Somewhere, in an infinitely expanding distance away from the Greeks, the universe of Norse was on the verge of destruction.
At this moment, the halls of Asgard was silent.
Once, these gilded chambers had resounded with the laughter of gods, the clinking of mead cups, and the echoes of songs sung in victory.
But now, only the low hum of divine wards and the faint tremors of a dying cosmos filled the air.
The flames that burned along the golden pillars flickered weakly, as if even they had lost the will to burn.
Upon the Throne of the Allfather, Odin sat slouched, no longer having his previous arrogance, as in the days of his youth, only a deep feeling of helplessness and powerlessness.
His once-brilliant single eye, which had gazed upon creation and pierced the mysteries of Yggdrasil itself, was now dim, tired, and heavy with despair.
Every breath he drew seemed to echo the exhaustion of his entire realm.
