Hel was quiet.
Not the quiet of peace, but the silence before a war. A silence that watched. That waited. That breathed.
The throne of bone stood as it always had, carved from the remains of gods who had dared challenge Hela's rule. The Queen of the Dead sat upon it, her helm casting long shadows that crawled across the obsidian floor. But she did not feel alone. Not anymore.
He stood across the chamber, unmoving. The Scarlet King. Still and silent, but somehow vast. His form was almost humanoid—broad-shouldered, cloaked in red, with a jagged crown of pulsing crimson veins—but he shimmered at the edges, like reality couldn't hold him still.
Hela's wolves wouldn't enter the chamber. Her undead legions remained outside, refusing to step foot within earshot of the being.
She watched him for a long time before speaking.
"You've been here a day and said nothing."
The King said nothing.
"I brought you here out of curiosity, not charity. Speak, or be cast back to the void you crawled from."
He turned slowly. His voice, when it came, was layered—like six different men speaking at once, each from a different direction in time.
"You want to know who I am."
"I want to know what you are," she corrected.
He stepped forward. The shadows recoiled.
"I am the King beneath all things," he said. "The truth the gods sealed away. The terror their stories cannot contain."
"Pretty words," Hela said with a smirk. "But every tyrant thinks he's eternal."
"I am not eternal. I am before eternity. I am the wound that bled the first gods into being. And I have come to remind this universe of what it tried to forget."
Hela narrowed her eyes. "You speak of riddles. Of veils and echoes. Enough of poetry. Tell me the truth."
The Scarlet King paused, then raised his hand.
Reality rippled.
The room warped around him—not destroyed, but overwritten. The air grew thick with pressure, and for a moment, Hela saw something else. Not the humanoid figure before her, but a glimpse behind the veil.
A throne of living flesh, writhing with countless eyes. Chains of concept and narrative wrapped around its base. Screaming voices echoed in languages older than time. Behind it, a red sun bled across a void that had never known light.
Then it was gone.
Hela blinked. Her grip tightened on her throne.
"I was born in a universe not unlike this one," the King continued. "But my world was ruled not by gods, but by stories. Concepts. Order. Light. They feared what they could not chain. And so they bound me in myth. In fiction. A monster told around fires to keep the children safe."
"And you escaped?" she asked, voice low.
"I broke the stories," he said. "I unmade the myths. I killed the gods of my realm, shattered their heavens, burned their fate-scrolls. But they were clever. They scattered me—sealed my essence behind veils. This universe... was one of those veils."
He took another step forward. Hela didn't move.
"I've come through the cracks," he said. "And now, I see a world of gods playing at balance. Heroes preserving cages. Death herself, leashed to a throne she didn't build."
Her jaw tensed.
"You dare—"
"I do more than dare," he interrupted. "I see you. I see your rage. Odin's daughter, born for war, cast aside for balance. You were meant to conquer. Instead, they buried you in a crypt and called it a kingdom."
Hela stood slowly, her eyes glowing faint green.
"You speak like a man who has read my soul."
"I don't read souls," the King replied. "I remember them. Yours once burned as mine did. Before the world caged you in obedience."
There was a beat. No wind. No breath. Just silence and two sovereigns staring across an ancient hall.
"You say you are truth," she said. "Then show me what truth you bring."
He raised his hand again—but this time not to warp reality. Instead, he reached toward her.
Hela didn't step back. She didn't flinch. Her power curled around her, green and dark. But she allowed his hand to brush hers.
And when he touched her, she saw.
Flashes. Memories not her own. Wars in black skies. Dead suns. Creatures that devoured time. The Scarlet King towering above armies of mad gods, burning them not with fire—but with absence.
She gasped, staggering back. Her wolves howled far away.
The Scarlet King lowered his hand.
"That is what I am," he said. "Not your enemy. Not your ally. Your reflection. A god who remembers what it means to be free."
Hela clutched her throne's edge. Her breath came heavy. But she did not look away.
"So what then?" she asked. "You mean to destroy this universe?"
"I mean to break it," he said. "And from the cracks, build something real. A realm where death is not a prison, and power is not a leash. A realm where you, Hela, are more than their shame."
She stared at him for a long time.
"Words are wind," she said.
He smiled. "Then test me."
She descended her throne, approaching him until they were face to face.
"You are a god of endings," she said. "But I am already dead. What can you offer me?"
He leaned close. "A kingdom not built on bones—but on will. A place where your wrath is not a curse. A throne beside mine. Not in Hel, but in the ashes of Olympus, Asgard, Earth, and every lie they worship."
Hela's lips curled. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close.
"I'll allow you to stay," she said. "But not as a king. Not yet. Impress me. Show me this truth you worship. If you are what you claim, I'll see it."
He nodded.
"Then let the truth begin."
She waved her hand, and a corridor of black stone opened behind the throne.
"A chamber has been prepared. You may rest there. But know this, Scarlet King—if you lie to me, if you falter, if you are anything less than what you preach…"
She summoned a blade of necrotic flame in her hand.
"I will unmake you."
He laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly.
"Then we will see whose truth burns brighter."
As he turned and walked into the shadows, the throne room of Hel seemed smaller. The world quieter. But within Hela, something stirred.
Not fear.
Hope.
Twisted, black, and blooming.
And it had a crown of red.