"Every end has a mother. And every beginning… a bite."
Part One: Birth Below the World
Beneath Midgard, far below its soil and bones, lies a space untouched by gods or men. A place older than Yggdrasil's roots.
Níðhögg stirred.
The corpse-dragon had not moved in eons—not since the last time a god tried to chain fate itself.
But tonight, she opened her eyes.
She tasted change in the air. Not chaos. Not war.
But potential—the kind that cracks worlds open like eggshells.
Something was being born.Something she had once seen… in a dream she'd devoured.
And when her jaws parted, she spoke in a voice of stone and rot:
"He wakes."
Across the realm, in a swamp forgotten by maps, Jörmungandr—the World Serpent—shifted in his eternal coil.
Not fully awake.
But dreaming. And in his dream, he saw a boy.
Eirik.
And the boy… saw him back.
Part Two: The Three Sisters Break
At the edge of the Well of Urðr, the Norns—Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld—wove the future.
But the threads kept snapping.
Urðr, oldest of them, frowned. "It's him," she said.
Skuld glared. "The boy?"
"No," Verðandi corrected, her eyes white. "The decision."
Their loom—made of bark from the first tree—shuddered. Symbols that had always held their shape now bled, twisted, reversed.
"The throne no longer calls kings," Skuld whispered. "It asks questions."
"Then the prophecy is broken," Urðr said.
"No," Verðandi murmured.
"It's becoming something new."
In silence, the three sisters turned to the water and saw it:
Gunnlöð, sitting on the Throne of Ash.Eirik, surrounded by shadows.Loki, smiling with his back to a mirror that didn't show his reflection.
And above them, a shadow larger than gods.A woman made of venom and sorrow.
Angrboda.
And she was coming home.
Part Three: The Witch's Return
The forest around Ironwood screamed as Angrboda stepped through the veil.
Time bent to her.Trees bowed.Birds flew backwards.
She walked barefoot, clothed in smoke and memory.
Children of monsters followed behind her—creatures too strange for daylight, too old for dreams.
In her left hand, she carried a vial.
It held a single tear—Odin's, stolen the day he exiled her and branded her "monster."
Now she would return it.
Not as apology.
But as curse.
Loki met her in the grove, eyes wary.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm eternal," she replied.
"You know they'll all try to stop you."
Angrboda tilted her head. "They're welcome to try."
Then she smiled.
"I gave birth to fear, Loki. I nursed it at my breast. I bled it into the world. Let them come."
Part Four: The Storm Mirror
In Gunnlöð's sanctuary, Eirik stood before a pool of still water. It wasn't water—not truly. It was a mirror of possibilities, gifted by Vína.
He looked into it.
Saw himself with wings.Saw himself with a crown.Saw himself dead.
Saw himself as a serpent swallowing the world… and then giving birth to hope.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
Vína stood beside him. "It means you are all of them. And none."
"I'm not ready."
"No one is," she whispered. "Not even gods."
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Do you trust her?"
"Gunnlöð?"
"No," she said softly. "Angrboda."
Eirik hesitated.
Then nodded.
"Good," Vína said.
"Because she's already here."
And behind them, the trees peeled open… revealing the Witch-Mother, eyes glowing like broken suns.
Part Five: The Pact of Wounds
In the hall of Nine Echoes, where sound repeats through the nine realms, the God-Council met for the first time since Ragnarok's echo.
Thor. Frigg. Tyr. Baldr. Sif. Heimdall. Njord. Skadi. Idunn.
Even Hel, from her twilight throne, had sent a wraith to listen.
The topic was clear:
What do we do about the child?
"He's not a child," Frigg said. "He's a vessel."
"A weapon," Tyr corrected.
"He's a symbol," said Sif.
"He's a mistake," Heimdall growled.
"He's hope," said Baldr.
Silence.
Then Njord whispered, "And what of the Witch? Angrboda?"
No one spoke.
Because none of them had an answer.
Until Thor rose.
And said, "Then we speak with her ourselves."
Frigg's voice cracked.
"She will not come in peace."
"She doesn't have to," Thor replied.
"We just have to survive the meeting."
Part Six: The Poison in the Promise
Gunnlöð and Angrboda stood in the old language circle—the place where oaths were once sung, not spoken.
Around them, spirits gathered.
Some cheering. Some screaming.
Eirik stood between them.
Two mothers. Two paths.
"You want him to be a god," Angrboda said. "But he already is. My son is more than prophecy. He's consequence."
"He's choice," Gunnlöð replied. "He is change."
"And change burns."
"Then let him burn what no longer serves."
Eirik stepped forward.
"I don't want a throne. I want a chance."
The wind shifted.
And in that moment, every god, giant, elf, and beast…
…felt the world turn.
The mead within him pulsed, golden.
Not just Odin's wisdom now.
But Angrboda's fire. Loki's madness. Gunnlöð's mercy. Vína's dreams.
He was the first god made not by birth…
…but by belief.