In Helheim, time flowed differently. The grey sky never changed—no dawn, no sunset, no movement of shadows. Just an endless greyness, pressing down from above like the lid of a coffin. I tried to count my steps but lost track after the first thousand—numbers seemed meaningless here.
"How long have we been walking?" Sif asked.
"I don't know. There is no way to measure it here."
"It feels like an eternity to me."
"Perhaps it is."
The landscape changed slowly, reluctantly. The grey plain gave way to hills—gentle slopes covered in something that looked like grass from afar. Up close, it turned out to be something else: thin grey threads, like hair, growing directly out of the ground. They swayed, even though there was no wind.
"Do not step on them," I said, bypassing a particularly thick patch.
"Why?" Thor asked.
"I don't know. I just don't want to find out."
He didn't argue.
The trees appeared later—if they could even be called trees. Black trunks, stripped of bark, smooth as bone. Branches grew sideways rather than upward, intertwining with each other to form something resembling vaults. It was darker beneath them than in the open space.
"It looks like a forest," Sif noted.
"It was a forest. A long time ago. Now, it is just a memory of one."
"How do you know?"
I didn't know. I just felt it. Helheim spoke to me—not in words, but in sensations. Images on the edge of my consciousness. This place was old. Older than Asgard, older than the gods, older than anything I could imagine.
And it recognized me.
My Jotun blood responded to every step. Not with cold—with something else. Kinship? Memory? It is difficult to describe in words that for which words do not exist.
We met the first of the dead at the edge of the forest.
A woman sat at the roots of a tree, her arms wrapped around her knees. Grey, semi-transparent, with hair that merged with the threads on the ground. She did not raise her head as we passed by.
"Do not look at her," I said quietly.
"Why?" Thor looked back anyway.
"The dead feel the attention of the living. It draws them. If you allow it, they won't let go."
"Did you read about this?"
"Yes."
A lie. I hadn't read it—I knew it. From somewhere inside, from that part of myself that belonged to this world more than to Asgard.
Further on, the dead became more numerous. They stood between the trees—motionless as statues. They sat on the ground, staring into nowhere. Some lay curled up as if sleeping. But they weren't sleeping. No one slept here.
A child.
I stopped so abruptly that Sif nearly crashed into my back.
A boy of about seven stood directly in our path. Grey, like all the others, with hollow eyes. But in his hands was something—a small figure carved from bone. A toy.
He was looking at us.
"We'll go around," Thor said.
"Wait."
I knelt, lowering myself to his eye level. The boy didn't move, but something in his gaze changed. Focus. He saw me.
"Hello," I said.
Silence.
"Loki," Sif warned.
"A minute."
The boy's lips moved. Soundlessly, but I caught the word. One word that he repeated over and over.
Mama.
Something tightened in my chest. Not pity—something deeper. Understanding? Recognition?
I straightened up.
"Let's go."
We bypassed the boy. He didn't turn his head, didn't try to follow. He just stood there, pressing the bone toy to his chest, soundlessly calling for someone who would never come.
"Do children end up here too?" Sif asked when we had moved far enough away.
"Everyone ends up here. Death makes no exceptions."
"But Valhalla..."
"Valhalla is for warriors. For those who fall in battle. The rest are here."
She went silent. Thor didn't say anything either, but his jaw was clenched so hard the muscles stood out beneath his skin.
The forest ended suddenly—one tree, then nothing. A plain again, but different. The earth here was not grey, but black as coal. And on it were tracks.
Furrows in the ground, deep and uneven. Something massive had passed here, leaving imprints that would not heal.
"What is this?" Sif knelt, examining a track.
"I don't know," I honestly admitted. "Something large."
"How large?"
I looked at the distance between the tracks. I calculated.
"Very."
Thor looked around, hand on his hammer.
"Is it still here?"
"I don't sense it. But that means nothing."
We walked along the tracks, keeping our distance. They led in the same direction we were going—toward the distant silhouette of the citadel on the horizon.
The tracks vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. They simply cut off, as if the creature that left them had dissolved into the air. Or fallen through the ground. Or never existed.
Helheim played with perception. It showed what it wanted to show. It hid what it wanted to hide.
"A river ahead," Thor pointed.
A silvery strip crossed the plain—wide, slow, unnaturally calm. The bridge over it was visible from afar—a stone arch, ancient even by the standards of this place.
We quickened our pace.
The bridge was called Gjallarbru. I knew this from the books I had read in the Asgard library—in the section that few people visited. The records of Helheim were incomplete, contradictory, clearly edited by someone's hand. But some things remained.
The river beneath the bridge was called Gjöll. What flowed in it was not water.
A guardian waited in the middle of the bridge.
From afar, she seemed like a statue—a motionless figure in armor made of something white, resembling bone. Up close, it became clear it was not bone. It was ice. Ancient, compressed to the density of stone, but still ice.
Her face was pale and elongated, with eyes without pupils. Only whiteness, bright against the backdrop of the grey world.
"The living," her voice was like the crack of a frozen river. "Three living beings on my bridge. It has been a long time since that happened."
"We are going to Hela," Thor stepped forward.
"I know where you are going. The question is—why."
"To warn her. Of a threat."
"A threat?" The guardian tilted her head. The movement was unnatural, mechanical. "In the realm of the dead, there are no threats. Everything has already happened here."
"Not everything. A God Butcher is coming here. He might already be here."
A pause. Something changed in those white eyes—a shadow of emotion? Interest?
"The one who carries the hungry blade. Yes. I felt him. He passed... recently. Not across the bridge—through the fabric of the world. His sword cuts reality."
"Where is he now?"
"He goes to the citadel. He is not in a hurry. He is enjoying himself."
"What?"
"The anticipation. The fear. The way the Queen prepares for his arrival."
Thor stepped closer:
"Let us pass."
"I will let you pass."
She stepped aside—smoothly, silently. Her ice armor did not creak or clink. It just moved as part of her body.
We stepped onto the bridge. The stone beneath our feet was warm—the only warm place in all of Helheim.
"Wait," the guardian addressed me. "You."
I stopped.
"Jotun," she said. Not a question—a statement. "In Asgardian skin. An interesting combination."
"I've been told."
"Your blood remembers this place. I see it. I feel it."
"What exactly do you feel?"
"The emptiness. The one that existed before the stars. It lives in you, just as it lives here."
I didn't answer. What was there to say?
"The Queen will feel it too," the guardian continued. "Be careful. She does not like it when something kindred appears in her realm."
"Thank you for the warning."
"It is not a warning. It is an observation. The difference is in the intent."
She turned away, returning to her place in the center of the bridge.
We crossed the Gjöll. The river beneath us flowed soundlessly—thick, silvery, resembling molten metal. I tried not to look down, but with my peripheral vision, I saw movement. Shadows. Faces. Hands reaching for the surface but never reaching it.
The other shore met us with a new landscape.
The Fields of the Fallen.
I had read about them, but reading had not prepared me for the reality.
the plain stretched to the horizon—flat, infinite, covered with the same black earth as before. And on it were warriors.
Not dozens. Not hundreds. Not thousands.
Armies.
They stood in ranks—endless, receding into the grey haze. Armor of all eras, all worlds, all races. Bronze and iron, steel and things I didn't recognize. Weapons in their hands—swords, spears, axes, bows, things for which I knew no name.
And eyes. Thousands, millions of hollow eyes, turned toward nowhere.
"Merciful Norns," Sif breathed out.
Thor was silent. His face was like stone.
"All those who fell in battles but did not make it to Valhalla," I said. "From all the millennia. From all worlds."
"Why are they here and not there?"
"Valhalla does not hold everyone. Odin chooses the best. Those needed for the final battle. The rest..."
I didn't finish. I didn't need to.
We began our path between the ranks. The dead warriors did not move, but I felt their presence—heavy, pressing, like the weight of water overhead. Each of them had once been alive. Had fought, had hoped, had believed in something. Now—just shadows, frozen in eternal anticipation.
I recognized some. Not personally—by their armor, by their crests. Asgardians. Many Asgardians.
"Thor," Sif suddenly stopped.
He turned around.
She was looking to the side—at a group of warriors in old Asgardian armor. Six figures standing slightly apart from the main ranks.
"Sif?"
"The third from the left. In the helmet with the dent."
Thor looked. His eyes widened.
"Halvar?"
"Yes."
The warrior stood motionless, like all the others. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a sword in hand and a shield on his back. A scar on his chin was the only detail that set him apart among thousands of similar figures.
"He died two hundred years ago," Sif said quietly. "In the battle with the fire giants. He covered me with his shield from a strike that should have killed me."
"I remember," Thor nodded. "A worthy death. He should have..."
"He should have made it to Valhalla. Yes."
Silence.
Sif took a step toward the figure. Then another.
"Sif," I warned.
"I know. A minute."
She stopped three steps away from the dead warrior. She looked at him—for a long time, without looking away.
"I stitched that scar for him myself," she said. "Three days before that battle. He laughed. He said that now women would consider him dangerous. That he would have to fight off the suitors."
Halvar did not move. His hollow eyes looked through her, into the grey sky.
"I never thanked him. For that strike. For the shield. I thought—I would have time when we met in Valhalla."
Her voice was steady. Too steady.
"And he has been here all this time. Alone. Among strangers."
Thor approached and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Sif..."
"Why?" she turned to him. "He died protecting a comrade. Is that not a worthy death?"
"I don't know."
"Your father knows. He chooses who is worthy of Valhalla. He decided that Halvar was not."
Thor did not answer. What was there to answer?
"Let's go," Sif turned away from Halvar. Abruptly, as if snapping something inside. "There's no point in standing around."
We walked on.
She did not look back. But her shoulders were stiffer than before, and her hand did not let go of the sword hilt.
Among the dead warriors, others were encountered.
A woman in armor I didn't recognize—black metal covered in runes that glowed even here. She stood apart, and there was an empty space around her. The other dead kept their distance.
"Who is that?" Thor asked.
"I don't know. Someone who was feared even after death."
We bypassed her.
Further on—a group of creatures that were not human. Four arms, two heads, bodies covered in scales. Warriors of some world I had never heard of.
Further still—a giant. Not a Frost Giant—a Stone Giant. His body loomed over the others like a tower. He was on his knees, head bowed, and even in death, he looked broken.
"How many worlds participated in Asgard's wars?" Sif asked.
"More than are recorded in the chronicles."
Thor was silent. He looked at the dead with an expression I couldn't read. Anger? Shame? A realization of something he hadn't considered before?
Helheim showed the truth. The truth that Asgard preferred to hide behind golden walls and heroic ballads.
The Citadel was approaching.
Now I could distinguish the details—walls of black stone, smooth as obsidian. Towers, sharp and uneven, like a dead man's fingers. Gates, massive and dark.
But between us and the citadel, there was something else.
A structure in the middle of the plain. Not a house—something else. Circular, low, built of bones. Human? No, too large. The bones of giants, stacked into walls and a vault.
"What is that?" Sif slowed her pace.
"A temple," I understood before I thought. "An old temple. Someone was worshipped here before Hela became Queen."
"Before Hela?"
"Helheim existed before her. She simply took the throne. Became the face of this place."
We approached. The entrance to the temple was open—a dark void leading inside.
"We are not going in," Thor said.
"Agreed."
But something made me stop. A sound? No, there were no sounds here. Movement? Also no.
A sensation.
Someone was watching from the darkness.
I stepped toward the entrance—against my own will, as if something were pulling me.
"Loki!"
Thor's hand landed on my shoulder, stopping me.
"What are you doing?"
"I... I don't know."
The darkness in the opening moved. It thickened. It took shape.
A face.
Huge, occupying the entire entrance. Its features were impossible to distinguish—only the eyes. Two voids, deeper than any darkness.
You have returned,—the voice was everywhere and nowhere. In my head, in my bones, in the very air.
"I have never been here," I said.
Your blood was. Long ago. Before the gods called themselves gods. We remember.
"Who are you?"
Those who were before. And will be after. When the stars go out, we will remain.
The face began to dissolve. Melting like smoke in the wind.
You carry a void within. Guard it. You will need it.
The darkness collapsed. The temple entrance was once again just an entrance—a black void leading into emptiness.
"Loki?" Thor was still holding my shoulder. "What was that?"
"I don't know."
And it was the truth. But something had changed. Something inside had responded to the words from the darkness. Had recognized them.
"Let's go," I stepped back from the temple. "We need to keep moving."
Sif looked at me with an expression that balanced between alertness and concern.
"You were talking to something," she said. "We only heard your voice."
"It spoke in my head."
"What did it say?"
I hesitated.
"That my blood remembers this place. And that the void within me will be needed."
Thor and Sif exchanged a look.
"Is that good or bad?" Thor asked.
"I have no idea."
We left the temple behind and walked on.
The final stretch of the journey was the strangest.
The landscape began to change. The black earth was replaced by something else—grey, granular, resembling ash. It rose in small clouds with every step, settling on armor and skin.
The dead here were different.
Not warriors—ordinary people. Peasants, merchants, craftsmen. They sat in groups as if waiting for something. Some held hands.
"Families," Sif understood before I did. "They died together."
"Wars. Epidemics. Catastrophes. Those who died not in battle, but beside those they loved."
We walked past them in silence.
One old man raised his head as we passed nearby. His eyes—not entirely empty, something still flickered in them—followed us.
"The living," he whispered. A voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "The living have come."
We didn't stop. We didn't answer.
"Tell them," he continued, addressing our backs. "Tell the living that we are waiting. We are still waiting."
His voice dissolved into the silence.
I didn't turn around. But I remembered.
The Citadel was close.
Black walls loomed ahead—massive, smooth, without seams, as if carved from a single cliff. Towers pierced the grey sky. The gates...
The gates were open.
"Is this an invitation?" Sif asked.
"Or a trap."
"What difference does it make at this stage?"
We stopped at the foot of the walls. From here, the citadel seemed even larger—it pressed down, loomed, overwhelmed.
And then I felt it.
Sharply, painfully—a familiar pulsation on the edge of my consciousness. Hunger. Emptiness. The Necrosword.
"Gorr," I said.
"Where?" Thor gripped his hammer.
"Inside. He's already there."
Sif cursed—briefly, in a soldierly manner.
"Are we too late?"
"I don't know. But he's close to Hela. Very close."
Thor looked at the open gates. The darkness behind them was thick, almost tangible.
"Then there's no use waiting."
He stepped forward.
The darkness parted, letting him through.
Sif followed.
I lingered for a moment. I turned back.
The Fields of the Fallen lay behind—endless ranks of dead warriors, the grey plain, the temple of giant bones. Helheim, which had recognized me.
You have returned,—the voice from the temple had said.
Maybe it was right. Maybe a part of me had always been here.
I stepped into the darkness.
---
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
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