"Some ruins whisper. Others scream."
Part One: The Fall
The Bifröst was gone.
Shattered. Lost to the abyss.
The bridge that connected the worlds—rainbow-light and magic-blooded—now lay in pieces scattered across the sky like the bones of a god.
Asgard trembled.
Vanaheim wailed.
Midgard looked to the heavens and wept.
In the chasm between realms, bodies floated—some divine, others monstrous. Smoke rose like a crown. Magic bled into space.
And at the heart of it all…
Odin, king of the Aesir, floated in darkness, his arm torn, his eye blind to anything but pain.
His chest burned where Gunnlöð's rune had struck him.
But it was not the wound that broke him.
It was the memory.
Her hands.
Her tears.
Her turning away.
And then—
Nothing.
Part Two: The Cradle of Ice
Somewhere deep beneath the wreckage of Bifröst's remains, hidden in a silent cavern of ice and crystal, Gunnlöð opened her eyes.
She was alive.
Barely.
A thousand runes pulsed weakly beneath her skin.
Her arms ached. Her magic throbbed. But she lived.
And she was alone.
She rose slowly, barefoot on the icy floor, and walked to the edge of the cavern where a pool of starlight glimmered.
In the reflection—her face.
Changed.
Not just older.
Wiser. Colder.
Her voice broke the silence. "What have I done?"
The mead of wisdom had once sung through Odin's veins. Now it echoed inside her. The fire she had awakened during the battle remained in her bones.
And yet…She felt nothing.
Not triumph.Not vengeance.Not peace.
Just silence.
And silence, she realized, was the most dangerous magic of all.
Part Three: Fractured Gods
In Asgard, the survivors gathered.
Thor, blackened with soot and rage, limped into the throne room carrying Heimdall's broken horn.
Tyr sat bleeding on the steps, holding his severed arm, whispering war songs to keep from screaming.
Frigg stood over the wounded, her healing magic too weak to reach them all.
"Odin?" she asked.
None answered.
Loki sat alone in the corner, flipping a coin he didn't have before the battle began. His eyes were dark.
"The Allfather fell with the bridge," he said finally.
Thor turned, mouth open.
"Dead?"
Loki only smiled.
"Missing."
Part Four: The Deepwood Prophecy
Far to the east, past the roots of Yggdrasill and deep into the forest where even gods feared to walk, a seer stirred.
Völva, the witch of roots and bone, leaned over her cauldron and let the steam burn her ancient face.
She saw the pieces of the Bifröst.
She saw Odin adrift in the Ginnungagap—the void between worlds.
She saw Gunnlöð, alone in the cave of ice.
And then she saw something else—
A flame.
A new fire.
One born of pain, forged in love, and fed by betrayal.
"She will rise again," Völva whispered. "She will not return as his lover… but as his equal."
The runes around her pulsed.
The world, broken though it was, had a new axis.
Gunnlöð.
Not queen.Not monster.Not victim.
Goddess.
Part Five: Between the Realms
Odin drifted in silence.
There were no stars here. No wind. No words.
Only echoes.
He heard his own voice from the past—seducing her, lying, whispering half-truths for power.
He heard her voice, too. Not angry. Just disappointed.
"I would have given it to you freely…"
He closed his one good eye.
"Forgive me," he whispered into the void.
A voice answered.
Not hers.
The Norns.
The three weavers of fate appeared before him, cloaked in thread and shadow.
"You seek redemption?" the eldest asked.
He nodded.
"Then bleed for it," said the middle.
"Or burn," whispered the youngest.
The threads of fate wrapped around him, binding his soul to something ancient.
"You will see her again," the Norns said in unison. "But when you do, she will not be the woman you remember."
"She will be the storm."
Part Six: The Return
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Midgard began to see strange signs in the sky. A golden fire that danced above the clouds. A whispering wind that spoke in riddles.
In Asgard, the gods began to rebuild. The Bifröst fragments were gathered. A new gate was forged—but it could not reach all realms.
Thor tried to laugh again.
Frigg planted a tree where the old bridge had broken.
Tyr trained the young with one arm.
And Loki… vanished.
But one night, under a blood-red moon, a figure appeared at the edge of the broken bridge.
Gunnlöð.
She was cloaked in starlight. Her hair burned with celestial fire. Her eyes glowed with ancient wisdom.
She said nothing.
But every god felt her presence.
Thor approached her. "Have you come to finish what you started?"
She looked at him—then past him.
"I've come," she said, "to claim what's mine."