The thought of the Odinsleep hung like a shroud over the battlefield, settling a grim solemnity upon the faces of Asgard's finest warriors.
"To be attacked at this very moment..." Sif's voice was a low, strained whisper, a stark contrast to the ferocity of her fighting. Her brows were knitted in frustration, her entire body coiled as tight as a spring. She parried a wild swing from a Dark Elf and drove her blade through his chest, her fist clenched around the hilt.
Their situation was dire. A significant portion of Asgard's army had already relocated to Genesis. Thor, their mightiest champion, was absent. Odin, their All-Father, was fading, unable to wield his full, cosmic power. And Loki… Loki had abandoned them. In his absence, they found themselves putting more faith in the memory of Thor's hammer than in his treacherous brother.
"At least the civilians have been evacuated," Fandral reminded them, wiping his blade clean on a dead elf's tunic. "All who remain in Asgard are warriors, or at the very least, schooled in the arts of sorcery. Every soul left has the strength to fight." He flashed a defiant grin. "These dark-crawlers think they can conquer Asgard at its weakest? They will find that even a weakened lion fights to the very last!"
"HRAAAGH!" Volstagg roared, raising his great axe high before slamming it into the golden flagstones. The impact sent a shockwave of pure force tearing through the ground, a wave that smashed into the incoming Dark Elf line like a runaway chariot, splitting more than a dozen of them in half and carving a bloody path through their ranks.
He hoisted his axe, planting a heavy boot on a pile of elven corpses. "To the palace! We must protect the All-Father!"
Just as they began to rally, the Asgardian army's general arrived, leading the last of the city's defenders. They had abandoned the defensive cannons, taking up their personal arms for a brutal, close-quarters fight. "Volstagg!" the general commanded, his voice a gravelly bark over the din of battle. "You are needed at the Rainbow Bridge! Support Heimdall!" "Then use the bridge and call for the Plumbers! Go!"
Retreat was not an option. This city was about to become Old Asgard, a monument to a bygone era, but they would not surrender it until the All-Father himself had departed. They would fight to the death, to the very last warrior. But the general was no fool; he knew that against these odds, Asgard could not win alone.
The two groups of warriors crossed paths. Volstagg spun, his Black Bear Axe swinging in a wide, devastating arc that cleaved through another wave of elves. Fandral and Hogan flanked him, their movements a deadly dance of steel and courage. Here, on their home ground, they were titans, nothing like the outmatched fighters who had faced the Destroyer on Earth. Common Dark Elf soldiers stood no chance, cut down the moment they engaged.
As the three broke away to fight their way toward the Bifrost, Sif hesitated. A cold knot of suspicion tightened in her gut. Instead of following them, she remained with the main force pushing toward the palace. It was all wrong. The Dark Elves had been sealed for millennia, a forgotten nightmare. How could they suddenly reappear in such force? And how could they have bypassed Heimdall's all-seeing gaze? It was too strange, too convenient.
It reminded her of the day of Thor's coronation, years ago. The Frost Giants, appearing from nowhere, a breach in their supposedly impenetrable defenses. The culprit that time had been Loki.
Could it be him again? Sif shook her head, forcing the thought away. It made no sense. Loki had renounced the throne; why would he help these monsters attack his own home?
"How did they get in?" she yelled to the general, stabbing an elf through the throat.
"I don't know!" he shouted back, his focus absolute. "Plots and schemes can be unraveled later! Now, we kill! The palace guard will still be inside! If we link up with them, we can surround these invaders and crush them!"
His intentions were noble, but his strategy was doomed. The palace guard was already being annihilated. It wasn't a matter of weakness, but of facing a superior predator. The elites Malekith brought with him were to the palace guard what the Warriors Three were to common foot soldiers.
Malekith strode from the wreckage of his warship with the unhurried confidence of a king. He was, after all, the sovereign of Svartalfheim, a being who had once stood against Bor the All-Father. The Asgardian guards who charged him, their swords and spears raised, were nothing more than insects in his path. He didn't even flinch as their blades swung toward his face.
He gestured dismissively. "Kill them."
His personal guard moved like wraiths, their own blades finding the gaps in the Asgardians' armor with contemptuous ease. Others produced small, dark spheres—bombs that tore holes in reality itself, disintegrating their targets until not even a single molecule remained. Malekith never broke his stride, his eyes fixed on his destination: Odin's chambers.
News of the palace breach spread, and more guards rallied, forming a wall of gold and steel. As Malekith rounded a corner, he finally met a worthy sight. At the head of the defenders stood Odin himself, clad in his golden battle armor, his iconic horned helmet upon his brow.
Malekith's eyes lit up. He opened his mouth to demand the location of the Aether, but he was met not with words, but with the raw, untamed fury of a cornered lion. This was the Odin of old, the conqueror, burning the last of his lifeblood for one final, desperate battle.
He slammed the butt of Gungnir, his golden spear, upon the floor. The impact released a golden shockwave, a pulse of divine energy that washed over every corner of Asgard—Odin's horn, calling his kingdom to war. Then, he raised the Spear of Eternity high. Its tip blazed with a light so brilliant it became a miniature star, a cross-shaped corona of power that engulfed Odin entirely, making him look like a living sun.
"To Hel with you, you shadowy insects!" Odin roared, channeling every last ounce of his fading strength into the spear.
He swung. The universe itself seemed to tremble.
Malekith's arrogance evaporated, replaced by pure, undiluted panic. He had based his calculations on the power of Bor, but he had catastrophically underestimated the son. This single blow would annihilate him. Perhaps Odin would collapse into weakness or even death immediately after, but Malekith had to survive until then. As the spear swung, the pressure nearly suffocated him. He couldn't take this blow. Not even Kurse could take it.
I should have listened to Loki! I should have waited! he screamed internally, his mind reeling with regret.
As despair consumed him, a dark green shadow flashed before his eyes. Loki stood between him and certain death, hands raised. "Father, don't! It is I!"
The torrent of golden light shuddered, hesitated, and then vanished into nothing.
Beyond the fading glare, Odin stood panting, exhausted and trembling with rage. He stared with his one good eye, his voice a hoarse, broken roar. "Loki! It was you... You brought them here?!"
He still gripped Gungnir, but he couldn't bring himself to thrust it into his son's chest. He gasped for air, waiting, pleading for an explanation.
Loki simply sneered. "Father, the Dark Elf King asked me to give you a message—"
Shhhk!
A silver blade, moving faster than thought, erupted from Odin's back, piercing straight through his chest. The All-Father let out a choked gasp of pain and disbelief. The image of Loki standing before Malekith dissolved like smoke. Another Loki, the real one, now stood behind Odin. He leaned in close, his whisper a venomous hiss in the old king's ear. "Old man. Hand over the Aether... and the throne."
He ripped the dagger free. A torrent of divine blood spilled across the floor.
Malekith, watching the scene unfold, burst into triumphant laughter. He could not have orchestrated a more perfect outcome. Loki had not only saved him from Odin's most terrifying attack but had mortally wounded the king himself. Now, nothing in Asgard could possibly stop him.
"Well done, Loki," he praised, eyeing the fallen All-Father as one might an old, dying dog. The wounded king staggered back, slumping against a pillar, a trapped and broken beast.
"Hand over the Aether, Odin," Malekith snarled, "or die!"
Odin clutched his wound. The dagger, Loki's work, pulsed with a dark magic that suppressed his healing. He was weak, but his gaze was filled not with fear, but with a strange, defiant pity. "I will not hand over the Aether," he rasped, "and you... you have no idea what kind of monster you have just unleashed."
Malekith sneered. "No, you have no idea what kind of enemy you face." He strode forward, his hand shooting out to grab Odin by the throat, lifting the ancient king with one arm. "Die, or give me the Aether!"
But Odin only smiled.
Feeling despised, Malekith was about to order Kurse to seize the old king for interrogation back in Svartalfheim. But before he could speak, he felt a shift in the air. Behind the dying Odin, a swirling vortex of green energy began to tear open the fabric of space.
Loki raised his hands, showing his innocence, and took a cautious step back. He knew what was coming. The sister he had never met.
BOOM!
The portal ripped open, and a chilling wave of deathly power poured forth. A woman in tattered rags, her hair a disheveled mess, stepped out. Hela. She took a deep, intoxicating breath. The familiar air of Asgard, now thick with the scent of blood, rushed into her, fueling her, awakening her. It was a scent she found immensely satisfying.
Malekith stared, confused by this sudden apparition. "Who are you?" he demanded.
Hela ignored him completely, her eyes locked on Odin with blistering sarcasm. "Well, well, look what we have here," she purred. "My poor, dear father. Stabbed in the back by his own son. To end up in such a miserable state... how truly pitiful." Her face was a mask of mockery and glee, devoid of sympathy. She pointed a sharp finger at Malekith. "I told you, didn't I, old man? These bedbugs living in the gutter should have been exterminated, every last one! Their blood should have watered every inch of Svartalfheim!"
Her gaze returned to Odin, burning with millennia of resentment. "But what about you? All your conquests, all the people you killed... and then you tried to whitewash it all? Did you truly think that by killing everyone who knew your ugly history, you could pretend to be some benevolent king?"
A hoarse, guttural sound escaped Odin's throat. He stretched a trembling hand toward her, a silent, desperate plea. He knew his daughter had misunderstood, but he also knew her hatred was a wound he himself had inflicted. He had forged her into a weapon, used her, and then, when her ambition mirrored his own, he had imprisoned her in the cold dark of Helheim with no explanation. He could not expect forgiveness now.
Hela's eyes fell to his outstretched hand. For a moment, she seemed to soften, extending her own hand as if to accept his. But in the shadow of her palm, a black blade of pure death materialized. It flew forward, piercing Odin's chest with merciless finality, extinguishing the last spark of the All-Father's life.
Malekith and Loki were both stunned into silence. Malekith, because Hela had just killed the only person who might know the Aether's location. Loki, because of the sheer, breathtaking cruelty of the act itself. He'd heard his sister was ruthless, but he had never imagined this. To kill Odin so casually? Even at his most rebellious, Loki had never truly contemplated patricide.
Then again, he mused with a touch of dark humor, Hela had conquered realms for Odin only to be sealed away for thousands of years. It seemed quite miserable. A thought wormed its way into his mind, and he had to suppress a laugh. Who is the adopted one here? Why do I suddenly feel like the happiest child in this family?
As Odin's body dissolved into a cascade of golden light, a satisfied smile spread across Hela's face. She tilted her head back, running her hands through her hair. The Crown of Death bloomed from her scalp like a thorny, nightmarish halo, and the tattered rags of her prison transformed in a blink, reforming into a sleek, formidable battlesuit.
She turned her haughty, imperious gaze upon the stunned Malekith.
"So," she said, her voice dripping with regal authority. "Why are you not on your knees, greeting your queen?"
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