Logan's POV
We are standing on the edge of the world.
Or at least, the edge of this one. A great, jagged chasm tears through the fiery plains of Muspelheim, so deep that the bottom is lost in a distant, bloody glow. The heat that blasts up from it is different from the dry air around us; it's wet, heavy, carrying the scent of ash and something ancient and metallic.
Týr is long gone, having delivered his final, unhelpful instruction. Probably off to find a more interesting mortal to torment. It's just me, Dad, Kato, Fenrir, and Månina, silhouetted against the hellish sky.
Far below, I can see them. Flickering indistinct shapes moving in a sluggish river of what looks like molten rock. Souls. Thousands upon thousands of them, flowing in a silent, relentless current.
"Are they… in pain?" I ask, my voice hushed.
