Vanaheim.
Once one of the nine realms threaded through the World Tree, it had bargained with fire and lost. The Vanir fought Asgard with Surtur's blaze at their backs, then bent to treaties and time. Frigga's crown softened edges; Asgard called itself protector. The realms remembered anyway.
…
Somewhere beneath a jagged ridge, a huge scarlet egg pulsed in a hidden cave. Warmth cradled the life inside. Sticky fluid clung to scales. The shell glowed faintly, breathing red.
"What is this place?"
"Why am I so sticky?"
Luke's thoughts came in fragments. He remembered a desk, a plan, a clock slipping past midnight, the fizzing black of exhaustion. Then—silence. Now, sensation. He reached to rub his eyes and scraped soft, hooked tips across his muzzle.
Claws. Not fingers.
A hissed sound tore out of him—not English, not any language he knew, just a raw little roar. Panic flared and ebbed as quickly as it came.
So. Not human. Not anymore.
He took inventory: a coil of tail, the weight of wings folded tight, scales slick against a hard inner shell. Two small lumps along his back where flight muscles clenched. He was inside an egg. Probably a dragon. He felt the ache of helplessness pass through him and chose not to sit in it.
First things first. Break out. See the sky. Figure out the world.
He tapped the shell. It rang like metal.
"Not ready," he muttered, and the warmth persuaded him to sleep.
…
He woke to pressure. Space had shrunk. Limbs pressed against unforgiving curve. The scarlet shell had thinned to a dusky translucence, and his body filled it.
"It's time."
He drove a claw forward. A crack spidered. He pushed with his head—again, again—until the shell parted and fell away. Air rushed over raw scales. Luke climbed onto the shattered halves and tested a roar that came out thin and fierce and real. A puddle near the wall offered him his reflection.
A young black dragon looked back—sleek, horned, eyes dark as onyx.
He blinked, half laughing, half in awe. "Okay. Fantasy world it is."
Light rippled. Something like a door opened without opening, and a presence filled the cave the way the sun fills a room. It was not sound, not sight, not weight—only certainty. The certainty that someone could unmake and remake everything in the time between breaths and find the exercise charming.
"Hello, Luke," said a voice that wasn't a voice. "Just for fun."
He didn't flinch. The instinct to kneel hadn't had time to form in this body. "Who—?"
"Call me the One Above All. A creator who enjoys good stories. Here's your premise."
Warmth poured through him—clean, sweet, older than stars and newer than dawn—and wrote itself into his blood.
Perfect Kryptonian. No weakness hitchhiking with the gift, no cracks to pry at, no knives hidden in the clauses. Sunlight would love him, and he would love it back.
And that wasn't all.
"Fifty elements," the not-voice continued, almost amused. "Absolute control. Become them. Command them. Split yourself into many forms—each a different element—each free to think, to act, to fight. No main body, just a mind shared across every self. You'll prefer one shape most days. I'm not a tyrant."
Luke felt the map of it unfurl: Air/Wind, Earth/Stone, Fire, Water, Ice, Lightning, Metal, Wood/Plant/Nature, Sand, Dust, Mud, Clay, Lava/Magma, Crystal/Gem, Light, Darkness/Shadow, Sound/Vibration, Gravity, Magnetism, Pressure, Vacuum, Weather/Storm, Smoke, Ash, Steam, Mist/Fog, Poison/Toxin, Acid/Corrosion, Radiation, Plasma, Oil/Tar, Gas/Special gases, Salt, Glass/Obsidian, Blood, Bone, Fungus/Mycelium, Insect, Swarm, Time, Space, Aether/Ether, Void/Null, Starlight, Moonlight, Temperature/Thermal, Seismic, Spirit/Soul energy, Chaos/Entropy.
Every word unlocked a corridor in his mind. Every corridor opened