The darkness beyond the gates was not as thick as it appeared from the outside. We entered a corridor—wide, high, carved from a single solid block of black stone. The walls were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting our figures—distorted, elongated, looking more like shadows than living beings.
Green fires floated in the air without visible support, not so much lighting the way as marking it. The cold glow made everything around us feel surreal, as if we were walking not through a corridor, but through someone's dream.
"Cozy place," Sif muttered, her voice echoing off the walls longer than it should have, as if the citadel itself were repeating her words, tasting them.
We moved forward, the corridor leading us deeper—no turns, no branches, just a straight line vanishing into the gloom. Doors appeared on the sides—closed, covered in runes that pulsed faintly as we approached, but none opened, as if we were being shown possibilities we could not grasp.
The corridor ended abruptly—one last set of green fires, and then a void ahead, a darkness so impenetrable and dense it felt as if we were standing on the edge of an abyss.
Then, light flared.
Green flames ignited simultaneously on dozens of torches around the perimeter of a massive hall, revealing a space of staggering scale. The ceiling was lost in the shadows—so high it couldn't be seen even now. Pillars of black stone surged upward, and each was wide enough for a giant to hide behind.
At the far end of the hall, on a dais made of things I preferred not to look at too closely, sat a throne. Bones, weapons, bodies—all fused into a single mass, both organic and mineral, as if death itself had decided to create a place to rest.
And on the throne sat She.
From a distance, Hela seemed merely a woman—tall, slender, in a black dress that bled into the surrounding shadows. Her hair—black, long, falling almost to the floor—framed her face. Her posture was relaxed, almost bored, as if our appearance held not the slightest interest for her.
Up close, everything changed.
Half of her face was beautiful—perfect features, sharp cheekbones, full lips, skin pale but alive, and an eye that was green, bright, burning with internal fire. The other half was gray and dead, with skin stretched over bone like parchment, and an eye—equally green, but dull, as if covered by a film. The boundary between the two sides ran exactly down the middle of her face, sharp and unnatural, like a line drawn by a knife.
The Goddess of Death: half alive, half not.
Around the throne stood warriors—dozens of figures in black armor with black weapons and green fire in their empty sockets. An army of the dead, ready for battle at their queen's first word.
We stopped in the center of the hall, and a heavy, expectant silence hung between us.
"Two sons of Odin and a shield-maiden," Hela spoke first. Her voice was low and velvety, with a note of mockery that could be either a game or a threat. "What an honor for my humble abode."
"Sister," Thor stepped forward. There was something in his voice I hadn't heard before—not fear, but not certainty either; more like an attempt to find his footing.
"Do not call me that," the words fell like stones, cold and heavy. "You have not earned that right."
The dead warriors around the throne stirred—not an attack, but a warning. Hands moved to weapons; empty eyes turned toward us.
"We did not come to fight," Thor raised his hands, showing empty palms in a universal gesture of peace.
"Indeed?" Hela tilted her head. The movement was strange, too slow and fluid, non-human, as if her body obeyed different laws. "Then why? A family visit? It would be touching if it weren't a few millennia too late."
"Gorr," Thor tried to get to the point, as diplomacy clearly wasn't working. "The God Butcher. He is..."
"I know he is here," Hela interrupted, her voice level. "I feel every creature that enters my realm, every shadow, every breath, every step. He thinks I do not notice, but he is mistaken."
She rose from the throne in one fluid motion, like smoke rising from a dying fire, and descended a few steps toward us.
"The question is—why should I listen to you? Why not kill you right now and send your heads to Asgard as a message?"
The dead warriors took a step forward. Sif gripped her sword; Thor tensed, his hand moving toward his hammer in an instinctive motion.
"Because Gorr will kill you if you don't," I said, my voice sounding calmer than I felt.
Hela stopped. Her gaze—both eyes, the living and the dead—shifted to me. She looked for a long time, scrutinizingly, as if seeing something beneath the surface that the others missed.
"A Jotun in Asgardian skin," she murmured. "Another of Odin's foundlings. He always loved collecting broken toys, hoping he could fix them and put them to use."
I didn't answer. I just waited, feeling her gaze slide over me, searching.
"Interesting," she tilted her head the other way. A new note entered her voice—not quite interest, but something like surprise. "Helheim has been whispering about you since you entered my realm. It says you are... familiar, though you have never stepped on this soil before."
Something stirred inside me—a realization clicking into place like a mosaic finally forming a picture. The words of the guardian on the bridge, the voice in the temple of giant bones, the way this place responded to my every step, recognizing me.
You have returned.
Not Loki, who was born in Jotunheim and raised in Asgard. But the person I was before the fall into the Abyss—the one who fell asleep in front of a TV in a Moscow apartment and never woke up.
Death leaves a mark. I carried a fragment of that transition, that non-existence from which I had come into this body. Helheim sensed its own; it recognized one who had already been to the other side and returned.
That was why I felt the Necrosword so sharply. That was why the voice in the temple spoke to me. That was why this place felt strangely familiar, despite me never having been here.
I kept my face neutral, accepting this knowledge as just another piece of the puzzle my life had become.
"You've realized something," Hela said with certainty. "I see it in your eyes. Something fell into place. But you won't say what."
"Everyone has their secrets," I replied, meeting her gaze.
The silence lasted for several heartbeats.
"Yes, everyone," she smirked. Something shifted between us—not an alliance or trust, but a recognition that two beings with secrets could give one another.
"Gorr," I returned to the subject. "He has killed dozens of pantheons, hundreds of gods over his millennia of hunting. The Necrosword feeds on divine power—the more he kills, the stronger he gets. And you—one of the most powerful entities in the Nine Realms—are more than just a perfect target for him."
Hela didn't answer immediately. She continued descending the steps. Her dress flowed behind her, merging with the shadows so perfectly it was hard to tell where the fabric ended and the darkness began.
"I am the Goddess of Death," she said, stopping ten paces from us. "In my realm, I am invincible. Here, my power is absolute. Every shadow, every stone, every speck of dust obeys my will."
"Gorr killed gods in their own temples, on their own worlds, in places where their power should have been absolute," I countered. "The power of the location saved none of them. I saw the results with my own eyes—on Falligar, on Omnipolis. Bodies of gods who didn't even realize what was happening before the Necrosword drank them dry."
Hela remained silent. I saw her fingers twitch—a barely noticeable movement, but enough to know my words had hit home.
"And what do you propose?" she asked finally. The word "alliance" hung in the air, unspoken but obvious.
"A temporary agreement," I said. "A common enemy, a common goal. Afterward—every soul for themselves. No obligations longer than necessary."
"And in return? What is Asgard prepared to offer me for this... service?"
"I will speak with Odin about revising the terms of your imprisonment."
Hela burst into laughter—sharp, angry, with a note of the madness that comes from millennia of solitude in the realm of shadows.
"You?" she wiped her eyes with a gesture that felt almost human. "You will speak with Odin? The foundling, the traitor, the one he himself would imprison if he didn't need him right now?"
"Exactly so."
"And you think he will listen to you? Take your opinion into account?"
"I don't think—I know I can convince him. Convincing people of things they don't want to believe is perhaps the only thing I am truly good at."
Hela stopped laughing. She watched me for a long time, as if trying to see what lay behind my words.
"You are either very stupid or very arrogant. I cannot decide which is worse."
"Definitely the latter. Which means I have at least a minimal basis for my confidence."
She snorted—almost with approval. My audacity amused her. Then she turned to Thor, beginning to circle him like a predator studying prey that doesn't yet realize how much danger it's in.
"And what do you say? Come to save a sister you only heard about yesterday?"
"Two days ago," Thor corrected.
"Oh, two whole days. Forgive me for not accounting for such a significant difference."
"I want to understand. I want to hear your side of the story," Thor said.
"My side?" Hela stopped in front of him, too close, within striking distance. If she attacked now, he wouldn't have time to lift his hammer. "And what side have you heard? Let me guess—that I was his weapon, loyal and obedient, and then I went mad with bloodlust and power? That he tried to stop me for the good of Asgard, and I attacked him, leaving him no choice?"
Thor didn't answer. His silence was enough.
"Predictable," Hela smirked. There was a bitterness of millennia in that expression. "He always knew how to tell stories to look like a victim of circumstances—the wise ruler forced to make 'hard choices'."
"Then tell your version," Thor said.
"Why? You'll believe him anyway. Children always believe their fathers, especially when the fathers know how to say the right words."
"I want to hear it. And I promise to listen to the end."
Hela watched him. Something flickered in her eyes—not anger, but something like a long-standing pain that had never fully healed.
"He told you I didn't want to stop. That I wanted everything—every world, every star, every life in the universe. Is that true?"
"Yes. That is exactly what he said."
"And did he tell you why? Why I didn't want to stop?"
Thor was silent.
"Because it was a lie," Hela took a step back. Her voice grew quieter, but no softer. "His great 'enough conquest, it's time to build' speech was a lie from start to finish. He didn't stop because he was satisfied or because he reached some higher wisdom. He stopped because he got scared—of me. Scared that I had become stronger than he calculated. Scared that the armies were starting to shout my name as loudly as his."
Her voice dropped even lower, but every word cut the air.
"He didn't imprison me because I was a threat to Asgard or the Nine Realms. He imprisoned me because I was a threat to him—to his power, his legacy, his place in history. It's easier to get rid of an inconvenient daughter than to admit she surpassed her father."
"He said he was afraid," Thor said slowly. "Afraid I would become the same. That the lust for war in the Odinson blood would take over."
"Really?" Hela arched an eyebrow. "That's new. He usually doesn't admit to fear; he finds it beneath his dignity. Perhaps old age has softened him. Or perhaps he's just found a new way to manipulate—through the appearance of honesty."
She looked at me again. "You understand what I'm talking about, don't you? You were also inconvenient. Also hidden away when you stopped fitting into someone's plans."
"We aren't friends or allies," I replied, not letting the conversation veer that way. "We just have a common problem to solve."
"An honest answer," Hela smirked. "A rarity for one raised in Asgard."
"I wasn't raised in Asgard. I was raised in its shadow. That's a very different thing."
She returned to the throne but didn't sit. She stood beside it, resting her hand on the bone armrest.
"Fine. I will listen to you," she said. "Not because I believe your promises—they are worth nothing without the ability to fulfill them. Not because I want to help Asgard—I would gladly watch it burn. Simply because the enemy of my enemy, even while remaining an enemy, is sometimes useful."
The dead warriors around us relaxed—they didn't lower their weapons, but they stepped back.
"But if this is a trap," Hela continued, her voice colder than the ice of Jotunheim. "If Odin thinks he can use Gorr to get rid of me, weaken us both, and then finish off whoever is left..."
Black blades appeared in her hands—from nowhere, from the shadows themselves. Long, thin, looking like the claws of a predator.
"...I will kill you all, slowly and inventively, and send your heads to Asgard in gift-wrap with a note so Father knows exactly where his plan failed."
"It's not a trap," Thor said with a confidence I couldn't entirely share.
"We shall see," she vanished the blades instantly. "Now, tell me about Gorr—everything you know. Every detail."
I opened my mouth to start—and froze.
The sensation came sharply, painfully—a familiar pulse echoing in my bones, my teeth, every cell in my body. The Necrosword. It was close. Much closer than it had been a moment ago.
"He's here," I said.
Hela tensed. Her eyes—both of them—flared brighter with green fire.
"I know. I feel it."
The walls of the citadel shuddered. The green fires blinked, went out for a second, then flared again—dimmer than before, as if something was draining their strength.
"My defensive charms," Hela hissed. "He's cutting through them like cobwebs."
Another blow. A crack raced across the wall to the right—a black line on black stone. I could feel the citadel shuddering in pain.
"Faster than I calculated," Hela backed toward the throne, her hands already forming new blades. "He didn't wait. He didn't play at a siege."
An explosion tore through the air.
A section of the wall collapsed. Massive stone blocks flew into the hall. One of the pillars tilted and crashed, shattering into pieces. Dust filled the air—gray and suffocating, smelling of stone and something else... something that shouldn't exist.
Through the breach in the wall stepped a figure. Gorr the God Butcher had come for his prey.
Near the Necrosword in his hand, everything grew dark. The air thickened; the stone lost its color; space itself seemed to shrink as if reality were recoiling from the blade in fear.
Behind Gorr were the Berserkers—dozens of black silhouettes pouring into the hall through the breach like dark water breaking a dam.
"Daughter of Odin," Gorr spoke. His voice was calm, almost tender, like a man addressing an old acquaintance. "Goddess of Death, Mistress of Helheim. The last on my list for today."
Hela did not retreat. She stood by the throne with black blades in hand, the green fire in her eyes burning brighter than ever.
"You have come to my realm, my home, without invitation," she said. "It will be the last mistake of your long life."
"I have killed gods in their temples, their palaces, their impenetrable fortresses," Gorr replied. "Walls save no one. Prayers save no one. Power saves no one. I have seen it thousands of times, and every time, the gods fall."
He took a step forward. Hela's dead warriors raised their weapons.
"Four against one," Gorr surveyed us. A phantom of a smile appeared on his gray face. "The Goddess of Death, the God of Thunder, a warrior, and a Jotun. Almost fair. Almost worthy."
"Less talk," Hela didn't throw a blade; she became the attack.
The Goddess of Death moved in a way no living being could—a blurred shadow, a stream of black silk and lethal steel. One moment she was by the throne; the next, she was before Gorr. Her blades rained down on him in a flurry of strikes too fast for the eye to follow.
Gorr retreated.
For the first time since his appearance, he backed away, blocking strikes with the Necrosword. Surprise flickered on his face. Hela gave him no room to breathe, no chance to seize the initiative. Every strike flowed into the next. When one blade shattered against the Necrosword, a new one appeared in her hand instantly.
"You have come to the realm of death," she said, never ceasing her assault. Her voice was calm, as if the fight required no effort at all. "Did you think it would be easy here?"
Gorr parried a strike and tried to counter, but Hela was already somewhere else—behind him. Her blade sliced the air a millimeter from his throat. He spun, parried, but she vanished again and appeared at his side.
The shadows in the hall came alive. They reached for Gorr, grabbing his legs and arms, slowing his movements. Helheim itself fought on the side of its queen.
"Here, I am God," Hela said. "Here, every shadow is my weapon, every stone my shield, every dead man my soldier."
The Berserkers rushed to help their master, but Hela's dead warriors met them first. The hall became a battlefield—black figures against black figures, the clash of two armies.
Thor raised his hammer. Lightning flared, incinerating Berserkers who broke through too close. Sif covered the flank, her sword singing.
I reached for the cold inside and let it out.
A wave of frost rolled across the floor, freezing Berserkers who got too near. The creatures slowed; their movements became sluggish. Three creatures on the right—ice spikes impaled them through, and they shattered before taking another step.
Two more on the left, fast, nearly reaching Sif from behind. I hurled an ice blade; the first Berserker split in half, and Sif finished the second herself without looking back, sensing the movement.
"Thanks," she tossed over her shoulder.
"We'll settle up later."
Hela and Gorr circled each other in a deadly dance. She was faster; he was stronger. Her blades broke against the Necrosword but reappeared again and again. His strikes were devastating, but none hit home.
"You're the first in a long time who has made me try," Hela admitted, dodging another lunge. "Almost impressive."
"And you are the first who has lasted longer than a minute," Gorr replied. "A pity it will change nothing."
The Necrosword flared with black flame—hungry, all-consuming. Gorr stopped defending and attacked with his full strength.
The blow was so powerful that Hela couldn't fully evade it. She parried the blade, but the impact threw her back. she slammed into a pillar with enough force to crack the stone.
"Hela!" Thor surged forward.
But the Goddess of Death was already rising. On her lips was a smile—predatory, expectant.
"Finally," she said, forming not two blades, but a dozen, all hovering around her, ready to strike. "I was beginning to think your reputation was exaggerated."
She attacked again, and now blades flew from all directions—not just from her hands, but from the shadows, the walls, the very air. Gorr spun, parrying, but even he couldn't defend against everything.
The first cut appeared on his shoulder.
The second on his hip.
Black blood—if it could be called blood—dripped to the floor. The Necrosword pulsed with fury.
The battle was just beginning, and for now—Hela was winning.
---
100 power stones= 1 Bonus Chapte
advanced chapters available on{P@treon/Anna_N1}