The morning had barely begun. The sky still wore the dark veil of dawn, dyed in a deep blue that was only now beginning to yield to the arrival of light. A timid beam of clarity escaped through the irregular opening in the wall of Uriel's den.
Inside, the silence was absolute. A thick, almost tangible silence, filled only by the muffled sound of the wind brushing against the rocks outside and the occasional crack of ice breaking in the crevices of the cave. The air was frigid, still, as if time within that den had frozen along with everything else.
Uriel awoke slowly, his single eye opening with the weight of a soul that never rests. The eyeball glowed with an intense blue hue, cold and mystical — not like the fire of the stars, but more like the pale light of the moon reflected on a frozen lake. An ancient glow, one that seemed to hide forgotten secrets.
With a sudden movement, his muscles tensed. His wings, large and powerful, spread into an imposing arc, making the air vibrate around him. The dark blue membranes, thin and translucent at the edges, trembled at the touch of the cutting cold. Then, in a single thrust, he launched himself outward. A burst of wind and snow marked his departure as he shot through the hole in the wall with brutal speed, emerging into the open sky like a living projectile.
The forgotten fortress, a temporary home of solitude and hibernation, was left behind, growing smaller beneath him.
Uriel did not fly for pleasure. There was a purpose burning in his chest: to become stronger. It was a need that went beyond mere will — it was instinct, primal desire, hunger for power. And for that, he needed to find living beings, worthy prey, challenges that would grant him experience and evolution.
But the world around him seemed to have been swallowed by an eternal winter.
The hours dragged on beneath an unchanging sky, painted in shades of lead. The sun, if it still existed, was no more than a rumor hidden behind thick clouds. The afternoon arrived silently, like a whisper of death. The landscape was an endless expanse of white: snow, only snow, shaping gentle hills and deep valleys, with no sign of life. No footprints. No sound but the melancholic howl of the wind.
Uriel hovered above the frozen plains, his eye scanning the world below with growing frustration. Boredom mixed with irritation. For a moment, he considered returning. The absence of prey made the idea of the den feel less suffocating.
But then, something different — almost imperceptible — broke the monotony.
In the distance, on the hazy horizon, a light cut through the sky. A sudden, multicolored glow appeared like a flash of pure magic. He saw a beam of colors — red, blue, gold, green — dancing in the air, like a liquid flame of rainbow, descending from the sky until it touched the earth. It lasted only a second. A flash. And then, it vanished.
Uriel widened his eye, fixing his gaze on the spot where it had disappeared. The glow still danced on his retina. That was not ordinary. That was not natural.
He frowned and muttered, his voice hoarse, broken by prolonged silence:
*"Is that… the Bifröst?"*
Doubt mixed with expectation, fear, and curiosity. But he did not hesitate.
His muscles contracted, and his wings beat violently, tearing through the air with a dry snap. The thrust launched him upward, breaking through the heavy clouds. They parted like veils before his determined flight. He climbed higher, each wingbeat taking him in the direction of that trail of mystical light.
---
A burst of light cut through the sky like a divine lightning bolt, tearing the firmament with an intensity that left a glowing trail. The Bifrost portal opened, casting a silvery glow over the vast hill covered in fine snow, which seemed to absorb even the sounds of the landscape. When the beam of light finally faded, four imposing figures appeared, their armor forged in Asgard gleaming under the heavy, overcast sky, as if reflecting the weight of the mission before them.
The first to appear, a burly man with a thick beard of intense red, immediately crouched down, crossing his arms with a grumble, trying to warm himself against the biting cold. His eyes were half-closed, a look of pure disgust stamped across his face.
"Brrr…" he growled, a low, irritated sound that seemed to vanish into the vast whiteness around them. "I hate this place. Always have. This damn cold… Why did we have to come here, huh?"
His tone was heavy with frustration, each word leaving his mouth in a burst of vapor that quickly dissipated into the icy air. He hunched further, shoulders curving, as he pressed his clothes tighter around his body, trying in vain to retain some warmth.
"Shut up, Bjornek." The voice that answered was deep but dry, coming from a taller man with broad shoulders and a face marked by boredom. He turned slowly to his friend, the scowl on his face revealing patience already stretched thin. "You do nothing but complain. And stop pretending you don't know. You know very well it was Odin who sent us here."
The tall man's tone was sharp, almost like a blade slicing through the cold air around them. His eyes, hard and unyielding, locked onto the red-bearded man, who now rolled his eyes, visibly annoyed, but unwilling to provoke him further.
"I know…" Bjornek muttered sulkily, shaking his head with disdain. He stomped his feet on the ground, the sound muffled by the snow, but even that didn't seem to help warm him. "But he could've sent another group. I hate ice, and this place is a damn frozen hell."
Before the argument could go further, the third member of the group, a man with stern features, piercing eyes, and a posture of impeccable rigidity, stepped forward. His gaze was sharp, as if he were already calculating every movement around them. When he spoke, his voice cut through the air like a blade slicing flesh.
"Enough," he said, his voice deep but authoritative, echoing through the empty space around them. "We're here for a very serious reason. No jokes. No distractions. What we're about to do leaves no room for play. I don't want anything — anything — slipping past our investigation. Understood?"
The other two fell silent immediately, the weight of his authority shifting the atmosphere. Bjornek, who had been on the verge of grumbling again, now merely huffed, shoving his hands under his arms and shrinking further in, trying not to give in to the cold — but even he knew that disobeying now wasn't an option.
The fourth Asgardian, the quietest of the four, observed everything with a sharp, watchful gaze. His eyes scanned the landscape around them with suspicion.