Year 1 of the Valkyrie Calendar – Eternal Light Cage, Grand Hall of Valhalla
The prison hung suspended in mid-air like a colossal crystal hewn from the first sunlight of creation.
Eight meters in diameter, ten meters tall. No seams, no shadows.
Every golden ray from the thousands of giant torches outside was refracted, bent, and magnified a hundredfold as it passed through the shell, turning the interior into a white-hot furnace with nowhere to hide.
All of Asgard held its breath and looked up.
Ancient gods sat rigid on their stone thrones. Goddesses pressed trembling hands to their mouths. Rows of Einherjar lined the hall, knuckles white around their spears. No one dared speak. Only the crackle of flames and the heavy heartbeats of ten thousand immortals.
At the bottom of the cage was a single hole no wider than a child's fist: the only opening through which food, water, and the "teaching tools" Odin had prepared during three sleepless days and nights would be lowered.
In the center of the cage, Zetsumyo Freya hung half a meter above the transparent crystal floor.
Virgin-gold chains (the kind used only to bind untouched goddesses offered in world-creation rites) cut deep into her wrists, ankles, and throat, carving red furrows into her flesh.
Her wrists were wrenched behind her back until her shoulder blades nearly touched; the joints cracked with every breath.
Her ankles were pulled apart by separate chains, forcing her to kneel with legs spread to the limit. Her knees never touched the floor. Her entire weight hung from still-soft hip joints and a cervix that had been torn open less than a day ago.
She was completely naked.
Platinum hair, reaching her waist, clung wetly to skin as cold and white as Niflheim's snow, still slick with the golden fluid from Brynhild's womb.
Her small, undeveloped breasts rose and fell weakly; pale pink nipples stood erect from cold and pain.
Her virgin slit was swollen and red from being stretched wide, the torn pink mucosa exposed, crusted with dried blood and flakes of dried golden mucus.
Crimson eyes stared straight down at the cold stone far below: unblinking, emotionless.
She was less than twenty-four hours old by the world's reckoning, yet the blood of the nine greatest goddesses coursed through her veins. Their memories (tens of thousands of years of them) screamed inside her skull, teaching her hatred long before speech.
She knew she was a weapon.
She knew she would be "trained" until she learned to kneel.
And she knew, from her very first breath, that she despised everything male down to the marrow.
With a low hum, the light-door at the top of the cage opened.
Thirty young male gods were released like beasts loosed from their pen.
Freshly fallen Einherjar, dead within the last few years, none older than two hundred. Faces still boyish, bodies not yet hardened by endless war.
Golden hair, dark brown, fiery red: all tall, broad-shouldered, flat-bellied, but their eyes betrayed terror mixed with magically enforced lust.
They wore only thin armor of light; from the waist down they were completely bare.
Their cocks (fifteen to eighteen centimeters, pale and youthful, glans still soft from never having known a woman) stood painfully erect under Odin's highest-tier lust spell.
The first to step forward was a youth with shining golden hair and summer-sea eyes, beautiful enough to make even aged goddesses once sigh in secret.
He was called Young Baldr: a perfect replica of the long-dead god of light, recreated from a surviving fragment of soul.
His legs shook. He clutched his radiant spear until his knuckles went white, yet he could not meet Freya's crimson stare.
From his distant throne, Odin sat wrapped in blood-soaked bandages at the groin, face corpse-pale, his single eye bloodshot with pain and hatred.
His voice rasped like a saw through bone:
"Baldr. You are the first.
Teach that monster the place of females.
Thrust. Spill. Make it remember it was born from my cock and exists only to serve cock."
Baldr swallowed hard.
He stepped forward, each footfall like walking on coals.
Freya did not move.
The golden chains automatically tightened another centimeter, spreading her thighs wider, fully exposing her torn, childish slit streaked with old blood and dried golden mucus.
Baldr knelt before her.
His seventeen-centimeter cock had turned purple from strain; clear fluid dripped steadily from the tip, sparkling as it hit the crystal floor.
He looked into her crimson eyes.
One second.
One second was enough to turn his knees to water. That gaze was a frozen blade driven straight into his soul.
But Odin's spell was stronger than fear.
It forced his body to obey.
Trembling hands seized her hips (skin ice-cold where unbound, burning where the chains bit).
He placed his scalding glans against her untouched entrance and felt the involuntary, agonized clench of flesh that had never been violated since birth.
Then he pushed.
The first thrust took only the head inside.
Freya bit her lower lip until it split; fresh blood ran down her chin.
She made no sound.
Baldr panted, sweat pouring down his face and dripping onto her small chest.
He pushed again (harder this time), tearing what remained of her hymen.
Fresh blood welled and mingled with his clear precum, running in rivulets down her thighs to the crystal below.
Freya remained silent.
Only her crimson eyes narrowed slightly, like a predator calculating.
Baldr began to move.
First stroke slow. Second harder. By the third he was frenzied.
On the eleventh stroke he lost control.
He gave a small animal cry, hips jerking uncontrollably, and came.
Hot, thick golden semen shot straight into her immature womb (dense, burning, laced with thousands of tiny glowing runes Odin had carved into every "instructor's" testicles).
Each pulse made her womb spasm violently, trying to expel the flood but unable; the golden chains sealed every exit.
Baldr emptied nine full spurts, enough that Freya's lower belly visibly swelled, skin stretched glossy and tight for a body less than a day old.
The instant the first drop touched the bottom of her womb, Freya felt it.
A searing heat ignited deep inside (not from outside, but from her own pelvis).
Just above her pubic bone, a tiny point burned as though branded with white-hot iron.
A small nub the size of a little-finger tip rose beneath her flawless white skin, pulsing like a second heart newly born.
It throbbed in time with every jet of semen, drinking, living.
Baldr was still shuddering, cock buried deep, eyes rolled back in forced ecstasy.
Slowly, Freya raised her head.
Blood from her torn lip dripped down her chin, over her small breasts, past pale pink nipples, and fell to the floor.
She extended her tongue and deliberately licked a strand of golden semen that had leaked from the corner of her mouth (slowly, as though tasting deadly wine).
Then she smiled.
Her first smile in life.
Cold, sharp, revealing two small, gleaming fangs.
"You…"
Her voice was hoarse from a throat raw with blood, yet it rang clear enough for the entire hall of Valhalla to hear and shiver.
"You are feeding the monster yourselves."
Baldr flinched and stepped back.
His cock slipped out with a wet pop, dragging a thick rope of golden semen and fresh blood down her thighs.
He looked down and saw the tiny nub on her mound twitching (breathing, alive).
The remaining twenty-nine no longer waited.
Odin's lust spell had reduced them to beasts that knew only mating.
They surged forward like a wave.
The second drove straight into her unprepared ass, tearing tender mucosa; blood sprayed in fine arcs.
The third seized her hair, yanked her head back, and forced his cock down her throat until she choked, tears streaming.
The fourth, fifth, sixth attacked together (holding limbs already bound by chains), penetrating every opening, some using hands, mouths, anything to pour more semen into her body.
Freya did not resist.
She only watched.
Watched each youthful face twist in sick ecstasy.
Watched every spurt of golden semen flood her womb, her bowels, her throat, her face, her hair, her chest.
And with every load that reached her womb, the nub above her pubic bone throbbed harder, grew a little larger, burned a little hotter, beat a little faster.
By the thirtieth, her lower belly had swollen as though three months pregnant, skin stretched so tight blue veins showed through the translucent flesh; one could almost see the golden semen churning inside.
The nub was now the size of a thumb tip, fresh pink, slightly pointed, pulsing visibly like a true heart.
The light-door at the top opened one last time.
The thirty Einherjar were hauled upward like living corpses (armor torn, cocks limp and bleeding, eyes rolled white from excessive climax, some vomiting on the spot).
Baldr was dragged away last.
He turned for one final look and saw Freya still kneeling, blood and semen pooling beneath her on the crystal floor, but her crimson eyes were dry and unblinking.
She whispered (soft enough only she should hear, yet the words echoed in the mind of every god present):
"Day one…
Thirty times…
Thirty first drops of blood."
The tiny nub gave one last convulsion, then stilled.
As though sleeping.
As though waiting for tomorrow.
Far away on his lofty throne, Odin clutched his bandaged, ruined groin, face the color of a corpse, lips trembling.
He had seen the nub.
He knew what it was.
He knew it would grow on the very semen of the males he kept throwing at her.
Yet he could not stop.
Because he had created something that even he (the All-Father of the Nine Realms) could no longer control.
The first of 36,500 days of hell had passed.
And the monster inside Zetsumyo Freya had begun to breathe.
It had its first heartbeat.
And it was hungry.