"Some thrones are not built of gold—but grief, memory, and bones that refused to stay buried."
Part One: The Fall of a Mountain
The mountains of Jotunheim had never fallen—not in the time of frost, not in the time of fire.
But now, one did.
Mount Grøthyr, the sacred peak of the giants, split from within. Not by magic. Not by weapon.
By something buried.
As the rocks tore themselves apart, Suttung emerged, not as king, but as a conduit—his body glowing with raw meadfire, his veins etched in molten runes.
At his side, a beast not seen since the age of myth:
Hróðvitnir—the silent sibling of Fenrir, lost to the ancient songs.
Black-furred. Horned. With eyes that saw into possibility itself.
The mountain's collapse was the signal.
The war had begun.
Part Two: Asgard Awakens
High above, in Asgard's golden towers, Thor paced like a caged lion.
His hammer hummed.
The wind was wrong.
He knew battle. Knew blood. Knew the sound of fate's footsteps.
But this?
This felt different.
"Frigg," he growled. "We need to strike first."
Frigg sat still, her fingers wrapped in red thread she'd taken from the Norns' bowl.
"No," she said softly. "We need to wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For the one who already chose us over vengeance."
Thor frowned.
"She means Gunnlöð," said Baldr, stepping from the shadows.
Frigg nodded.
"She holds the drop. She carries the balance. And the boy with her… he sees more than we do."
Thor's voice dropped. "If she fails?"
Frigg looked up. Her eyes were tired.
"Then we burn everything to the ground and start again."
Part Three: The Blood Pact
In the ruins of Völundr's Forge, Loki slit his palm over a stone altar.
The blood sizzled on the rune-etched rock, hissing as it activated the Oath of Unmaking—a pact older than gods, written by the First Flame.
Around him stood twelve—giants, monsters, shapeshifters, banished gods.
Suttung. Angrboda. The ghost of Sigyn, who had followed Loki even into madness.
"We are not allies," Loki said. "We are coals. We burn alone. But together—we become the fire."
He placed a single hair—Gunnlöð's, stolen years ago—onto the altar.
It ignited blue.
"This is not revenge," he whispered. "This is rebirth."
And one by one, they bled, swearing their lives not to Loki…
…but to the end of the old gods.
Part Four: The Mortal God
Eirik stood in the Temple of Roots, trembling.
The mead within him burned—not like fire, but like a truth that refused to be silenced.
He saw the world not as it was, but as it could be.
He saw a future where the gods no longer ruled—but walked among mortals, humble and equal.
He saw another, where the realms drowned in fire, their bones picked clean by beasts of old.
And at the center of both visions stood himself.
"Mortal or god?" he whispered.
Gunnlöð stepped beside him. "Neither," she said.
"Then what?"
She smiled sadly.
"The first of something new."
And as she spoke, a beam of green light descended through the temple—carrying the voice of Vína, the dreamwalker.
"They are coming," she said.
And Eirik's eyes turned gold.
Part Five: The Siege of Alfheim
Alfheim had long remained neutral—light elves, gifted in healing and song, untouched by the wars of old.
That ended when Suttung arrived.
The sky turned to glass.The rivers bled moonlight.And the elves, for the first time in an age, raised blades.
But it wasn't enough.
Suttung's forces marched without breath, without hunger, without fear.
They were ideas made flesh. Grudges made weapon.
At the heart of the assault was Hróðvitnir, devouring magic itself.
The palace fell.
But not all hope died.
Vína escaped—barely—riding a beast of smoke toward Gunnlöð's sanctuary.
The last words she heard as Alfheim fell were:
"Tell them… the light is dying."
Part Six: Odin's Shadow
In the in-between space where souls drifted, Odin walked.
His body was gone. His name cursed. But his spirit—old, cunning, desperate—still moved.
He watched the war from outside the timelines.
He saw Gunnlöð. Eirik. Loki.
He saw a path that led to peace.
And another… where he returned.
But to return, he would need to offer something no god had ever surrendered:
Control.
He hesitated.
And the void whispered:
"What are you without your throne?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Part Seven: The Throne of Ash
In the heart of Muspelheim, where even the stars feared to shine, a throne stood empty.
It was carved not from stone or flame.
But ash—the remains of every world that had burned and been forgotten.
Gunnlöð arrived alone.
She stepped through fire, barefoot, unburned.
She did not kneel.
Instead, she placed the mead drop on the throne.
And the ash awoke.
It formed into whispers, faces, screams. Memory and myth.
The throne did not ask for a ruler.
It asked for a choice.
And Gunnlöð, with a voice steady as time, said:
"Let the realms decide their own gods."
The ash bowed.
And a storm of stories erupted from the seat—each one a path forward, a dream of a different world.
And from that moment on…
nothing was certain again.