The chambers I was allocated were more luxurious than any prison cell I could have imagined.
High ceilings with moldings depicting hunting scenes. A bed the size of a small apartment, covered in sea-foam green silk. A fireplace where a smokeless fire burned. Bookshelves lining the walls—hundreds of volumes in languages, half of which I didn't recognize. A window overlooking nighttime Asgard, bathed in the light of a thousand torches.
And four guards at the door. Outside.
Two more were inside, in the corners of the room. Motionless as statues.
The runes on the walls flickered barely perceptibly—barriers that prevented the use of magic. Or teleportation. Or, likely, sneezing without permission.
A golden cage. Literally.
I walked to the window. My handcuffs had been removed—here, within the barriers, they were unnecessary. My Seidr was silent anyway, suppressed by the runes. But the cold inside hadn't gone anywhere. My Jotun heritage pulsed under my skin, reminding me of its presence.
Asgard below lived its own life. Lights in windows, shadows in the streets, distant music from some tavern. A city that didn't know it might soon die. Or knew, but preferred not to think about it.
People are the same everywhere. Even when they are gods.
A knock at the door. One of the guards inside turned his head, the second remained motionless.
"Enter," I said, though my permission was clearly not required.
The door opened. Frigga.
She was alone—no guards, no handmaidens. A simple dress instead of a ceremonial one, her hair let down. In her hands was a tray covered with a napkin.
"Leave us," she told the guards.
They looked at each other.
"Queen, the All-Father's order..."
"I know my husband's order. I also know that this order does not apply to me. Leave. Wait outside the door."
The guards hesitated for another second, then bowed and left. The door closed.
We were left alone.
Frigga placed the tray on the table by the window. Under the napkin were bread, cheese, fruit, and a pitcher of something that smelled like wine but shimmered from within.
"You haven't eaten since yesterday," she said. "Earthly food, then the Bifrost, then the trial. You need your strength."
"Thank you."
I didn't refuse. The hunger was real—an Asgardian body required more energy than a human one, especially after stress.
Frigga sat in the chair opposite me. She watched as I ate. She remained silent.
The bread was fresh, still warm. The cheese was sharp, with herbs. The fruits were something between an apple and a peach, juicy and sweet. I didn't recognize their names, but I remembered the taste from somewhere in Loki's memory. Childhood. Picnics in the gardens. Frigga, young and laughing, handing the same fruit to a small boy with black hair.
"You've changed," she said finally.
I looked up from the food.
"Everyone changes."
"Not like this. Not this much."
She leaned forward, and the firelight fell on her face. Wrinkles near her eyes that weren't there before. Or were they there, and I just hadn't noticed?
"My son... the Loki I knew... he would have already tried to escape three times. He would have argued, shouted, accused. He wouldn't sit still, eat bread, and thank me for the care."
"Maybe prison rehabilitated me."
"You weren't in prison long enough for that."
I set the bread aside. I looked at her.
"What do you want to hear?"
"The truth."
"Which one specifically? I have many."
Frigga did not smile.
"The moment you fell from the bridge... I felt it. The bond between mother and son—it's not a metaphor, not poetry. It's reality. Magic. And in that moment... something snapped. And then it knit back together. But not as it was."
She stood up, stepped closer. Her hand reached for my face—and stopped an inch from my cheek.
"You carry his memory. His pain. His face. But you are not him. Not entirely."
I was silent. What could I say?
"Who are you?"
The question hung in the air. A simple question for which I had no simple answer.
"I don't know," I said finally. And it was the truth. "I remember everything he remembered. Every day, every lesson, every grudge. I feel what he felt—toward you, toward Thor, toward Odin. But there's something else. Something that wasn't there before."
"What?"
"Perspective. An outside view. As if I am him, but simultaneously someone watching his life from the outside."
Frigga was silent for a long time. Then her hand finally touched my cheek—softly, cautiously.
"I loved my son. With all his shadows, all his pain, all his mistakes. If you are what is left of him..." she swallowed, "...I will love you too."
Something tightened in my chest. Something I couldn't name.
"He loved you too," I said. "That much I know for sure. You were the only one who didn't see him as Thor's shadow. Not as a problem. Not as a disappointment."
Frigga turned away. I saw her wipe her eyes.
"You need to rest," her voice wavered but then steadied. "Tomorrow will be a difficult day."
"Tomorrow?"
"Odin has decided to send a scouting party to Falligar. To inspect the site of the... slaughter. To understand what we are dealing with."
"And I'm in this scouting party?"
"You are the only one who senses the Necrosword. You said so yourself."
"I said it could be dangerous. That the sword might sense me back."
"That is precisely why the decision was difficult."
She headed for the door but stopped halfway.
"Loki... whoever you are... thank you."
"For what?"
"For not lying to me. Not entirely."
The door closed behind her.
I was left alone. Well, almost alone—the guards returned to their posts a minute later.
Outside the window, Asgard was slowly falling asleep. The lights went out one by one.
I lay on the bed—too soft, too large—and closed my eyes.
Sleep did not come for a long time.
The morning began with a crash.
I jumped out of bed, disoriented, my hand instinctively reaching for the cold within. The guards were already standing with weapons ready, shields raised.
The door burst open. Thor.
"Get ready," he tossed something to me. Leather armor, simple, without decorations. "We have little time."
"What happened?"
"Father ordered us to fly to Falligar immediately. He wants us to inspect the place while the tracks are fresh."
"Us?"
"You, me, and Sif."
Great. A goddess who dreams of driving a sword through me, on a mission where I might be killed anyway. What could go wrong?
"And Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun?"
"They stay to defend Asgard. In case Gorr decides to strike while we are distracted."
Sensible. I would have done the same.
The palace corridors flashed by—gold, marble, tapestries. Servants pressed against the walls, letting us pass. The guard saluted Thor and cast looks full of suspicion at me.
The Bifrost was waiting.
Heimdall stood at his post, his sword already inserted into the pedestal. Beside him was Sif in full combat gear. Her gaze, when she saw me, could have frozen a lake.
"He's coming with us?" she didn't even try to hide her disgust.
"Father's order," Thor answered briefly.
"He will betray us."
"Possibly. But for now, he is the only one who can sense the Necrosword."
Sif clenched her teeth but did not argue. A warrior's discipline—orders are not discussed.
Heimdall turned the sword. The Bifrost hummed, flaring up.
"Falligar," his voice was steady, but I heard the tension beneath it. "I will open the gate as close to the temple complex as possible. But be careful. What I see there..." he went silent.
"What?" Thor asked.
"Darkness. Emptiness. A place where light dies."
The rainbow bridge flashed, and the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colors.
Falligar met us with the smell of death.
Not physical—gods didn't rot like mortals. It was something else. The smell of fading. The smell of a star that is dying. The smell of hope that had been torn out by the roots.
The sky above us was sickly—dark orange with streaks of black. The sun barely broke through some kind of haze, and its light seemed dim, dying.
"The guardian gods are dead," I said. "Without them, the world loses its connection to the source of power. The sun will go out in a few centuries. Maybe faster."
"Do you know this or are you guessing?" Sif didn't turn her head.
"I know. Small pantheons are tied to their worlds. They aren't just protectors—they are anchors. Without them, reality unravels."
We stood on a hill, and the city lay below—kilometers of gold, marble, and death.
The architecture was unlike Asgard's. More organic, fluid, as if the buildings had grown out of the ground rather than being built. Spirals instead of straight lines. Arches curving at impossible angles. Beautiful, even now, bathed in shadow.
And the bodies.
From here, on the hill, they seemed like dots. Bright dots on a dark background—the blood of gods glowed like molten metal.
"Let's go," Thor moved forward, hammer in hand.
The descent took several minutes. With every step, the smell became stronger. Not rot—something worse. An emptiness that had a scent. An absence that felt like a presence.
We found the first body at the city gates.
A god in golden armor, sword in hand. He had tried to fight—his posture said as much. A defensive stance, blade raised.
It didn't help.
His body had been sliced diagonally—from shoulder to hip. One strike. Clean, like a surgical cut. The edges of the wound were cauterized by something black.
"Necro-matter," I knelt beside the body. "Residue of the Necrosword's substance. It eats into the flesh, preventing the wound from closing."
"Don't touch it," Sif warned.
"I wasn't going to."
Thor stood over the body, and his face was like stone.
"I knew him," he said softly. "Thorvin. We fought together against Surtur, three hundred years ago. He was a good warrior."
"He was still a good warrior," I stood up. "It's just not enough against the Necrosword."
We moved further. Bodies were everywhere.
Not just gods—priests, servants, warriors of the mortal guard. Gorr made no distinctions. Everything that breathed, everything that served the gods—dead.
The streets were flooded with glowing blood. It gathered in puddles, flowed down temple steps, reflecting the sickly sky.
"Here," I stopped at the entrance to the central temple.
"What?"
"I feel it. The Necrosword was here. For a long time."
The cold inside me pulsed—not my cold, another's. An echo of the primordial darkness that had passed through this place.
The temple was huge—the dome lost in height, the columns reaching into the sky. The mosaic on the floor depicted the creation of the world—stars being born from chaos, gods bringing light.
Now the mosaic was flooded with blood.
In the center of the temple were twelve bodies. The main gods of the pantheon. They lay in a circle, heads toward the center, as if someone had specifically arranged them that way.
"A ritual?" Sif frowned.
"No," I walked around the circle, trying not to step on the blood. "A message. He wanted it to look... beautiful. By his standards."
"Beautiful?!"
"For him—yes. It's art. He is showing that the gods are helpless. That their power is an illusion. That they fall just like mortals."
Thor dropped to one knee by one of the bodies. A goddess with silver hair, in white robes. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
"Ellara," Thor said. "Goddess of the Dawn. She came to Asgard after the victory over Surtur. We celebrated. She danced with me."
His voice wavered.
"Thor," Sif placed a hand on his shoulder. "We will find him. He will pay."
I continued to inspect the temple. Something was wrong. Something I couldn't see, but felt.
"Someone is here," I said.
Both raised their weapons.
"Where?"
"I don't know. But... I feel it. Life. Faint, fading, but life."
I closed my eyes, listening to the cold within. The Necrosword had left a trail—and that trail led...
"There. The side chapel."
We moved there—Thor in front, hammer ready. Sif on the right, sword drawn. I was in the back, unarmed, but with ice needles ready to form in my hand.
The door to the chapel was slightly ajar. Behind it—darkness.
Thor entered first. Lightning ran across the hammer, illuminating the room.
A small room. A storage area of some kind—shelves with relics, chests, scrolls. And in the corner, behind an overturned cabinet...
A child.
No, not a child. A young god—by immortal standards, that could mean anything from twenty to two hundred years. A boy with golden hair, in a torn tunic. His eyes were squeezed shut, hands pressed to his ears.
He was shaking.
"Alive," Sif breathed out.
Thor lowered the hammer, knelt before the boy.
"Hey. Hey, little one. You're safe. We are from Asgard."
The boy did not react. He continued to shake, muttering something incoherent.
"Shadow... a shadow with teeth... he spoke to them... asked..."
"Shock," I said. "He saw everything. And his mind couldn't handle it."
"Can you help?" Thor turned to me.
"Maybe. If Sif doesn't stick a sword in me while I'm trying."
Sif snarled but took a step back.
I knelt beside the boy. My Seidr was silent—the runes on my clothes were still working. But the cold... the cold was there.
Slowly, carefully, I placed my hand on the boy's forehead. His skin was hot—a fever. His body was fighting the shock.
"Look at me," I said softly. "Only at me. You're safe."
The boy opened his eyes. They were golden—like the sun that was dying over this world.
"He killed them," the boy's voice was hoarse. "All of them. I heard them screaming. I was hiding, and they were screaming."
"I know. It was terrifying."
"He spoke to them. Before... before..."
"What did he say?"
The boy shook harder.
"He asked where their prayers were. Asked why they didn't save his children. Asked..." tears streamed down his face, "...asked what it was like to die, knowing that no one is coming to help."
Thor clenched his fists. Sif turned away.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Ferin. I... I was a disciple. In the temple. I was supposed to become a priest..."
"Ferin. Listen to me. You survived. That is important. You are a witness. You can help us stop him."
The boy took a shaky breath.
"How?"
"Tell us what you saw. Everything you remember. What he looked like, how he moved, where he went."
Ferin squeezed his eyes shut. His hands clenched into fists.
"He... he was gray. Like ash. His body was wrapped in something black and living. It was moving. And the sword... the sword was like a hole in the world. Near it, everything went dark."
"Good. How did he move?"
"Fast. Very fast. They tried to fight... Thorvin, Ellara, everyone... but he was faster. As if he knew what they would do before they did it."
Precognition? Or just speed surpassing the gods?
"Did he say anything about where he was going next?"
Ferin nodded.
"He spoke to Ellara. Before... killing her. He said she wouldn't be the last. That he was going..." the boy frowned, remembering, "...going where the biggest lie is hidden."
Thor and Sif looked at each other.
"Asgard," Sif said.
"Not necessarily," I countered. "'The biggest lie'—that could be anything. Gorr is poetic in his hatred."
"But Asgard is the obvious target."
"Which is why, perhaps, it isn't Asgard. Obviousness is not his style."
I stood up, helping Ferin up. The boy could barely stand on his feet.
"We need to take him out of here," I said. "This world is dying. Without the guardian gods, there will be nothing living left here in a few days."
"Can the Bifrost carry four?" Thor addressed the air, knowing Heimdall was listening.
A few seconds of silence. Then—a distant hum.
"He says yes," Thor said. "But first we must inspect the rest. In case there are more survivors."
"No," Ferin shook his head. "He killed everyone. I... I saw. I walked around afterward, looking... no one. Only bodies."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Thor looked at me. I nodded—the boy wasn't lying. His eyes were too empty for a lie.
"Then we need one more thing," I said. "Traces. Information. Anything that helps us understand how he operates."
We split up. Thor and Sif inspected the outer temples and walls. I took the library—if there were records of the Necrosword or Gorr in this world, they would be there.
Ferin followed me like a shadow. He didn't fall behind by a single step.
"Aren't you afraid of me?" I asked as we entered the ruined library building.
"Why should I be?"
"I am the one the Asgardians call a traitor. A murderer. A monster."
The boy looked at me with a long gaze—too mature for his face.
"I saw a monster yesterday. You don't look like him."
"Appearances can be deceiving."
"Maybe. But you didn't kill me. And you're trying to stop the one who killed my family. That's enough."
His family. I hadn't asked, but now I understood—one of the twelve dead gods had been his relative. Mother? Father? Both?
"I'm sorry," I said. And, to my own surprise, I meant it.
"Thank you."
The library was destroyed—shelves overturned, scrolls scattered, several cabinets burned to the ground. But not everything. Gorr wasn't interested in knowledge—he was interested in death.
I began to search.
Scrolls in unknown languages—set aside. Books on theology—useless. Chronicles of the world—maybe later.
And finally—in a far corner, in a chest someone had tried to hide under the rubble—ancient texts.
I unrolled the first scroll. The language was strange, but I could read it—either Loki's memory or some artifact embedded in the text.
"The Primordial Darkness. Knull. The first of the dark ones, the last of the ancients. He was when there was no light. He will be when the light fades."
Next—a drawing. Crude, schematic, but recognizable. A figure in the darkness with a sword in hand. The Necrosword.
"The Blade of Hunger. All-Black. Having tasted the blood of Celestials, it gained consciousness. Having tasted the blood of gods, it gains strength. With every death, it grows."
I read further. Ferin watched over my shoulder.
"The blade chooses a host. Not the strongest—the most hateful. One whose hatred burns brighter than stars. One whose pain is deeper than the abyss. The host and the blade become one. The blade feeds on hatred. The host feeds on the blade's power."
"Symbiosis," I muttered. "They depend on each other."
"What does that mean?" Ferin asked.
"It means that Gorr is not just a killer with a magic sword. He has... merged with the Necrosword. The blade has become part of him. And the more he kills, the stronger the bond."
I turned the scroll. On the reverse side was another text, more recent judging by the handwriting.
"The way to break the bond. The blade attaches to hatred. If the hatred leaves—the bond weakens. But the hatred of All-Black is eternal. The only way is to make the host let go of his hatred. To forgive."
Forgive. To make Gorr, who lost his family and killed thousands of gods in revenge—forgive.
It would be easier to extinguish the sun.
"Find anything?" Thor's voice from the entrance.
I rolled up the scroll.
"Maybe. We need to go back."
The Bifrost took us an hour later. The rainbow struck from the sky, and the dead world was left behind.
Asgard waited—golden, shining, alive. After Falligar, it seemed almost painfully bright.
Odin met us in the small throne room. Frigga was beside him. Tyr, the Warriors Three—everyone was there.
"Report," the All-Father did not waste time on greetings.
Thor spoke—dryly, militarily. The number of victims, the state of the bodies, the nature of the wounds. Sif added details. I remained silent until it was my turn.
"Found something in the library," I placed the scroll on the table. "Ancient records of the Necrosword. And how to break the bond between the blade and the host."
Odin took the scroll and unrolled it. His eye slid across the lines.
"Make the host forgive," he read aloud. "That is not a solution."
"I know. But it's the only thing we have. Killing Gorr with a conventional weapon is impossible—the Necrosword protects him. Waiting him out is impossible—he won't stop. Negotiating is impossible—he doesn't listen. There is only one thing left: find a way to separate him from the sword."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
"I don't know yet. But I think..." I hesitated.
"Speak."
"Gorr hates gods because they didn't save his family. His wife and children died while he prayed. That is the core of his hatred. If we find a way to... fix that..."
"Resurrect the dead?" Tyr snorted. "Even for us, that is impossible."
"Not resurrect. But show him... that his pain was heard. That someone understands."
"You want to pity a killer?" Sif spat with disgust.
"I want to stop him. At any cost."
Silence.
Odin looked at me for a long time. Then he shifted his gaze to Ferin, who stood in the corner, pale and silent.
"The boy is the only survivor?"
"Yes," Thor answered. "His name is Ferin. He saw Gorr."
"Ferin," Odin addressed him, and the boy flinched. "You are brave. Asgard will grant you refuge."
"Thank you, All-Father."
Odin nodded, then returned to business.
"Where is Gorr heading now?" Thor asked.
"It is unclear. Heimdall has lost his trail. The Necrosword creates... a blind spot. Wherever he is, I cannot see."
"He could be anywhere," Frigga said quietly.
"Yes."
I looked at the map of the Nine Realms hanging over the table. The dots representing the dead pantheons glowed a dim red. Falligar. And others—those that had died earlier.
A pattern. There had to be a pattern.
"He's heading toward the center," I said. "But not in a straight line. He's... circling. Like a predator narrowing its circles around its prey."
"And who is the prey?" Tyr asked.
I looked at Odin.
"You. Or what you're hiding."
The silence became tangible.
"What do you mean?" the All-Father's voice was steady. Too steady.
"'The biggest lie'—that's what Gorr said before killing Ellara. He is going where the biggest lie is hidden. Asgard has many secrets, All-Father. Which of them is big enough to attract the God Butcher's attention?"
Odin was silent.
Frigga went pale.
Thor looked from his father to his mother and back.
"Father? What is he talking about?"
Silence.
And then Frigga spoke:
"Hela."
Odin closed his eye.
"Who is Hela?" Thor raised his voice. "Mother? Father? Who is Hela?!"
I knew the answer. But it wasn't for me to give.
Odin opened his eye. He looked at his son. And he said the words that changed everything:
"Your sister."
Silence. Thor opened his mouth but didn't have time to utter a single word.
Odin suddenly snapped his head up—as if he heard something the others didn't. His face changed.
"Heimdall?.."
A pause. The All-Father listened.
"Omnipotence City. The gods are fading. Right now."
"He's there?" I asked.
"Heimdall doesn't see him. But he sees the gods of Omnipotence City fading. One by one."
Thor was already running toward the door.
"The Bifrost! Now!"
The conversation about Hela, about sisters and lies—all of it was left hanging in the air. Unspoken. Unexplained.
But gods were dying right now. Everything else could wait.
--
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}