"To guard the mead is to guard the blood of wisdom. And wisdom, like fire, burns the bearer first."
The cave seemed to hum with old magic.
Odin stood still, the scent of molten stone and fermented honey flooding his senses. Before him, Gunnlöð held her ground—tall, proud, her presence forged of heat and silence. The torchlight licked at her skin, casting golden shadows across her face, but her eyes never blinked. They were the kind of eyes that had seen loneliness passed down through generations.
She was no ordinary guardian.She was a flame encased in sorrow.
And Odin, for the first time in centuries, was not sure if he would leave this mountain unchanged.
"Answer me, wanderer," she said, taking a step forward. "What brings you through cursed stone and into my solitude? You are no mortal." Her staff tapped the ground with a faint echo, almost a warning. "You smell of gods and grief."
Odin straightened. "I seek the mead, Gunnlöð."
"You seek?" she echoed with a mirthless smile. "You mean to steal. Like your kind always does."
The air tightened. Runes burned softly along the cavern walls, responding to her rising fury.
But Odin was not rattled. His gaze softened. "Then let me not lie. Yes. I came to take what you guard. But I will not do it with blade or shadow—not unless you make me."
She circled him like a lioness measuring prey, though a flicker of curiosity danced in her features.
"You came without a weapon. You didn't break through the final seals. You walked into fire with only your words."
He nodded. "Because I know fire listens."
A silence fell between them. Not cold. Not warm. Something ancient. Something forming.
Gunnlöð narrowed her eyes.
"You wish to drink of Kvasir's blood?" she asked, voice low now, more intimate. "Do you even understand what that means?"
"I know that it grants the power of poetry," Odin answered. "Of wisdom. Of persuasion. I know it's the breath behind every song, the spine in every truth. And I know I will pay for it."
Gunnlöð laughed softly, the sound bitter. "Everyone pays. But the ones who pay after—they always leave corpses behind."
Her hand touched the vial at her hip. Inside it, the golden mead glowed faintly, like sunlight trapped in amber.
"You're not the first to come," she whispered. "But you might be the last."
She turned from him and walked deeper into the cavern. "Follow."
Odin obeyed. The tunnel behind her twisted downward like the throat of some great beast. As they descended, walls shimmered with ghostly images—visions of men driven mad by drink, of women singing spells into lovers' ears, of ancient scribes writing words that would reshape kingdoms.
The Mead of Poetry did not gift beauty.It gifted power.And power always demanded something in return.
They arrived at a chamber at the very heart of the mountain.
It was round and domed like a cathedral, with crystal stalactites dripping from the ceiling. In the center was a stone basin carved from obsidian. Three massive jars sat upon it, each pulsing faintly with golden light. Odin could smell the mead from here—thick, sweet, and laced with something darker.
Each jar bore a name:
Óðrœrir – The stirrer of inspiration.
Boðn – The vessel of command.
Són – The soul's elixir.
Gunnlöð stepped toward them and placed one hand gently on Boðn's lid.
"These are all that remain. The blood of Kvasir, the last breath of true wisdom. I have guarded them since my father entrusted them to me."
"Suttung," Odin muttered.
Gunnlöð turned sharply. "Say his name again and the walls will collapse on your bones."
He raised a hand in peace. "He's not who I came for."
"Liar," she snapped. "You gods speak in silver tongues and iron hearts. What makes you different?"
He hesitated.
Then: "I don't ask to take them. Not yet. I ask only for three nights under your watch. As a guest. A worker. A listener."
She tilted her head.
"Three nights," she echoed. "And then?"
"And then I leave. With or without the mead. That's for fate to decide."
Gunnlöð studied him long and hard, and for a moment, the goddess seemed to crack—not in strength, but in solitude. Her face, proud and calm, held something vulnerable behind the iron.
No one had come here in decades.No one had spoken her name like it meant anything.No one had looked at her like a woman, not a ward.
"Three nights," she whispered finally. "Then the mountain decides."
Odin nodded.
And fate exhaled.
That night, Gunnlöð showed him to a hollowed chamber near the basin room—bare, but warm. She lit a fire with a word and handed him a fur blanket.
"I'll be watching," she said as she left.
"I hope you do," he replied.
As the fire crackled and her footsteps faded, Odin lay back on the cold stone and stared at the shadows dancing along the cavern roof.
He had spoken no lie.He would wait three nights.And in those nights, he would seduce her heart, her will, and her soul.
But as the hours passed…And her voice lingered in the air…He began to wonder—was it his heart that would be taken?