The silence of Asgard was not peace.
It was anticipation.
A tension so thick it weighed upon the golden beams of the great hall, as if the nine worlds themselves were holding their breath.
Odin sat upon Hlidskjálf, his high throne from which he could gaze upon all that existed.
But on that day, he did not look.
He listened.
His single eye this well of wisdom torn at the price of blood from Mímir's spring stared into the void. The ravens Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory, perched motionless on his shoulders, their feathers ruffled by a wind that did not blow.
Three figures stood before him.
Not goddesses. Not servants.
The Fates. The Norns. The Weavers of destiny.
They belonged to no pantheon. They were older than the gods, older than primordial chaos. Their names shifted with the tongues of men and giants, but their voice was one: cold, inexorable, woven from invisible threads.
Urd, what has been.
Verdandi, what is.
Skuld, what shall be.
They did not speak with lips. They spoke with the thread.
And the thread grew taut.
The first voice rose—that of the past, grave as the roots of Yggdrasil.
"The fall of the gods will not begin with blood.
It will begin with absence.
The sun will vanish.
Not veiled by clouds. Not eclipsed by the moon.
Devoured. Swallowed.
Sköll and Hati, the ravenous wolves, will finally catch their eternal prey. The light will extinguish, and the worlds will plunge into a night without dawn."
Odin did not stir. But his fist tightened on Gungnir, the spear that never missed its mark.
The second voice followed—that of the present, sharp as a newly forged blade.
"Then Jörmungandr will awaken.
The World Serpent, Loki's child, who encircles Midgard with his infinite body, will rise from the abyss.
The oceans will boil. The lands will crack.
He will spew his venom upon the heavens and the earth, poisoning the very air the gods breathe.
He will swallow the pantheons in his coils, crushing Asgard like a broken toy.
The gods will fight.
They will die."
The ravens croaked faintly, as if they already saw the monstrous waves engulfing the plains.
The third voice concluded—that of the future, whispered like a secret one dreads to hear.
"Surtr will come from the south, his sword brighter than the dying sun.
Incandescent flames will consume everything.
The forests of Yggdrasil will burn. The golden halls will melt. The entire world will become a pyre.
And Hel will march from the cold depths.
The goddess of the dead will lead her legions: the countless souls of the damned, the forgotten, the heroes without burial.
They will overrun the pantheons. They will drown the gods in sheer numbers.
Ragnarök.
The end.
But not the absolute end. A cycle. A rebirth in ashes and waters.
Yet... the gods will not witness it."
The thread snapped.
The three figures faded, like shadows at dawn.
Odin remained alone.
For the first time in ages, the Allfather felt the weight of helplessness.
He had sacrificed an eye for knowledge.
He had hung nine days upon the World Tree for the runes.
He had wandered disguised among men and giants to steal wisdom.
But this... this could not be altered.
Destiny was not a chain to break. It was the very fabric of reality.
Yet, in the gray of his remaining eye, a spark endured.
The same one that once burned in the soul of a mortal named Siegfried, on the banks of the Styx.
Resistance.
Even against the inevitable.
The raven Huginn finally took flight, carrying the tidings to the winds.
The fall was approaching.
And with it, perhaps, the link between the worlds of the living, the dead... and the forgotten.