[Location: Wildwoods, Midgard]
"Oi!" Brok barked, his blue face scrunching like he'd bitten into something sour.
"Hahahahahahahaha!" My laughter burst out, loud and uncontrollable, bouncing off the wooden walls of Faye's home. My sides hurt, my eyes watered, and Brok's sputtering curses only made it worse.
"Ya think yer funny, do ya?!" He jabbed a stubby finger at me, each syllable vibrating with his gravel-pit voice. "Mockin' a master smith, the only one in the realms who can keep yer sorry arse from fallin' apart!"
I wiped tears from my eyes, gasping. "I—hah—Brok, you don't need to make weapons. Your words alone could kill."
"Kill ya with shame, maybe," he spat. "If I could bottle yer laughter, I'd sell it as a bloody plague."
Faye coughed delicately into her hand. "Play nice, both of you. My house is not a tavern." But the faint curl of her lips betrayed her amusement.
I pointed at Brok, grinning like an idiot. "I'm sorry, Faye, but tell me you don't smell it. It's like burnt iron and swamp."
Brok bristled, his short legs stomping across the floorboards like a tantrum-throwing child. "That's the smell of a real craftsman! Blood, sweat, soot, and—" He hesitated, then muttered something too low for me to catch. Probably wasn't flattering.
"Brok," Faye said calmly, though I saw her eyes flicker toward me before softening. "Perhaps you should… wash. Once."
He gaped at her like she'd stabbed him with his own hammer. "Et tu, Faye?!"
I nearly fell over laughing again.
"Anyway, on a serious note; what about materials?" Faye coaxed, her voice the steady stream that smoothed over Brok's rocky temper.
Brok harrumphed, still glaring at me as if plotting whether to shove a forge tong somewhere unpleasant. "Materials, eh? Lad's laughin' like a loon, smells like a furnace's backside, and wants me to conjure blades outta thin air? Tch." He scratched the back of his neck, leaving streaks of soot in his beard. "Fine. Yer talkin' rare stuff. Ain't no pig-iron garbage. If you want blades strong enough to hold that—" he waved a hand at me like I was some diseased ox, "—then we need somethin' that ain't o' this world."
Brok's words fell like a hammer blow, hard and final. His stubby hand dropped from the air as though swatting away any foolish notion that cheap steel could ever cage what burned inside me.
The laughter that had been tearing my lungs a minute ago curdled in my chest. His glare was still mocking, yes, but behind that soot-crusted face I glimpsed something else—hesitation, almost… unease.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked, leaning back against the wooden pillar of Faye's home. My voice came steadier than I felt.
Brok snorted. "What d'you think I mean? Lad, yer body's a bloody kiln. Whatever's churnin' in yer veins, it ain't normal blood. It's heat, raw and screamin', wantin' to burst out. You stick pig-iron chains on that, they'll melt before you swing 'em twice. Maybe thrice if I spit on 'em."
I frowned. "So, what then? Adamant? Dwarven steel?"
"Ha!" He barked, then actually spat onto the floor. Faye's eyebrow twitched at the new stain. "Dwarven steel would weep if I tried ta bend it round ya. You'd burn through it like fire through mead-soaked cloth. Nah… yer needin' somethin' rarer. Somethin' that's got as much spite in it as you."
My gut twisted. Spite. Yeah, that tracked.
Faye, still quiet, set aside the herbs she'd been sorting. "Brok." Her tone was measured, but I caught that undercurrent of command—the same one she used when scolding me for sneaking extra food at night. "You speak as though you've already considered what material could contain… him." Her glance flicked my way.
Brok grumbled, scratching again at his soot-matted beard. "Aye. Thought about it while watchin' him near burst at the seams. There's two things that might—might—hold up. First Surtr's sword—"
"Wait. Wait. Wait the fuck up!" I cut in, waving both hands like a madman trying to shoo away flies. "You're saying I need—what—the sword of Surtr? As in, the end-of-days fire giant with a murder-stick that can light all the Nine Realms on fire? That Surtr?"
Brok gave me a flat look, like I'd just asked if water was wet. "Aye. That Surtr. Ain't exactly a pile o' Surtr swords sittin' on shelves, lad. If there was, I'd have one fer scrapin' me arse after a hard day."
Faye's lips tightened, though I swore I saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "Brok. Don't be vulgar."
"Bah. Don't start." He waved her off and jabbed a finger at me again. "Listen here, ye overgrown campfire. That blade—well, the fragments of it—could take the heat ya carry. But you'd have to find 'em, wrest 'em from whatever gods-forsaken pit they're rottin' in, and then bring 'em ta me."
"Fragments?" I asked, my gut tightening. "Meaning Surtr doesn't… still have it?"
Brok gave a barking laugh. "Course he does! He's still struttin' about Muspelheim, polishin' that bloody sword like it's his beard. But shards o' his kind's weapons sometimes crack off in battle. Sometimes in his tantrums. They say the land itself vomits 'em out like splinters. And those little splinters, lad, would be enough fer me ta forge what ya need."
My stomach sank. Splinters of Surtr's apocalypse blade? Sure, let me just pop into Muspelheim, dodge a few rivers of lava, maybe survive a fire giant or twelve, and stroll back with glowing shards in my pockets. Easy.
"…That was option one," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "What's option two? Please tell me it's something like, I dunno, going to the blacksmith's guild down the road and ordering a deluxe set with extra polish."
Brok gave me the kind of look reserved for children who've just eaten dirt. "I think ya heard me wrong, no options. Both are a must."
Brok's words hung in the air like a hammer strike that rang too long.
"No options," he said again, voice like gravel grinding steel. "Both. Not one, not half, not 'let's bargain, Brok'. Both."
The room went silent except for the pop and hiss of the fire.
I stared at him. "Both? Meaning what—you expect me to walk into Muspelheim and rob Surtr and whatever's behind door number two?"
Brok spat on the floorboards again, ignoring Faye's immediate, unimpressed frown. "Exactly that."
"You're insane."
He jabbed his stubby finger at me, eyes burning bright. "No, lad. I'm a smith. And a smith don't shove shoddy metal in a forge knowin' it'll break. You? You're worse than a forge. Yer a bloody volcano walkin' on two legs. I ain't wastin' me time makin' somethin' that'll snap on yer first tantrum."
Faye's voice cut through the air, calm but firm. "What's the second option, Brok?"
The dwarf grumbled, pulling at his beard like it had personally offended him. "Second ain't no easier. World Serpent's scales."
My jaw dropped. "You want me to… what?"
He shrugged, casual, like he'd asked me to fetch a bucket of water. "A scale off Jörmungandr's hide. And not just any scale, but the reverse scale," Brok finished, leaning back on his stubby legs like he'd just dropped the punchline to a bad joke.
Silence.
Faye blinked slowly, her fingers freezing mid-motion over the herbs. I sat there, mouth slightly open, trying to decide whether to laugh, scream, or beat my head against the wall until unconsciousness saved me.
"…Reverse scale?" I repeated at last, my voice dripping disbelief.
Brok grinned—or rather, he bared his teeth like a wolf who'd swallowed too much gravel. "Aye. Every serpent's got one. A flaw in its armour, a place it don't want no hands touchin'. Even that drunk buffoon Thor got smacked halfway 'cross a fjord when he tried ta tug at it."
"You want me to pluck a weak spot… off the World Serpent," I said flatly, staring at him like he'd just suggested I eat molten lava for breakfast. "The literal, coiled-around-the-realm World Serpent. The thing that could sneeze and flood half of Midgard."
Brok shrugged. "Sounds about right."
I stared. He stared back. Silence stretched.
"Faye, give me your axe, I'm seriously curious what is so disgusting in that bald skull of his."
My hand was already half-extended toward her, fingers twitching like I'd throttle the air if not given something solid.
Faye didn't move. Not toward the axe. Not toward me. She simply sat there, shoulders relaxed but gaze sharp as the edge of the Leviathan itself.
The silence dragged. Her lips pressed together, and finally she said, "If I gave you the axe, you would break Brok's skull."
"Exactly," I said, deadpan.
Brok, the blue menace himself, puffed up like a toad. "Ya bloody halfwit! Touch me, and I'll weld yer arse shut with molten slag! Ain't nobody touches Brok without losin' a few teeth—and that's on a good day!"
"You want me to take you seriously after saying things like that?" I shot back, my chest heaving with laughter, but I wasn't quite letting loose. "Do you hear yourself, smurf? 'Molten slag'? What's next—threatening me with soot?"
Brok's face went so red beneath the blue that he looked like someone had slapped a raw steak on him. "Smurf? SMURF?!" He stomped his stubby legs so hard the floorboards creaked. "By the Forge Father's hairy arse, I'll carve that word on yer forehead with a rusty file!"
Faye sighed. "You two sound like children."
I jabbed a finger at Brok. "He started it."
Brok's hammer clanged against the floor as he slammed it down. "I started it? You're the one laughin' like a mad goat in heat soon as I open me mouth!"
That tore it. I did laugh. Loud, sharp, doubling over until my ribs ached. I couldn't help it—the way Brok's voice cracked between fury and wounded pride was just… priceless.
"Gods…" I wiped tears from my eyes, my grin stretched so wide it hurt. "You're like an angry toddler with a hammer."
"Yer like a drunk troll who can't find his own balls!" Brok shot back instantly.
"Better drunk troll than blue goblin!"
"Better blue goblin than—" He stopped mid-sputter, fumbling for an insult, then bellowed, "—ya stinkin' fire hazard!"
That one hit closer than I expected.
The laughter curdled in my throat. For just a moment, silence cut between us sharper than any blade.
Faye's gaze shifted to me, her face unreadable, but her eyes—gods, those eyes—were searching. Not judging. Not pitying. Just… searching.
I turned away, jaw tight. "Yeah. Fire hazard. Guess he's not wrong."
The room went heavy with the unspoken. Only the crackle of firewood dared break it.
Brok blinked at me, like he'd only just realised his words found a deeper mark than intended. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. He scratched awkwardly at his soot-caked beard.
Faye was the one to step in, her voice soft but carrying iron beneath. "Enough. Brok, your tongue does more harm than it mends. And you—" her gaze speared me, "—don't let a fool's words brand your worth."
I swallowed, staring at the fire instead of her. The flames licked higher, and I swore for a heartbeat they bent toward me, recognising the furnace inside.
"…Tch." Brok finally broke the silence with a grunt, kicking at the floor. "Didn't mean it like that. Yer a hazard, aye, but… not the wrong kind. More like… a hammer mid-swing. Dangerous, aye, but also useful."
"That your version of an apology?" I asked, dry.
"That's me version of shuttin' ya up before ya blubber like a milk-fed calf."
"Gods above, you're insufferable."
He grinned, all crooked teeth. "Aye."
Faye pressed her palm to her temple like she regretted every life choice that led her to this moment.
...
"Let's return to the matter at hand," she said at last, her voice drawing us back from the brink. "The materials. Brok, you insist both are necessary. Surtr's fragment and Jörmungandr's reverse scale. Why both?"
Brok's grin dimmed. His eyes—sharp as flint when he wanted—narrowed. "'Cause the lad ain't holdin' wrath. Wrath's holdin' him. If I forge chains outta just Serpent's scale, they'll bend all right—but not withstand his heat," Brok said, stabbing a finger toward me like I was the guilty ember in a burning house.
Brok's voice deepened, his hand curling into a fist as though gripping an invisible hammer.
"But if I use Surtr's fragment to forge the blade itself, the heat won't eat through. Surtr's fire is eternal, lad. Older than gods, older than all the little stories mortals tell to make 'emselves feel big. Fire that don't burn out—it just is. You carry that same kind o' fire in your guts. With a shard o' Surtr's sword, the edge won't melt when you pour your wrath into it."
He paused, sucking in a breath through his crooked teeth before jabbing the hammer's haft against the floor with a sharp clunk.
"But—" Brok tilted his chin at me. "Chains forged of Surtr's metal alone? Too brittle. Might stand the heat, aye, but they'll crack when the lad thrashes. They need flexibility. And there's only one bastard in all the realms with scales tough enough to take the strain without snappin'."
My mouth was suddenly dry. "…The World Serpent."
Brok grunted. "Aye."
Faye's gaze had gone distant, unreadable. The firelight carved shadows beneath her cheekbones, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. She looked at me, then at Brok, then back at me—as though some thread of fate had just wound tighter around her throat.
"So," I said finally, my laugh empty and sharp. "In summary: you want me to rob the doomsday giant for a piece of his apocalypse sword and pluck a reverse scale from a creature so big it could floss with the Yggdrasil branches."
Brok scratched at his beard with blackened nails. "Aye. That about sums it up."
I stared at him. "Do you hear yourself when you speak, or is the ringing in your skull from all the hammering?"
"Yer one to talk," he snapped. "I'm givin' ya the only chance yer got to bind that fire o' yours before it tears ya open from the inside. You think I like tellin' ya to chase after giant bastards? If there was another material in the Nine, I'd use it. But there ain't."
The words slammed heavier than his hammer.
Because I knew he wasn't bluffing. Every time I drew on the Mantra, it chewed deeper into me. Every vein lit up like molten cracks, every heartbeat pounded hotter, closer to bursting.
And Brok, foul-mouthed, stinking, insufferable Brok… was the first to look me dead in the eye and say what I'd been dreading.
This fire wasn't mine to play with. It was mine to cage, or it would consume me.
I leaned forward, elbows braced on my knees, voice low. "…And if I can't get them?"
Brok didn't flinch. Didn't look away. "Then you die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon. You'll burn yerself hollow, and there won't be nothin' left but ash and screams. And when ya go, lad…" His voice hardened. "You won't go alone. You'll take this house, this forest—maybe all o' Midgard—with ya."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The fire popped in the hearth, loud as thunder.
I felt Faye's eyes on me. Not pity. Not fear. Something else. Something that knotted my gut.
I tried to laugh, but the sound came out broken, hollow. "So… what you're telling me is, I'm a walking incurable illness. Just waiting to spread."
Faye's chair scraped against the floor as she stood. "Don't say that." Her voice cut through the air like steel.
I looked up at her, my grin brittle. "Why not? It's the truth. He just said it—if I lose control, if this fire breaks loose, everything burns. That's not power. That's a disease."
Her eyes softened, and for the first time since I'd met her, she looked… vulnerable. Almost pleading. "You are not a disease."
Something twisted in my chest. I opened my mouth—
But Brok interrupted, voice sharp. "Aye, she's right. Yer no disease. Yer a weapon. Difference is, weapons can be forged right, tempered, sharpened till they cut only what needs cuttin'."
I blinked at him. That was… not what I expected.
"Course," he added, wiping his nose on his arm, "that's if ya don't bollocks it up first. Which, lookin' at ya, odds ain't great."
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "…You just had to ruin the moment, didn't you?"
Brok grinned, teeth crooked and yellow. "Aye."
Faye sighed, but her lips twitched.
And for a moment—just a breath—the heaviness lifted.
But only a moment.
Because no matter how much we joked, no matter how many insults we flung, the truth remained:
My fire was killing me.
And if Brok was right, only two impossible things could save me.
Surtr's fragment.
Jörmungandr's scale.
Both are waiting out there in the Nine Realms like sharpened teeth.
And if I failed to claim them…
Everyone I'd begun to care about here would burn with me.
Including... Faye.
***
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