaking: "Long ago, before fate unfurled, before our threads were woven, the gods rose from the void, transforming the universe's desolate face. Arrogantly, they roamed, forging countless worlds."
The matron gently unraveled her knots, patient and precise, adding: "The gods bred and slaughtered each other. Giants, elves, demons, and titans waged endless wars. The Asgardians clashed with the Vanir. Meanwhile, Midgard's humans learned to walk upright, to sharpen stone into axes, to ponder themselves and all things. Like gods, they loved, hated, fought, dreamed, and schemed."
The crone, head bowed, slowly wove threads together, letting them drift into the pond toward the tiny ship: "Beings forge history, while we weave fate. Watch this thread—see where it leads, tying brothers to fathers, goddesses to men…"
But the thread was unruly, slithering like a serpent in the water.
Time passed, night faded. Su Ming and Garth remained in Brunhilde's modest home, roasting meat over the fireplace.
Though Su Ming had planned for Garth to return to Earth, she was reluctant, eager to uncover what had Asgard so on edge that the All-Mothers were alarmed.
Her concern for her homeland was natural, and Su Ming wouldn't force her.
This might be her last visit, so he let her linger.
The city still held many—women, elders, children, and wounded warriors, none fit for battle.
A few Valkyries guarded Valhalla, and Heimdall manned the Bifrost.
At dawn, the army had marched out. No news had returned, suggesting no battle yet.
Su Ming's initial plan was complete. Now, he'd see what serpents and specters he could draw out.
"Try this," Garth said, pulling snacks from Wilson Enterprises out of her pocket—mostly spicy strips, plus some crispy noodles.
"What's this?" Brunhilde asked.
"Food. For passing time. Tasty. Asgard doesn't grow chili peppers," Garth replied, sharing her snacks.
The two Valkyries munched spicy strips with their roast.
"It's weird. Why's my heart racing? And I'm so hot," Brunhilde said, panting after a few packs.
"That's chili for you. Once you're used to it, food's bland without it," Garth said, tearing open another bag, intent on finishing her stash.
But as they ate, Su Ming caught a distant rumble, like thunder.
His keen ears didn't miss it.
"Cavalry?"
Asgard's armies used skiffs, disembarking to fight in formation and reboarding for quick retreats.
It sounded like Viking raiders.
Land, plunder, and flee before the enemy's main force arrived.
England's long coastline had suffered this tactic, taught to Vikings by the Asgardian war god.
Asgard relied heavily on ships—skiffs, really. Their advanced tech contrasted with their reliance on horses for land travel.
The only cavalry was the Valkyries, airborne riders, already few and now fewer.
The hoofbeats now weren't Asgardian. Invaders.
"Hold on, ladies. Listen," Su Ming said, standing and moving to the window, ear tilted to trace the sound. His smile faded, replaced by a cold mask.
The room fell silent, save for the crackling hearth. The low thunder grew closer, clearer.
The sound of an army charging.
Not from the Bifrost, but from the far side of the Golden Palace.
Heimdall must have recalled some troops. Guards were already engaging, using the city's crossbow-like laser cannons.
The clash of battle soon reached their ears, confirming Su Ming's suspicions.
The first to strike were often fools. He doubted cavalry could breach the Golden Palace, with its towering, impregnable defenses.
"I need to check," Brunhilde said, staggering up from the furs.
She'd drunk too much, her mouth barely stopping all night.
Garth, with a stronger tolerance, helped her old captain stand, though she lacked armor, weapons, or a winged steed.
A cavalry's strength was in their mount. Without them, European knights were often weaker than peasants. Geralt wasn't the only one outmatched by a pitchfork.
Without pegasi, the Valkyries' strength was barely above Lady Sif's, only slightly better than common Asgardian warriors.
The Golden Palace was Asgard's capital, but Asgard itself was a vast continent floating in the cosmos.
Beyond the city lay expansive lands, fiefs of Odin's or Thor's trusted allies—Heimdall, Sif, the Warriors Three—each with their own domains.
They were lords but served the king in the capital, a feudal court.
Yet this cavalry had somehow bypassed all outer defenses, arriving at the city's edge.
"Let's go see," Su Ming said.
"You're an outsider, and she's a prisoner. You can't just go out," Brunhilde said, her mind still sharp despite the drink.
"Easy," Su Ming said, patting his chest. "Stranglehold."
Black tendrils erupted from his chest, retrieving his Icon Armor and encasing him. They shifted, morphing into Asgardian-style armor.
His face transformed, covered in flesh-like tissue, taking on the likeness of the famed actor Anthony.
The Cloak of Levitation turned its favored crimson, billowing behind his shoulders.
The Godslayer became a spear again, gripped firmly.
"I am the Lord of Asgard. Who needs permission to free a prisoner?"
Brunhilde: "…"
She couldn't tell if this was Odin or a deeper ploy.
Garth knew it was just her boss, though the mimicry was uncanny.
"Boss, the beard," she reminded.
Su Ming touched his chin. Right—Odin's beard. His mental image of Odin was tied to the actor's Hannibal Lecter role.
Stranglehold, influenced by its host, kept drifting toward thoughts of fava beans and liver, slipping into that persona.
With Garth's help, Su Ming adjusted details, becoming a perfect Odin replica.
He swept his cloak and strode to the door. Garth tugged Brunhilde along.
With a guide, Su Ming's aura and mannerisms were ninety percent Odin. Even Freya might be fooled.
But this guise wasn't battle-ready. Odin fought on horseback, riding his eight-legged steed, something Stranglehold couldn't mimic without a connecting tendril.
He'd need to borrow a horse to avoid suspicion.
Odin's stables were lavish, with golden troughs. Sleipnir, the eight-legged pegasus, lived better than most Asgardians.
Fine wine, rich meat, and a harem of mares.
Legend said Odin gifted Sleipnir's and other pegasi's offspring to mortal heroes, who'd retrieve their bodies from battlefields for the Valkyries.
But as Odin aged, battles grew rare, and the steed idled.
On Earth, who needed horses? True warriors flew planes or rode motorcycles.
Cars didn't breed.
Sleipnir munched wild boar from its trough, guzzling mead from a golden basin, ignoring the mares' seductive whinnies. It swatted away those that nuzzled it, its expression almost human in its disdain.
As if to say: "Back off, you gold-diggers, chasing my wealth."
It woke daily on an 800-square-meter bed, surrounded by luxury, yet aimless.
People thought it lived in bliss—peak horse life.
But it was a warhorse, not meant for opulent palaces. An inglorious life was a disgrace. It craved war.
As it sighed human-like, it saw a familiar figure. A man pushed open the golden doors with one hand, the metal slamming into the walls, and strode toward it.