The torchlight in the stone chamber flickered low, casting long shadows on the frost-coated walls. The door slammed shut behind the two cloaked minions, panting from their dash across Winterhaven’s snow swept alleys.

  "My lord—" one began, but Mavikundi’s pale-blue hand snapped up, silencing him.

  "You’re certain?" the frost giant growled.

  "Aye. No mistake. Loki is here. With him—Thor."

  The air in the room dropped a few degrees. Mavikundi’s lips curled in frustration, eyes flashing an icy hue.

  "So... the trickster has remembered," he murmured. "And the hammer-wielder has come to deal out justice."

  His gaze turned sharp and savage. "This complicates matters."

  He paced, heavy boots thudding on the stone floor. After a long, cold pause, he turned back to the two messengers.

  "You. Keep watching the Owl and Hen. Report if either of them leaves. Keep your distance. If you’re seen, you die."

  The taller minion nodded.

  "And you," he pointed to the other, thinner one, "rally the dig crews in the eastern crypt shafts. Double the work. No more rest. The weapon must be found. Soon."

  Both bowed quickly and retreated.

  No sooner had the door shut than it creaked open again. A young elf girl, trembling slightly from the cold and the weight of the tray she carried, stepped inside.

  "M-my lord, I b-brought supper—"

  Her words were cut off as Mavikundi slapped the tray away with a roar. Metal and food clattered to the floor. The girl fell to her knees, bowing low, hastily scooping up bread and shattered dishes with shaking hands.

  "Forgive me!" she cried. "Please, my lord, I meant no offense!"

  He ignored her completely, eyes distant, thoughts racing. Finally, with a snarl, he turned and stormed to the far wall, pressing his palm into a smooth section of frost-veined stone. Runes flared, ancient and cold. A hidden door slid open with a low grinding sound.

  Mavikundi entered the chamber beyond alone.

  The room was circular, small, and made of black stone carved with elder symbols. In its center stood a dais of sculpted ice. Mavikundi dropped to one knee and pressed a crystal embedded in the floor.

  Light swirled. Frost rose like mist.

  And then the image of a towering frost giant shimmered into view—a spectral projection of a being both regal and monstrous. His face was carved from winter itself: jagged, ancient, and cruel. A heavy beard of white like glacier flows tumbled down his chest, and his eyes blazed like twin storms.

  Skymir, King of Snowearth. Ruler of Utgard Castle. Lord of all frost giants.

  He scowled upon seeing Mavikundi. His voice cracked like glaciers breaking.

  "You interrupt me now, Mavikundi? The weapon—have you found it?"

  Mavikundi bowed lower. "My lord Skymir… I beg your pardon. The weapon remains hidden, but my scouts believe we are close. The crypts beneath Winterhaven run deep and old. I only need more time."

  Skymir’s face twisted in fury. "Time? We do not have time. I sent you to claim the artifact weeks ago!"

  "I know, my king. But—"

  "And now you contact me to tell me what? That two gods of Asgard walk the city streets? Do you not know that I have eyes and ears of my own who have been watching your every move? That miscreant Loki was bad enough. But now Thor as well! Hurry, Mavikundi! I can wait no longer."

  Mavikundi hesitated. Then: "Yes, my lord. Loki and Thor have arrived. I will take care of them. They will not stand in the way of your ambitions."

  Skymir snarled. "Fool! You should have killed Loki when you killed the boy. No witnesses, I said!"

  "There was no time!" Mavikundi pleaded. "The act was done. The Aesir were already moving. I barely escaped with my life!"

  "You are a disappointment, Mavikundi." Skymir’s voice fell to a dangerous calm. "If you are captured... if you are brought to Asgard for questioning..." He leaned in. "...I will disavow you. Utgard Castle does not recognize failures. You will not return to SnowEarth. You will die alone. Forgotten."

  Mavikundi’s lips tightened. He bit back his pride and bowed even lower. "Please, my king. I will not fail you again. I swear it. Let me finish the work. Let me find the weapon."

  Skymir’s gaze narrowed. "You had best."

  He paused, eyes burning like glacial fire.

  "War is coming, Mavikundi. Asgard has grown fat and arrogant. Their Allfather will soon fall. But not yet. First, the blade must be ours. And the past must remain buried."

  The projection shimmered, then vanished into swirling frost. The room plunged into silence and shadow.

  Mavikundi rose, face twisted in frustration and fear. He clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked. Had all his many years of loyal service to Skymir not warranted him even a little pittance of understanding? But his thoughts retuned to SnowEarth and its people. Of how the fortunes and glory of the frost giants had waned over the many ages. Mavikundi in his heart wanted the people of SnowEarth to walk with pride once again. To see the smiles on thier faces. His wife and children awaited him there. He had not seen them since the day he embarked on the mission Skymir had commanded him to kill the boy god. Baldur. It was a terrible deed. But loyalty to the throne of Utgard was all he had ever known.

  "Thor and Loki…" he muttered aloud to himself, walking in slow circles. "If they find me, they’ll ruin everything. But if I move too soon, they’ll suspect. Damn them both."

  He took a deep breath. His breath curled into mist before him. The cold never bothered him—but this kind of pressure did.

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  "Perhaps... it’s time I arranged an accident."

  He pressed the rune-stone on the wall once more, and the secret door closed with a dull thud, sealing the room in darkness once again.

  The night in Winterhaven was a still and brittle thing. Snow drifted lazily through the torchlight as two rough-looking men, frost giants in service to Mavikundi—cloaks wrapped tight, hands red from frost—hurried through a narrow alley beside the old smithy.

  They didn’t notice the pair of shadows slinking across the rooftops above them. Shadows that were in the employ of Loki. Paid well in silver and half promises by the Lie Smith himself.

  “Can you believe that bastard?” growled one of the frost giant’s servants, a short, broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and a shattered nose. His name was Skarn. “Three weeks we’ve been digging in those frozen catacombs and still he barely pays us enough to keep warm. I swear, if I didn’t owe Harlik gold back in SnowEarth—”

  The other, leaner and more rat-faced, known as Rilk, laughed. “At least you still got fingers. My knuckles ain’t stopped aching since we started this job. I swear he’s got no plan, just orders barked out like he’s the Jarl of Iceblood Hall or something.”

  Skarn spat into the snow. “Aye. But he’s close. You heard what he said, didn’t you? That damn weapon. Deep under the city.”

  “The Blade of Endless Winter,” Rilk said, lowering his voice with reverence and a hint of greed. “Said it was stolen ages ago. Lost in all the chaos after the first war between Asgard and SnowEarth. Some human, dwarf or elf must have nicked it. But if Mavikundi finds it and brings it back to Utgard…”

  Skarn chuckled darkly. “Even Skymir would have to crown him Iceborn Hero or some nonsense. Feast for a hundred nights. Gold. Power. A seat on the high table.”

  “Bah,” Rilk said, glancing around and chuckling. “Be better if we brought it back. Forget Mavikundi. The muttering freak talks to shadows and expects us to die for scraps.”

  Skarn’s eyes glinted. “Now you’re speaking my language. Why dig for him when we could—?”

  A whisper of leather on stone was the only warning.

  Suddenly, cold steel touched Skarn’s neck from behind. At the same moment, Rilk found a knife pressed gently just beneath his jaw, held by a figure cloaked in black and crimson leather.

  Tannis Merryweather’s voice was calm, sharp. “Now, boys… let’s all take a breath, shall we?”

  Rilk froze. “W-wait—who are you—?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Maevis Firebrand from behind him, her dagger hand steady. Her other hand twitched slightly, ready to cast if things turned.

  Tannis leaned in close to Skarn’s ear. “Let’s have a chat. Tell us everything you just said. About the blade. About Mavikundi. About Skymir. Or…”

  “Okay! Okay!” Skarn squeaked. “We’re diggin’ under Winterhaven! There’s this old tomb—pre-Settlement stuff—he says the blade’s in there. He showed us maps. Magic ones. Said it’s the Blade of Endless Winter, lost heirloom of the frost giants!”

  Rilk whimpered. “Mavikundi wants to use it. He’s tryin’ to prove himself to Skymir. Said there’s a war brewin’. Said the gods wouldn’t see it comin’. Please don’t kill us…”

  Tannis gave a nod to Maevis.

  She smiled slightly.

  A soft sick sound cut through the night as Rilk crumpled forward, blood seeping into the snow.

  Skarn gasped and shook in Tannis’s grip. “No—no! I—I gave you what you wanted!”

  “And you’ll live,” Tannis said coldly. He slammed the pommel of his knife into Skarn’s temple. The man collapsed, unconscious.

  Maevis stepped over the body of Rilk, wiping her blade clean. She looked up at her partner with a glint in her eye. “Loki will be very pleased.”

  Tannis nodded, cracking his neck. “We’re rising up in the world, Mae.”

  She grinned. “And if this blade’s as powerful as they say, we might just carve out a little empire of our own before this is over.”

  The two melted back into the shadows of the alley, leaving blood, frost, and a secret buried in snow behind them.

  The sky was just beginning to lighten, casting faint blue shadows through the frost-laced windows of The Owl and Hen. The ancient tavern, nestled at the edge of Winterhaven’s outer ring, creaked gently in the cold. Somewhere downstairs, the fireplace crackled with a lazy, dying warmth, and a faint scent of herbs still lingered in the air.

  Loki stirred awake.

  Wrapped in the plush embrace of a four-poster bed far too luxurious for a place like this, he blinked a few times, smirking at the memory of last night’s indulgence. Ham roasted in blackberry glaze. Chicken stuffed with sage and honeyed mushrooms. Spiced dwarven ale, thick and golden, that had tingled on his tongue like liquid sunlight. He’d eaten like a king, laughed like a scoundrel, and drank like a madman alongside Thor, who had finally passed out on the couch by the hearth sometime after midnight.

  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Loki stretched, then padded barefoot across the wooden floor to the little adjoining lavatory. The Owl and Hen was no modern inn, but it had its charms. Dwarven plumbing—simple, sturdy, and functional. He relieved himself, flushed with the satisfaction of civilization, and washed his hands in a porcelain basin enchanted to draw clean water from below the hill.

  He glanced at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Tousled black hair. Piercing green eyes. That knowing, wicked smile.

  “Still got it,” he murmured to himself, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear.

  The bathroom was lit only by scented candles—lavender, vanilla, and winter mint. Tansy and her daughter had set them out the night before, unasked. He gave a pleased sigh, leaned over, and blew them out one by one. Darkness returned with a smoky hush.

  Crossing back into the bedroom, he went to the frost-clouded window and unlatched it. A rush of cold air struck his face, bracing and clean. He leaned out slightly, gazing at the city below.

  From this hilltop, the city of Winterhaven unfolded like a kingdom in a snow globe—quiet at this hour, yet still alive. The closer districts were dark and rustic, with lanterns swinging from eaves and roof gables stacked like cards. But farther in, the inner city shimmered with color.

  Neon.

  Thin rivers of red, blue, green, and violet traced the buildings in the heart of Winterhaven, casting a faint glow that danced across the icy rooftops. The dwarves’ signature, unmistakable and impossible to replicate. Neon was their secret art—a gift from deep within the fire-forges of Greyearth.

  Loki inhaled deeply. Thank you, little smith-kings, he thought. You’ve made the world a more beautiful place.

  Though men and elves loved to claim Winterhaven as a joint achievement, Loki knew the truth. It was dwarven minds and dwarven labor that kept the city beating. Steam power—harnessed, refined, and distributed through secret channels. A miracle of engineering. An empire built beneath the crust of the city, behind walls and guild halls few ever saw.

  And yet, it was fragile. All of it. One misstep. One sniff of this power by Wodin, and the All-Father would descend upon the dwarves like a starving wolf upon a lamb.

  Loki pulled the window closed, letting the latch click softly back into place.

  He turned to look at the couch. Thor lay sprawled out, snoring softly. Still fully clothed in leather and furs. His legs dangled over one end, and his grizzly brown hair spilled like wheat across a cushion. Somehow, the couch—dwarven make, surely—held firm.

  Loki chuckled. “Well built, that.”

  His eyes drifted to the hammer resting beside Thor. Mj?lnir. Plain. Heavy. Divine.

  Loki confessed then in his heart that he had long coveted the weapon. And the fact that it chose its wielder to be Thor only deepened the aching in his chest. Such power. Power that should've been his. Would be his. In time.

  He walked to it, crouched beside it, and reached out. His fingers brushed the cold metal.

  So many dead had known its name. How many brave and foolish souls had this masterpiece sent to the underworld?

  For a fleeting moment, he imagined what it would be like to take it. To vanish into the city with the weapon, leaving Thor to wake alone, bewildered and powerless. He held in his chuckle.

  But… no. Not yet.

  Tempting though it was, Loki stilled the whispers in his mind. He needed Thor. The game was afoot, and his spies would soon return with word. Now was not the time for betrayal. Not yet.

  He rose and moved to the table, where remnants of last night’s feast lingered. The plates were gone—cleared by Tansy and her daughter—but two mugs remained, and a full pitcher beside them.

  He poured a draught. Apple and cinnamon, still warm. He sipped.

  He stared into the fire.

  Where are you, Tannis? Maevis?

  His mind spun through contingencies, schemes, and what-ifs. Every plan had layers, traps within traps. But he hated the waiting.

  He hated trusting mercenaries.

  He hated that he was right too.

  But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  He drained the mug and poured himself another. The sky outside brightened to a lavender hue. Somewhere, the city began to stir.

  Time to move, Loki thought.

  But first… another drink.