"When the sky no longer holds the stars, the song shall guide them home."
Part One: The Silence Before Storm
In the aftermath of the Feast of Bones, the Nine Realms held their breath.
The gods withdrew, licking wounds they didn't know they had. Temples stood still. Worship faltered. Mortals murmured of change. And the stars... stopped moving.
Eirik had not spoken since the feast.
He sat in silence beneath a broken bough of Yggdrasil, his eyes closed, listening. For what, no one knew—not even Gunnlöð, who watched her son with quiet reverence, nor Angrboda, who guarded his stillness with a warrior's rage.
"Why won't he speak?" Vína asked one night, the wind chill clinging to her every word.
"Because the song hasn't come yet," Gunnlöð whispered. "And without it… he doesn't know which way to walk."
Part Two: The Lost Star
Far beyond the edge of the known realms, in the dark of Ginnungagap—the yawning void before creation—a single star burned with unusual defiance.
It pulsed, alive. Calling.
Only one soul heard it.
Hel.
She stood on the threshold of her frozen kingdom, one foot still bound to the dead, the other drifting into something more... divine.
She had seen the vision at the feast. Her walking in the sun. Her touch healing wounds. Her breath bringing dreams to those abandoned by gods.
And now... this star. This song.
She turned away from her throne of ice and reached for the void.
And the void whispered back:
"Bring him the song, Daughter of Death. Or all shall fall in silence."
Part Three: The Rebellion of Skies
Meanwhile, the heavens fractured.
The constellations—once loyal servants of the gods—began to break apart, refusing to follow their ordained paths. The moon splintered in reflection, casting fragments of silver across the realms. Day and night bled into each other.
Without divine balance, Midgard twisted.
Tides rose unnaturally. Storms screamed like angry children. Animals walked into fire. And humans… dreamed in the voices of dead gods.
They saw visions of Eirik. Of a branch wrapped in flame. Of a boy born from chaos and stitched together by song and sorrow.
Some called him salvation.
Others, the end.
Part Four: The Song Finds Him
On the thirteenth night of silence, as frost began to crack the roots of the world tree, Hel arrived.
She wore no crown. No armor. Just a cloak woven from the sighs of the forgotten.
She knelt before Eirik, who still sat with his eyes closed.
"I've brought it," she said.
He did not respond.
Hel reached into the space between her ribs, where no heart beat, and pulled forth a shimmer.
It wasn't an object.It was sound.
The Song of the First Flame—older than gods, older than stars, sung only once, long ago, when the world was born.
She laid it at his feet.
And he opened his eyes.
They were full of light.
And full of tears.
Part Five: The Birth of Fire-Sky
The moment Eirik heard the song, everything broke.
Not in destruction.
In release.
The branches of Yggdrasil trembled. The flames of Muspelheim bowed. Niflheim's mist recoiled. Even the hammer of Thor, far away, cracked in sympathy.
He stood.
And sang.
It wasn't a melody. It was a call. A command. A reminder.
Each note reached into the very bones of the realms, unbinding old magic, waking lost spirits, and burning through the rot of time.
The sky split open.
From it rained embers of memory—scenes long forgotten:
The first wolf that howled at creation.
The Norns weeping over unborn children.
Loki laughing as a boy, long before the lies.
And then…
Stars.
New stars.
They formed patterns never seen before—constellations shaped like hands reaching for each other, like branches entwining, like hearts unshackled.
This was the Fire-Sky.
A new map for the realms.
Drawn not by gods, but by truth.
Part Six: The Last War Begins to Stir
Not all were moved.
In a hidden place carved between dimensions, Odin crouched, half-mad, nursing what was left of his power.
He saw the new sky.
He heard the song.
And he screamed.
"This cannot be! This is not how it ends!"
Behind him, a shadow stirred—ancient, primal, and long forgotten.
Not a god.
Not a titan.
But the old order, still clinging to the corpse of prophecy.
It whispered:
"Then make it end, Allfather. Burn the branch. Silence the song. Kill the boy."
Odin turned.
And smiled.
Part Seven: Lovers of the Fire-Sky
In a moment suspended outside of war and prophecy, Eirik walked with Hel beneath the Fire-Sky.
She looked different now—her dead side warm, her lips full of breath. She laughed once. It broke something inside him.
"You gave me the song," he said softly.
"I gave you my hope," she replied. "But it was always yours to sing."
They touched—not out of lust, nor possession. But recognition.
Two souls neither alive nor dead. Neither god nor mortal.
Balanced between flame and frost.
And in that touch, the Fire-Sky grew brighter.
It sang for them.
And across the realms, those who still believed in something more felt their hearts rise.
A storm was coming.
But for now… the sky sang.