The Bifrost spat us out at the edge of Asgard.
The first thing I saw was Heimdall. The Gatekeeper stood motionless, gripping his sword with both hands, looking at me as if calculating how many strikes it would take to sever my head from my body.
"Heimdall," Thor stepped forward, "we..."
"I have seen everything," the Gatekeeper's voice was like the scraping of ice against stone. "Every death. Every lie."
The handcuffs on my wrists heated up—magic suppression runes pulsed in time with my heartbeat. Someone in Asgard had done a fine job on them. Seidr was completely blocked. But the runes were Asgardian, and my body was not.
I cautiously reached out to the cold within. It responded—weakly, but it responded.
"Move," Heimdall pointed his sword at the bridge. "The All-Father awaits."
The Rainbow Bridge shimmered beneath our feet. The last time I saw it, it was shattered—at the moment the original Loki fell into the Abyss. Now it was whole again, as if nothing had happened. Asgard knew how to heal its wounds.
Unlike humans.
A crowd waited for us at the city gates. Hundreds of Asgardians lined the road, and Einherjar in golden armor formed a corridor, keeping them at a distance.
Someone spat in my direction. The spit didn't reach—a guard intercepted it—but the intent was clear.
"Traitor!"
"Murderer!"
"Give him back to the Jotuns!"
Thor walked beside me—not quite as a guard, but not as a protector either. Somewhere in between. His hammer hung at his belt, and I noticed his fingers twitching toward the handle every now and then.
"What happened here?" I nodded toward the traces of destruction. Several buildings on the right had clearly been recently restored—the stone was lighter, the seams visible.
"Marauders. While the bridge was broken, neighboring worlds decided to test our borders."
"And you subdued them."
"We subdued them. Asgard did."
I remained silent. While I was playing conqueror on Earth, a real war was happening here. Funny how perspective changes things.
Children pointed fingers at me. Old warriors shook their heads. Women clutched infants to themselves as if I could curse them with a single glance.
And among all this—a few faces looked different. Not with hatred. With something akin to sympathy. Or curiosity.
I remembered them.
The palace loomed ahead—gold and white stone, spires piercing the sky. The home I never had. The home the original Loki lost through his own stupidity.
The gates of the Throne Room swung open.
Odin sat upon Hlidskjalf, Gungnir resting in his hand. The patch over his eye seemed darker than usual—or was it a trick of the light? Beside him stood Frigga. Her face was inscrutable, but I could see—her eyes were red. She had been crying. Recently.
The hall was full.
The Warriors Three stood to the right—Volstagg with his ever-hungry gaze, Fandral with a smirk he likely thought was charming, and Hogun, grim as always. Sif stood apart, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. She didn't even try to hide her hatred.
To the left was Tyr, the God of War. Massive, a head taller than Thor. Where his right hand should have been, a metallic prosthesis gleamed—a memento of Fenrir, if the legends were to be believed.
Councilors, courtiers, nobility—everyone stared at me. Hundreds of eyes. The silence was crushing.
The guards nudged me forward. I stopped in the center of the hall, exactly beneath the throne.
"Loki Laufeyson," Odin's voice filled the hall, and I felt the air vibrate. "You are charged with treason against the crown of Asgard."
He paused. A theatrical beat, perfected over millennia of practice.
"With the attempted genocide of the Jotunheim people. With the attack on the allied world of Midgard. With the murder of innocent mortals."
I listened. Points one and two—the original Loki's credit. Points three and four—mine. Impossible to separate. And why bother?
"What say you in your defense?"
Everyone waited. The courtiers held their breath. Sif leaned forward, clearly hoping to hear something for which I could be executed immediately.
I opened my mouth, preparing a speech—something about circumstances, pressure, difficult decisions in impossible conditions.
And then I felt it.
First—the cold. Not Jotun cold, the familiar kind—something else. The cold of the void, the cold of absence. As if someone had opened a door into a room where warmth had never existed.
Then—the call.
The Necrosword. I knew of it from ancient texts, from fragments of legends, but I never thought it... resonated. The blade of primordial darkness, forged before the birth of stars—it didn't just kill. It sang. Every death of a god was a note in its symphony, and that symphony rippled in waves across the entire universe.
Most could not hear it. Asgardians, encased in their light, in their gold—they were deaf to the darkness.
But I am a Jotun. A child of a world born in the cold of the primordial void. My people remembered the times before Asgard, before light, before warmth. Somewhere deep inside me, something responded to the call of the Necrosword.
And the sword showed me what it had done.
Images flooded my mind so sharply, so suddenly, that I collapsed to my knees. Pain—not physical, but deeper—seared through my skull from temple to temple.
A golden city. Not Asgard—the architecture was different, more organic, as if the buildings had grown out of the earth. Temples with unfamiliar symbols. Statues of gods I did not know.
And the bodies.
Dozens of bodies in golden armor, hacked apart by something impossibly sharp. The blood of gods glowed like molten metal, flowing down white marble.
And above all this—a shadow. A figure with a blade that devoured light.
"What is wrong with him?" Frigga's voice, distant, as if from underwater.
"Another trick," Sif said, the sound of a sword being drawn.
"No," Thor said, closer. "I have seen this before. He is seeing something."
The vision receded as abruptly as it had arrived. I was on all fours, breathing heavily. Sweat dripped down my face.
"Gods..." my voice rasped. "Someone is killing the gods..."
And then Heimdall screamed.
I had never heard the Gatekeeper of the Bifrost raise his voice. Judging by the faces around me—no one had.
"ALL-MOTHER! Falligar has fallen! The entire pantheon—dead!"
Silence.
Then—chaos.
The courtiers all began talking at once. Councilors shouted at each other. The guards didn't know whether to hold me or run for the exits. Only Odin remained motionless on the throne, his single eye staring through the walls.
"Silence!" Tyr's roar cut through the din.
The hall went quiet.
Odin rose—slowly, heavily. For the first time, I noticed how old he was. Not in body—something deeper.
"Small Throne Room. Now."
He didn't look at me. But his hand pointed in my direction.
"Him too."
The Small Throne Room was actually the size of a decent gymnasium. In Asgard, the concept of "small" had its peculiarities.
A round table stood in the center. A map of the Nine Realms—volumetric, shimmering. Gathered around were those Odin deemed important: Thor, Tyr, Sif, the Warriors Three. Frigga stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest. Heimdall's hologram flickered in the corner.
And me—in handcuffs, with two guards at my back.
"Report," Odin sat at the head of the table.
Heimdall spoke:
"Falligar—a world on the edge of our influence. A minor pantheon, twelve guardian gods. This morning, I felt... a rupture. I looked there and saw..."
He fell silent. The Gatekeeper of the Bifrost, who had seen the birth and death of stars, could not find the words.
"They are all dead. Killed in a single night. No sign of an army. No sign of a siege. A single being did this."
"Impossible," Tyr slammed his fist on the table. The map jolted. "No one is capable of killing twelve gods alone."
"Gorr is capable."
Everyone turned to me.
"Gorr the God Butcher," I continued, ignoring the stares. "A mortal who found the Necrosword."
Frigga turned sharply. Something flashed across Odin's face—recognition? Fear?
"How do you know that name?" the All-Father's voice was steady. Too steady.
"I read it in the archives of Sanctuary. There was information there about threats to immortals."
A half-truth. The best kind of lie.
"What is the Necrosword?" Thor leaned forward.
Odin was silent. Frigga was silent. I waited, but no one was going to explain.
"All-Black," I decided to help. "The first symbiote. A blade created by Knull before the birth of stars. Capable of killing anything—a god, a titan, a celestial. Legend says Knull forged it from the head of a Celestial he killed, tempering it in three suns."
Tyr snorted:
"Fairytales for children."
"Is twelve dead gods in one night a convincing enough argument?"
Tyr went silent.
"Heimdall," Odin finally spoke. "Falligar—is it not the first?"
The Gatekeeper shook his head:
"I checked. In the last year, seven minor pantheons have vanished. We attributed it to wars, diseases, natural fading. But now... the pattern is obvious. He starts with the remote, the unprotected. And he is moving toward the center."
"Toward Asgard," Sif said what everyone was thinking.
"Yes."
Silence.
"Then we shall meet him here," Tyr stood up. "Assemble the army. Fortify the walls. Let him come."
"Then we will lose," I said.
"What do you know of war, liar?"
"I know of hunting. Gorr doesn't want war—he wants a slaughter. Every god killed strengthens the Necrosword. Your army is not an obstacle for him. It is a menu."
Volstagg turned pale. Fandral stopped smiling.
"Then what do you suggest?" Thor's voice was tense.
"I don't know. Yet. But a frontal assault is exactly what he wants."
Odin looked at me for a long time. I felt the weight of that gaze—millennia of power, millennia of manipulation.
"You saw him. In your... vision."
Not a question. A statement.
"Yes."
"Describe him."
I closed my eyes, summoning the image:
"Gray skin, covered in scars. A body wrapped in something living—necro-matter. It's like armor, but it moves. Eyes... burned out. Like embers that have long since died but still smolder. And the sword. A blade that drinks light. Everything darkens near it."
Frigga made a soft sound—somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
"It is him," she turned to Odin. "You knew."
"I suspected."
"And you stayed silent?!"
"What would have changed?"
"We would have prepared!"
"For what?" Odin stood up, and even his shadow seemed heavier than usual. "For that which is coming, which cannot be stopped? Gorr was killing gods when Asgard was not yet built. He would vanish for millennia, then return. He cannot be tracked, cannot be predicted."
"But now he is coming here," Thor said quietly. "You understand this yourself."
Odin did not answer. But his silence was answer enough.
"What does he want?" Sif asked. "Revenge? Power?"
"Justice," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
"Gorr is not a madman. He believes he is doing the right thing. Gods, in his view, are parasites. They demand worship but give nothing in return. His family died while he prayed. Wife, children—one by one. While the gods of his world feasted in their temples."
"And that justifies genocide?" Tyr crossed his arms.
"No. But it explains it. Gorr doesn't just want to kill gods—he wants them to admit he is right. He wants to hear it before he brings down the sword."
"You speak as if you understand him," Sif narrowed her eyes.
"In a way."
"Enough," Odin raised a hand. "The judgment is postponed. Until this threat is neutralized, we cannot afford the luxury of internal conflicts."
I raised an eyebrow:
"Does that mean...?"
"It means you will remain in Asgard. Under guard. But not in the dungeon. Your... knowledge may prove useful."
Sif stepped forward:
"All-Father, you cannot be serious..."
"I have spoken."
Three words. Enough to silence even the Goddess of War.
Odin turned toward the exit but stopped at the door:
"Loki."
"Yes?"
"If you attempt to flee, deceive, or betray—I will personally feed you to Fenrir."
"Understood."
He left. Tyr and the Warriors Three followed. Sif lingered, searing me with a gaze, then spat on the floor at my feet and walked away.
Frigga, Thor, and I remained.
"What did you see?" Frigga came closer. "Truly?"
"Dead gods. A city drenched in glowing blood. And a shadow that spoke to them before they died."
"Spoke?"
"Asked where their prayers were now."
Frigga closed her eyes.
"I need to check something in the library," she headed for the exit, but turned at the door. "Thor, watch him."
"Of course, Mother."
The door closed.
We were left alone—me and the one the original Loki had hated his entire life. The one who called me brother even after everything I had done.
"You could have lied," Thor said. "Back on Earth. You could have said anything to save yourself."
"I could have done many things."
"Why didn't you?"
"I'm trying to figure that out myself."
He stepped closer, and the guards tensed, but Thor waved them off—stand back.
"Brother..."
"Don't call me that."
"Why?"
"Because I don't deserve it."
Thor looked at me for a long time. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled:
"Since when do you care about what you deserve?"
I found no answer.
"Come," he nodded toward the door. "I'll show you to your quarters. And yes, there will be guards. Many guards."
"I never doubted it."
We walked out into the corridor. Gold, marble, tapestries depicting ancient battles. The home that was never my home.
But perhaps that was exactly why it was worth protecting.
Gorr was coming here. The God Butcher with a blade of primordial darkness. And he brought a death that devoured even the immortal.
I tried to remember the movie. The one where Gorr was the villain. "Love and Thunder"? Something like that. But only fragments surfaced—Thor with two hammers, some goats, Natalie Portman in armor. Was Gorr... different there? Or was I confusing it with the comics?
The problem with meta-knowledge—it works as long as events follow the script. And here, the script had already gone off the rails. Gorr attacked earlier. Or later? Jane Foster had cancer, Thor was in space with the Guardians of the Galaxy...
None of it added up.
Either I remembered incorrectly, or this was a different timeline, or—most likely—the cinematic canon had as much to do with reality as Hollywood movies "based on a true story."
I was almost blind.
And, strangely, it was almost liberating.
--
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}