Odin knew before the ravens spoke.
The Allfather stood alone upon the highest terrace of Asgard, where the sky thinned into raw concept and the stars trembled like nervous witnesses. Beneath him, the realms shifted subtly—imperceptible to gods drunk on eternity, but screaming to those who still listened.
The Bifröst was gone.
Not damaged.
Not dormant.
Erased.
Huginn landed first, feathers still vibrating with urgency. Muninn followed, slower, heavier, as if memory itself resisted delivering the truth.
Odin did not turn.
— Speak, he said.
The ravens did not use words.
They remembered at him.
The image struck his mind with surgical clarity: the bridge collapsing, Apollo crushed beneath an abyssal hammer, light folding inward, screaming as it learned what mortality felt like.
Odin exhaled slowly.
So.
The residue had become a force.
Behind him, the great hall of Valaskjálf remained silent. The gods of Asgard were gathered there, arguing in low voices, clinging to the illusion that this was still a crisis to be debated.
Odin did not join them.
He reached for his spear.
Gungnir responded immediately.
Not with light.
With obedience.
— The cycle is breaking, Odin murmured.
— Not collapsing. Not repeating. Breaking.
He turned at last.
His single eye burned—not with rage, but with clarity sharpened by centuries of betrayal, prophecy, and sacrifice. He raised Gungnir and struck it once against the stone.
The sound did not echo.
It summoned.
The wind changed.
From every direction at once, the Wild Hunt answered.
They emerged not as a single force, but as a convergence of inevitabilities. Riders formed from shadow and bone, wolves stitched from night and hunger, spirits bound to ancient oaths older than most pantheons.
They did not kneel.
They aligned.
At their center rode the Huntmaster—faceless, antler-crowned, carrying a horn carved from the rib of a forgotten god.
— Allfather, the Huntmaster intoned.
— The prey has multiplied.
Odin nodded.
— Good.
He stepped forward.
— The age of pantheons ruling in isolation is over, Odin declared.
— They have grown indulgent. Fragmented. Weak.
Images unfolded behind his words: Olympus in disarray, gods screaming over Apollo's fall; Egyptian deities retreating into old hierarchies; Eastern pantheons watching, silent, calculating.
— Jormund has shown them what happens when a single will escapes the script, Odin continued.
— Fenrir has devoured the Sun.
— The bridge between realms is dead.
A murmur rippled through the Hunt.
— Chaos is no longer contained, Odin said calmly.
— Therefore, it must be directed.
He leveled Gungnir at the void.
— You will ride.
The Wild Hunt straightened.
— You will cross every realm.
— You will break no throne… yet.
— You will occupy.
The Huntmaster tilted his head.
— And the pantheons?
Odin's smile was thin.
— They will be given a choice.
— Submit to observation and order…
— Or be reminded that gods, too, can be hunted.
A pause.
— No extermination, Odin added.
— Not yet.
— Fear is more efficient when paired with survival.
The Huntmaster lowered his horn.
— And the anomaly?
— The one called Jormund?
Odin's grip tightened on Gungnir.
— Do not engage him, Odin said.
— Not directly.
That drew attention.
— He is no longer merely a fragment of Jormungandr, Odin continued.
— He has ingested Chronos.
— He has survived Tartarus, Alfheim, and the fall of the Bifröst.
Odin turned his gaze toward the distance—toward where Jotunheim slept atop the corpse of Ymir.
— He is becoming something the old prophecies cannot name.
The Wild Hunt listened.
— Let Thor pursue his war with the Jotnar, Odin said.
— Let Olympus bleed internally.
— Let Hel fall and crawl back with new loyalties.
His eye hardened.
— The Hunt will ensure no pantheon moves independently again.
He raised Gungnir one final time.
— Ride across gods and myths.
— Mark territories.
— Enforce silence where rebellion grows too loud.
The Huntmaster raised the horn.
The sound that followed was not music.
It was history being overridden.
Across the realms, doors slammed shut. Thrones trembled. Gods felt something old and predatory lift its head behind their myths.
The Wild Hunt surged forward, tearing through reality like a storm given direction.
Odin remained alone.
For a long moment.
— Loki, he murmured to the empty air.
— I know you're listening.
No answer came.
Odin smiled anyway.
— You always do.
He looked once more toward the void where the Bifröst had been.
— Ragnarok was supposed to end us all, Odin said softly.
— Instead, it has begun to choose sides.
Somewhere far away, Jormund breathed.
And the Allfather prepared the world for a hunt that would not end with a single corpse—but with control over destiny itself.