"Not even gods sleep without dreaming. And in their dreams, truths long buried scream to be heard."
Part One: The Dreamwalker
In the highest peaks of Alfheim, where the winds spoke in riddles and stars seemed close enough to kiss, there lived a woman called Vína.
No one knew where she came from.
She simply appeared one night, barefoot and glowing, speaking a language only the trees understood.
She was a dreamwalker—one of the last.
She could step into the sleeping minds of gods and mortals alike, pulling secrets from their shadows, and shaping prophecy from their fears.
And now, as the world cracked under the weight of change, Vína stirred.
Her dreams had become haunted. Not by monsters.
By questions.
Part Two: The Sleeper Below
Far beneath the nine realms, past Hel's domain, deeper than even the roots of Yggdrasill, something slept.
It was not a god.Nor a giant.Nor a creature of prophecy.
It was older than any of them.
It had no name.
Because the moment one spoke it, the world began to burn.
And tonight—something whispered to it.
A name.
"Gunnlöð."
The sleeper twitched.
The ground trembled.
And the void cracked open—just a sliver.
Enough for a single dream to escape.
A dream shaped like a scream.
Part Three: Eirik's Vision
Eirik jolted awake, heart pounding, drenched in sweat.
He'd dreamed of flames—not fire, but living flame, whispering truths he wasn't ready to hear.
A mountain split open.A woman with no face sat upon a throne made of broken bones.And beneath her, Loki laughed… while Gunnlöð wept.
He ran to her temple, barefoot and breathless.
She met him outside, already awake.
"You saw it," she said quietly.
He nodded.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
She didn't answer at first.
Then: "It means the future is no longer ours alone to shape."
She looked toward the east, where a strange red glow now kissed the sky.
"It means something else is awakening."
Part Four: Frigg's Bargain
In the silent chamber of Urd's Well, Frigg sat alone.
No gods. No warriors. Only the three Norns—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld—who spun fate with fingers that had never known rest.
Frigg, once queen of Asgard, now looked more like a wanderer than royalty.
"I've come to make a bargain," she said.
Urd looked up, ancient and unreadable.
"Even queens have no currency here."
Frigg knelt.
"I ask not for myself," she said. "But for the realms. For a glimpse of the true end."
Skuld scoffed. "And if it's already begun?"
Frigg swallowed.
"Then I need to know… who survives it."
The Norns said nothing.
Instead, they held out a bowl—carved from the first branch of Yggdrasill—and filled it with a liquid that shimmered like broken time.
"Drink," Urd said.
Frigg did.
And she screamed.
Not from pain—but from clarity.
When she opened her eyes, her voice was barely a whisper.
"It's not the war we must fear…"
She looked west.
"It's the peace that comes after."
Part Five: Loki's Move
On the shadowed edges of Svartalfheim, where dwarves once forged the weapons of gods, Loki stood atop a pile of ruins.
His voice echoed into the realm of the unseen.
"Come to me," he said.
And they did.
Creatures lost to myth. Beings erased from history by Odin's laws. Spirits who once served Hel before she was locked away.
He offered them nothing but freedom.
And still, they followed.
He held up a shattered mask—one he'd once worn to seduce a goddess and steal her heart.
He crushed it beneath his foot.
"No more lies," he said.
"Now we build a new story."
Part Six: Gunnlöð's Choice
In the quiet of her temple, Gunnlöð stood before the flame.
The drop of true mead floated inside it, pulsing gently, alive with memory.
She sensed what was coming. Not just war, not just change—but a reckoning.
She touched the flame.
And it opened.
Not to visions.
To questions.
Would she lead or vanish?Would love save her or break her again?Would she become a goddess reborn… or the last spark of a dying age?
She did not weep.
She simply whispered:
"I choose to stay."
And the flame answered.
It rose.
It spun.
And in its heart, Eirik stepped forward—eyes glowing with a light no mortal had ever held.
Part Seven: The First Strike
Across the nine realms, peace held like glass—beautiful, fragile, already cracked.
And then, it shattered.
It began with a fire in Jotunheim—blue and black, unnatural.
Suttung stood at the center of it, flanked by wolves of smoke and ash.
He spoke a single word.
"Begin."
The sky screamed.
Mountains crumbled.
The ground bled.
And the war none had dared to name began with the sound of a child crying and a god laughing.