There were realms in the Nine Realms where even kings hesitated to step.
Helheim was one of them.
A land without sunlight, without warmth, without time.
A realm that swallowed sound and hope with equal hunger.
And yet, under shrouded cloaks and flickering ward-lanterns, Lord Vali, Lord Kjarl, and Lady Brynhild, followed by thirteen of the most dangerous magical practitioners in all nine realms, crossed the borders of life and death.
They walked down the ancient stone causeway—a path that had not known footsteps for centuries—toward the iron gates of Helheim.
Helheim was nothing like the fiery, violent Muspelheim, nor like the frozen brutality of Jotunheim.
It was worse.
The air was cold—not a physical cold, but a cold that pressed on the spirit, sucking out joy, dulling thoughts, numbing will.
Pale green mist hovered everywhere, drifting like lost souls searching for memories they had forgotten.
Dead trees—twisted and skeletal—lined the path, their branches creaking though no wind blew.
Vali shivered despite the layers of enchanted armor.
"This place…" he muttered. "Even the air tastes like despair."
One of the sorcerers—a gaunt man with silver runes carved into his scalp—whispered,
"Do not breathe too deeply, my lord. The mist feeds on fear. Inhale too much, and your mind will remain here even if your body leaves."
Kjarl pulled his cloak closer, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice.
"How did Odin allow such a realm to exist?"
Lady Brynhild scoffed under her breath.
"He didn't. His daughter did."
Ahead, looming from the darkness, the Gates of Náströnd rose—towering, spiked, forged from dead stars and cursed iron. Souls clung to the bars like pale moths, their whispering a constant eerie hum:
"L e a v e … l e a v e … l e a v e …"
Vali paled.
"Why do they warn us?"
One of the sorcerers answered in a hollow voice,
"Because none who enter go without being marked by Helheim. And none who disturb its ruler leave unchanged."
Kjarl swallowed hard but stepped forward.
"Open the gates."
The thirteen practitioners raised their staves and pressed glowing runes against the iron. Blue flames erupted, runes twisting, magic grinding against magic.
The gates groaned—
screeched—
and slowly parted.
From the darkness beyond, a presence stirred.
The path led into the dead palace of Hel—an ancient structure made of black stone and bone, lit by ghostly green torches. The vaulted ceiling disappeared into swirling shadows, and the walls were covered with runes of death and binding.
At the center stood a throne carved from a single gargantuan skull.
Upon it sat Hela, goddess of death.
Her form was still sealed by Odin's ancient enchantments—heavy dark chains glowing with golden runes, binding her wrists, ankles, and throat. Her armor was cracked yet regal, the remains of a fallen queen.
Her hair flowed like ink in water.
Her eyes were open.
Cold.
Unblinking.
Watching them.
"Visitors," she whispered, her voice sharp as ice on glass.
"I have not had… visitors in centuries."
Even the boldest sorcerer trembled.
Vali stepped forward, though fear stiffened his spine.
"We come on behalf of Asgard."
Hela smiled, slow and terrible.
Kjarl's voice cracked. "We seek… your return."
"Return?"
Hela leaned forward, chains rattling.
"My father cast me down. Bound me with his own hands. And now, after centuries, the children of the traitorous nobles call for me?"
Brynhild bowed.
"Asgard needs a true ruler. Odin is away at war. His chosen heir is a child. The nobles plot, the realms rebel—"
"And you think I will solve this for you?" Hela hissed. "You who carry Odin's blood-stained lineage in your lungs?"
The thirteen practitioners lifted their staves, chanting under their breath, weaving the spell meant to break Odin's ancient bindings.
Hela tilted her head, amusement returning.
"Ahh… so that is why you brought them. You think them strong enough to break Odin's chains."
Vali stiffened. "We found the strongest spellweavers in all nine realms."
Hela smirked.
The air trembled as the spellcasters chanted, runes spiraling through the air, glowing blue, silver, and red. The palace floor cracked under the strain.
The first shackle glowed—
shuddered—
then split in half.
Hela inhaled sharply.
The temperature dropped.
The torches flickered violently.
The second shackle snapped, releasing a surge of necrotic energy so powerful Vali staggered backward.
"Careful!" the lead sorcerer shouted. "Her power will surge with each restraint broken!"
Chains shattered one by one—
with thunderous cracks—
with bursts of death magic—
with the echoing laughter of the goddess beginning to regain her strength.
Finally, the last chain broke—
and Helheim itself seemed to hold its breath.
Hela slowly rose from the throne.
Her full height was imposing, elegant, terrifying.
Her armor reformed around her with living shadows.
A crown of blackened bone reappeared upon her brow.
Her eyes glowed an eerie emerald.
She stretched her fingers—
and the souls embedded in the palace walls wailed in response.
Vali, trembling, bowed low.
"We have freed you… Queen Hela. Will you now come to Asgard? Will you claim the throne that should have been yours?"
Hela stepped forward.
Every footstep echoed like a hammer striking a coffin lid.
"Take me to Asgard," she said, her smile widening unnaturally, beautifully, monstrously.
"Let us see what pathetic chaos Odin has left behind… and who dares call himself king."
The nobles exchanged triumphant looks.
Hela whispered to them, voice soft as poisoned silk:
"And let us see how many of you survive my gratitude."
The air above Helheim cracked with ancient power as the Bifrost's swirling light tore through the sky.
For a moment, the bleak realm—silent, colorless, frozen—was bathed in impossible radiance.
Hela narrowed her eyes against the sudden brilliance.
Light.
Warmth.
She had not seen either since Odin cast her down.
The nobles behind her—Vali, Kjarl, Brynhild, and the trembling thirteen sorcerers—watched in a mixture of awe and terror as the rainbow bridge descended like a celestial spear.
A figure shimmered into view within the Bifrost's beam—the Heimdall substitute, a young guardian temporarily assigned while Heimdall served at the northern front. He held Hofund with shaking hands, barely containing the surge of magic.
"Bifrost… is ready," the guardian stammered. "You may step through."
Hela smiled.
Ah, to be welcomed once again as royalty.
Her boots touched the bridge—and the Bifrost screamed.
Light warped.
The air twisted.
Magic recoiled.
The bridge—an ancient living conduit of Yggdrasil—recognized her.
And it remembered fear.
Hela inhaled deeply.
The energy tasted like home.
"Take me to Asgard," she commanded.
The guardian swallowed, lifted the sword—
And the Bifrost erupted.
Far north in Jotunheim, where snowstorms drowned the world in white, Odin was standing with Thor and Loki beside the ruins of Laufey's palace, reviewing surrender terms.
And suddenly—
Everything stopped.
Odin's spine stiffened as if struck.
His eye widened.
His breath froze in his chest.
Thor turned instantly. "Father? What is it?"
Odin's hand clenched around Gungnir.
Magic crackled across the spear like lightning.
Odin's voice came out low, consumed by dread.
"The enchantments I placed on Helheim…"
He swallowed hard.
"They are breaking."
Thor paled. "Breaking? Impossible. No sorcerer alive can undo your magic!"
"They did not," Odin said grimly. "She did."
Loki's eyes narrowed.
"Who?."
The wind howled through the ruins, carrying shards of ice like knives.
Odin closed his eye, pulling deeply on the ancient well of his sight, tracing the threads of magic interwoven through the cosmos.
He felt it clearly now.
The shudder of ancient runes collapsing.
The roar of death magic rising.
The pulse of a dormant star waking.
"What have they done…" Odin murmured. "What fools have dared release her?"
Thor stepped forward, expression hardened.
"Father! who are you talking about —"
Thunder rumbled without clouds.
Odin's voice was cold as the grave:
"Hela is already in the Bifrost."
Light bent violently as Hela traveled through the Bifrost, her presence warping the ancient corridor. The dead-green aura around her clawed at the walls of cosmic light, leaving fractures like spiderwebs of shadow.
The nobles behind her stumbled, barely remaining conscious.
"My queen," Vali gasped, "your power—it is overwhelming—"
She didn't bother looking at him.
"Of course it is."
As the bridge neared Asgard, Hela extended her arms. The magic around her pulsed, reacting like a living thing eager to reclaim its throne.
"Asgard," she whispered.
A smile—slow, razor-sharp, hungry—spread across her lips.
"I'm home."
Odin's fingers tightened around Gungnir as the shudder of ancient magic rippled through him. His breath hitched; his lone eye widened in alarm.
Thor stepped forward quickly.
"Father? What is it?"
Loki frowned, studying Odin's expression.
"I have never seen you react this way."
Odin did not answer immediately. His gaze was distant, as if watching something unfold across realms.
Finally, his voice came out low—almost disbelieving.
"A power I sealed… has been unleashed."
Thor and Loki exchanged confused looks.
"Sealed?" Thor repeated. "By you?"
"What power? Whose power?" Loki demanded.
Odin inhaled sharply.
"You cannot know," he said firmly. "Not yet. What matters is this—she is ancient, she is deadly, and she is coming to Asgard."
The princes stiffened at the word she.
Loki narrowed his eyes. "Father… who is she?"
Odin's jaw clenched.
"A being who sees the throne as hers by right."
Neither Thor nor Loki understood, but both felt the dread settle into their bones.
Odin turned abruptly to Wanda.
"Wanda," he said, voice edged with urgency, "you must go—NOW. Someone unimaginably powerful has stepped onto Asgard. Someone who will try to kill Harry and seize the throne."
Wanda's eyes widened.
"Then why are we still talking?"
Before Odin could reply, she tore open a scarlet star-shaped portal with a sweep of her hand. The air cracked with cosmic force.
Odin nodded once.
"Protect him. You are the only one who can defeat her."
Wanda vanished in a flash of red light.
Thor stared at the space where she disappeared.
"Father… who is she protecting Harry from?"
Odin did not meet his eyes.
"That," Odin said quietly, "is a truth I hoped would never be reawakened."
Harry had just finished interrogating another forge master when the hairs on the back of his neck rose. The guards beside him tensed.
Magic pulsed behind him—raw, crackling, familiar.
A crimson portal ripped open.
Wanda stepped through, breathing hard.
"Mum?" Harry blinked. "Are you alright? What happened—?"
Wanda didn't waste time. She took Harry's face in her hands, scanning him as if expecting to find wounds.
"Are you hurt? Did she reach you yet?"
Harry frowned. "She? Who are you talking about?"
Wanda exhaled shakily.
"Someone Odin warned me about. Someone he sealed long before even Thor was born."
Harry felt cold.
"Sealed? As in… imprisoned?"
"Yes," Wanda whispered. "And she is free now."
The guards exchanged terrified glances.
Harry squared his shoulders. "Is she coming here?"
Wanda nodded.
"She is already in Asgard. And she is looking for the one sitting on the throne."
Harry swallowed.
"Me."
"Yes," Wanda said. "And she is powerful. Far more than any enemy you've ever faced. Odin told me she will try to take the throne—and kill you first."
A tremor shook the golden corridors.
A cold wind swept through—a wind that did not belong in Asgard.
Wanda's eyes flashed red.
"She's close."
Harry tightened his fists, lightning crackling between his fingers.
"Then let's go greet her."
Wanda pulled him closer, her voice stark.
"No. Not alone. Stay beside me. Until Odin arrives, I am your shield. Because whoever she is—she is not coming to speak."
A shadow passed over the window.
A distant metallic scrape echoed like a blade dragged across stone.
Wanda whispered—
"She is coming to conquer."
A strange stillness fell over the palace.
It began as a tremor—barely noticeable, like the breath of a sleeping beast deep beneath the golden floors. The guard captain turned his head sharply, hand tightening around his spear.
"My prince," he whispered, "do you feel that?"
Harry did.
The air had shifted. Thickened. Darkened.
As if Asgard itself remembered something ancient… and feared it.
Wanda placed a protective hand in front of Harry, her fingers glowing faintly red. "She's inside the palace," she murmured. "She's not masking her presence anymore."
Another tremor tore through the ground.
Then a crack split the golden tiles of the throne room's outer corridor—long, jagged, like a wound spreading through Asgardian stone.
The guards backed away.
Harry's lightning simmered across his knuckles.
Wanda's magic circled her like a living storm.
Then—
THUD.
A heavy, deliberate footstep echoed.
THUD.
Another. Slow. Inevitable. Each step reverberated like a countdown.
Harry raised his chin.
"Show yourself!"
A low, amused laugh answered him—a woman's laugh, rich and venomous.
Then the shadows peeled apart.
And she emerged.
Her silhouette appeared first—elegant, tall, wrapped in black armor that shimmered like obsidian. A living crown of jagged, antler-like horns grew from her skull, absorbing the light around her. Her cloak trailed behind her like a slice of midnight.
Her eyes were green fire.
Hungry fire.
A predator seeing prey.
She stepped into the throne room—into Odin's hall—like she owned it.
Like she never left.
Wanda inhaled sharply. Harry stood straighter.
Her eyes flicked to Harry.
"And you… the child who plays king."
Harry's jaw tightened. "Who are you?"
Hela smiled lazily.
"You may call me Aunt Hela."
Her voice dripped with smug amusement.
"Firstborn of Odin. Goddess of Death."
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