The air was thick with the scent of blood and frost. The once-proud stronghold of Laufey stood battered and trembling, its icy walls cracked, its warriors shattered. What had once been a fortress of gods now stood on the precipice of oblivion.
The conqueror watched in silence, his gaze cold and calculating. His army had done its work well too well.
Igris stood at the forefront, his crimson blade dripping with the lifeblood of fallen giants. Beru crouched nearby, his mandibles clicking in satisfaction as the last of Laufey's forces fell to their knees in surrender. Bellion, ever the tactician, was already securing the remnants of Jotun leadership, ensuring that their knowledge and power would be absorbed into the conqueror's growing dominion.
But the true prize stood before him now Laufey himself.
The Jotun King was on his knees, his once mighty frame hunched with exhaustion. His icy blue skin was cracked, his breath ragged. He was a god in name only, his power dulled by centuries of slow decay.
The conqueror stepped forward, his shadow twisting and writhing at his feet like a living thing. His presence alone made the air heavier, suffocating. The Jotuns who remained could only watch in silent terror.
"Do you know what your greatest failure was, Laufey?" The conqueror's voice was smooth, devoid of malice yet dripping with authority. "It wasn't your war with Asgard. It wasn't your failed invasion of Midgard."
He crouched, meeting the old king's weary gaze.
"It was thinking that you could cling to power when it had long since abandoned you."
Laufey coughed, spitting out a chunk of his own bloodied ice. His red eyes burned with defiance, but it was the flickering defiance of a candle about to go out.
"You… do not belong here," Laufey rasped. "You… are not of this realm."
The conqueror smirked, his gaze flashing with amusement. "And yet, here I stand. While you kneel."
Silence followed. The only sounds were the distant cries of the Jotuns who had yet to realize their kingdom was lost.
Then, he spoke again.
"I offer you something no god, no king, no force in the Nine Realms has ever offered you before, Laufey."
Laufey's eyes flickered with something almost resembling hope.
"A choice."
The conqueror raised a hand, and the shadows around him pulsed.
"You can die here, forgotten and broken, a king of dust and echoes… or you can rise again. As part of my army. As one of my shadows."
The Jotun King's breath hitched. He knew what this meant. What this thing before him truly was. Laufey had lived long enough to know of old, forgotten things. Monsters that lurked in the spaces between realms. He had thought them myths.
But no myth stood before him now.
The conqueror watched, waiting. He already knew what choice Laufey would make. What choice did any dying king have when faced with oblivion?
Laufey clenched his fists, shaking. He could feel the shadows creeping toward him, waiting for his answer.
And then… he closed his eyes.
"I… yield."
The conqueror smiled.
The darkness surged forward.
Laufey's body tensed as the shadows wrapped around him, pulling him into their cold embrace. He let out one last breath—a sound between a sigh and a death rattle—before his entire form dissolved, sinking into the ever-growing army of the conqueror.
And when the darkness faded…
A new shadow rose.
It still bore Laufey's form, his jagged crown of ice, his piercing red eyes. But it was no longer him.
It was his.
His newest general.
And the Jotuns who remained? They fell to their knees.
In reverence.
In fear.
In submission.
The conqueror turned to face them, his voice carrying across the broken battlefield.
"You serve me now."