Two weeks had passed in a blur of calculated deceit and mounting tension. For fourteen days, Loki had walked a razor's edge, a spectral thread connecting the golden halls of Asgard to the shadowed gloom of Svartalfheim. He played his part to perfection, shuttling between realms, a master of whispers and lies. With each visit, he painted a more vivid picture for Malekith: an All-Father succumbing to the inevitable pull of the Odinsleep, his vitality fading, his grip on the Nine Realms loosening with every passing hour.
He spun tales of a fatigued Odin, of a kingdom preparing for a period of vulnerable transition, all while keeping a vigilant watch on the movements of Malekith and the unnervingly subservient Psyphon. He'd observed Malekith gathering his fanatical legions, their pale, masked faces a sea of grim determination. He'd also seen the fleet of strange, cross-shaped warships materialize from the void, their design alien and menacing. At the same time, Psyphon had arrived not as a lone envoy, but at the head of a formidable contingent of Dark Order soldiers, remnants of a fallen empire now pledged to a new, ambitious master. It was clear that Vilgax, after the Mad Titan's demise, had wasted no time in scavenging the spoils of war, absorbing not just Thanos's technology but his very soldiers into his own growing force.
The combined strength of the two factions was a power not seen in the cosmos for ages, a shadow poised to fall across the realms.
Yet, for all his apparent confidence, Malekith remained a creature of deep-seated paranoia. He offered Loki a sliver of his trust but never the whole. Likewise, Psyphon, ever the sycophant, kept his distance from the Asgardian prince, recognizing a fellow predator in the court of shadows. He seemed to sense that the time to conspire against their shared, temporary master had not yet arrived.
Today, Loki returned to the jagged peaks of Svartalfheim, his every step echoing with feigned urgency.
"Lord Malekith," he announced, his voice brimming with manufactured excitement, "the plan proceeds flawlessly. The old man shows all the signs. I fear he will succumb to the deep sleep within a day or two. In two days' time, Asgard's defenses will be a hollow shell. Without their God-King, the remaining Asgardians will be lambs to the slaughter."
Malekith, his gaunt frame draped in shadow, regarded Loki with cold, calculating eyes. A cruel, reptilian smile stretched across his bloodless lips.
"I see," he hissed. "You have done well, Loki. Though you failed to locate the Aether, the information you bring is… useful."
"Then we shall strike in two days' time, as we agreed..." Loki began, letting a sliver of eagerness color his tone.
"No," Malekith cut him off, his voice as sharp and final as a shard of obsidian. "We attack Asgard now."
Behind him, the hulking form of Kurse, his Cursed warrior, took a thunderous step forward, a silent monolith of destruction. A legion of Dark Elf warriors, their faces hidden behind impassive white masks, fell in behind him, a silent, deadly tide.
The sudden command struck Loki with the force of a physical blow. His carefully constructed timeline, the delicate balance of his entire deception, shattered in an instant. According to his plan, Malekith was meant to attack after the final evacuation of Asgard's warriors was complete, after Hela was safely unsealed to serve as their decoy defender. This premature assault threw everything into chaos.
Loki's face, for a fleeting moment, was a mask of genuine shock, a flicker of panic he quickly smothered. "Why my lord?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk.
"Lord Malekith, Odin has not yet fallen into his slumber," he reasoned, forcing a note of tactical concern. "If we attack now, we will indeed catch Asgard unprepared. However, the casualties on your side will be… significant."
"And if Odin is already asleep," Malekith retorted, his voice dripping with condescending impatience, "how am I to find the Aether?"
He held the unshakeable belief that the Aether, torn from his grasp by Bor ages ago, was hidden somewhere within the Nine Realms. He was certain that Odin, as the current All-Father, was the only living being who knew its location. To interrogate a sleeping god was an impossibility.
(Odin, meanwhile, remained blissfully ignorant of this particular line of reasoning.)
Malekith's decision was absolute. Loki, seeing the futility of argument, fell silent. He desperately searched for an opportunity to send a warning to Asgard, a single raven, a whisper on the cosmic winds, but Kurse's burning gaze never left him. The Cursed warrior was his shadow, a promise of swift and brutal retribution should he stray.
A knot of genuine worry tightened in Loki's stomach as he was escorted with the Dark Elf legions aboard one of the imposing Cross-Ships. Most of the Asgardian citizens were safe, transported to the sanctuary of Genesis. But the warriors—the loyal, brave, and utterly doomed warriors—remained. They had been scheduled to evacuate only after Hela's release. Now, it seemed, there would be no chance. They were soldiers, unafraid of death, but Loki, to his own surprise, found he did not wish to see them sacrificed for a plan gone awry.
I can only hope Heimdall sees this, he prayed silently.
But Heimdall could not. Though his gaze could pierce the veil of the Nine Realms, there were ancient arts that could blind even him. From the moment he'd conceived of his attack, Malekith had commanded his three War Witches to weave a shroud of impenetrable sorcery around Svartalfheim. Not Heimdall, not even Odin's ever-watchful ravens, could detect the storm that was gathering.
Loki forced himself to recalibrate, to adapt. Once aboard the warship, his eyes scanned the assembled troops. He noted Psyphon's absence and saw an opportunity for discord. "And where is that sniveling lackey?" he provoked, his voice laced with contempt. "He claims he wishes to use your power to avenge his fallen master, yet he seems unwilling to contribute any effort of his own."
"You seem concerned about him," Malekith replied, an amused glint in his eye.
"I merely thought that with the Dark Order's legions bolstering our ranks, our chances of success would be all the higher," Loki explained smoothly.
Malekith waved a dismissive hand. "An Odin on the verge of slumber is no threat, especially not to a surprise assault. As for Psyphon..." His lips curled into another cruel smile. "I have other tasks for him. I trust neither of you completely. It would be foolish to let two serpents coil in the same nest."
At that very moment, another fleet of black Cross-Ships carved a silent path through the cosmos. Inside the lead vessel, Psyphon stood at the command console, flanked by his own contingent of Dark Elves and monitored by a second Cursed warrior, a guarantee of his loyalty to Malekith.
"Psyphon," the Cursed warrior growled, his voice like grinding stone. He noticed the ship's trajectory had deviated from its intended course. The cold, heavy blade of his axe pressed against Psyphon's neck. "This is not the way to Muspelheim. Explain yourself, or I will take your head."
Their mission, as dictated by Malekith, was to launch a preemptive strike on the fire realm, to subjugate the Fire Giant Surtur and bring the first of the Nine Realms under the Dark Elf king's dominion. This, as it happened, aligned perfectly with Psyphon's own secret agenda. He served Malekith in name only; his true allegiance was to Vilgax. From the beginning, their goal had been to usurp the power of the Nine Realms' sovereigns. Each lord was a font of immense energy, and while they might individually fall short of a cosmic entity like Odin or Thanos, their combined power would be a force to reshape the universe.
After absorbing the frost magic of the slain King Laufey, Vilgax's hunger had grown insatiable. Yet, he was cautious. He feared a direct confrontation with an allied Odin and the formidable King of Sakaar. He needed a proxy, a chaotic force to sow discord, and Malekith's vengeful ambition was the perfect catalyst. They had assumed they would have to wait until Malekith was crowned King of the Nine Realms, but the Dark Elf's ambition had outpaced their own.
"Patience, my friend," Psyphon said, his voice unbothered by the blade at his throat. He gently pushed the axe away with two fingers. "I am merely gathering reinforcements."
He knew Vilgax had already bestowed upon him a fraction of his power, enough to grant him a fighting chance, or at least an escape, should this Cursed warrior prove unreasonable.
"I trust you have been studying the intelligence we gathered on the Plumbers," Psyphon continued with a conspiratorial smile. "Then you know how formidable Thanos's lieutenants were. If we can unite the remnants of his forces, they would be a tremendous asset, another army to bow before the great King Malekith!"
The Cursed warrior considered this. They had indeed spent the past two weeks gathering information, confirming that the Plumbers were an enemy of considerable power. "I had heard Thanos's forces were shattered," he grumbled. "One of his daughters defected to the Plumbers, the other is missing. His five most powerful generals, the Black Order, were all slain. What dregs could the Dark Order possibly have left to offer?"
"Allow me to introduce you," Psyphon purred, a look of profound, theatrical reverence on his face, "to the great Lord Vilgax."
As he spoke, a third fleet warped into existence before them. At its head, floating unprotected in the vacuum of space, was Vilgax himself. The surrounding ships tore through the void at near-lightspeed, yet he remained motionless, an island of absolute power in a river of celestial fire.
The Cursed warrior's ferocious face contorted, his expression grim and solemn. The raw, untamed energy radiating from Vilgax was a palpable force, a pressure that made his own formidable power feel insignificant. It was a presence that inspired an instinctual, primal fear.
"Vilgax…" another Dark Elf muttered, rushing forward with a data slate. "According to our intelligence, he was one of the Dark Order's commanders."
The Cursed warrior relaxed slightly. "I did not expect Thanos to have a subordinate of such might still in his service. If he is willing to swear fealty to Lord Malekith… perhaps allowing him to rule one of the Nine Realms would not be out of the question." He made the promise on Malekith's behalf, knowing his king cared not for thrones, but for the power they represented. If Vilgax could deliver Muspelheim, a single world was a small price to pay.
"That," Psyphon smiled, bowing low as Vilgax approached, "could not be better."
Dozens of the massive, black Cross-Ships slipped through the secret pathways between worlds, emerging suddenly and silently in the skies above Asgard. From the bridge of his command ship, Malekith gazed upon the floating celestial island, its magnificent, golden structures gleaming like the instruments of a divine orchestra. He was momentarily stunned by its beauty, only shaking himself from his reverie when the first volley of attacks was launched.
He shot a sidelong glance at Loki. "You truly brought me directly to Asgard," he said, his tone thick with sarcastic praise. "Odin will surely be overjoyed to have a son as devoted as you. After all," he added with a malicious grin, "I am merely helping his son ascend to the throne. He will have a worthy successor. He should thank me."
The warships unleashed hell. Torrents of dark red energy rained down upon the golden city. Asgard, caught completely off guard, scrambled to respond. The golden cannons of the palace defenses began their slow pivot, but it was too late. The first waves of artillery had already struck, shattering spires and turning tranquil courtyards into craters of fire and ruin.
From the Rainbow Bridge, Heimdall finally saw the impending doom and tried to activate the city's defensive shield. But Malekith didn't even spare him a glance. Three black shadows detached from his ship, plummeting toward the Bifrost's guardian. The three War Witches had been dispatched.
Heimdall cursed under his breath. He was one of the few privy to Odin's grand deception, but he knew the attack was premature. Raising his golden eyes, he spotted Loki's silhouette on the enemy flagship. It seems Malekith is not so foolish as to be led entirely by the nose.
Fortunately, preparations had been made. Though the timing was a disaster, Asgard was not wholly defenseless. The losses would be contained. He hoped. Drawing his Guardian Sword, he prepared for battle.
Malekith's forces shattered the hastily erected shield. He treated his own command ship not as a vessel, but as a battering ram, steering it on a direct collision course with the Royal Palace of Asgard. It was the simplest, most brutal path to the throne.
BOOM!
The Cross-Ship slammed into the magnificent palace, the impact shaking Asgard to its foundations. The remaining warriors, alerted by the cataclysm, poured from the barracks. They did not understand the political complexities, but they recognized the pale faces and black armor of the Dark Elves who now swarmed from the wreckage. The recognition was simple, primal: Enemy.
They raised their weapons and charged.
The Warriors Three and Lady Sif were a whirlwind of righteous fury at the vanguard. "Dark Elves? How have they returned?" Hogan roared, impaling an elf on his mace and using the body as a grisly banner before flinging it into the oncoming horde.
No one could answer him. They only knew that their home was being evacuated, that their people were being moved to a new world called Genesis, and that to be attacked now, with their forces divided, was a catastrophic disadvantage.
"Where is the All-Father?" Sif cried out. She used a toppled golden pillar as a springboard, launching herself dozens of meters into the air. She landed on an enemy warrior, driving her sword through him and pinning him to the ground before spinning to decapitate another. Still, they kept coming, a relentless tide of darkness. She glanced worriedly toward the ruined palace, where the largest of the enemy ships was now embedded like a dagger in the heart of their kingdom.
"The God-King and the Queen are in the palace!" Volstagg bellowed, his heavy axe cleaving an enemy in two.
Fandral's face was etched with worry. "And the king… he was to enter the Odinsleep at any moment."