Dodan sat on the edge of his bed, exhausted following a marathon council with his generals, who had brought consolidated reports from Farran. The account of the "Aqua Alf"—an individual capable of single-handedly manipulating currents to defy gravity—was a revelation that far exceeded all strategic projections.
The realm of Alfheimr stood in stark contrast to the Midgard and Svartalfheim that Dodan knew so well. The primary distinction lay in the distortion of time. It had long been estimated that a single day in Svartalfheim might equal four or five in Midgard, but here, a day seemed to stretch even longer than in the Dwarven homelands. It was little wonder that the Elves possessed lifespans that vastly outstripped those of Dwarves or Humans.
By his own reckoning, they had occupied this Elven land for no less than fifty-two or fifty-three days. Consequently, the second conflict between the gods Modi and Vidar had likely raged for over thirty days. If Dodan, who merely managed the logistics and strategy, felt such crushing fatigue, he could scarcely imagine the toll taken on the two deities locked in ceaseless combat.
A long, heavy sigh escaped the lips of the Dwarf hailed as Midgard's mightiest. He muttered into the quiet air, "Is this fortress… destined to become my final tomb?"
Dodan’s renown had reached its zenith with the capture of the Elven stronghold of Ainen-dor, yet the victory had exacted a terrible price. Many of his own clan lay dead, including Born, the grandson celebrated as the strongest of the Magnison line, who had fallen within these very walls.
Dodan’s lineage owed an unpayable debt to the god Magni. Beyond his status as a disciple of the Wayfaring God, there remained the ancient history of his ancestors’ migration—their exodus from the cramped, fetid underground kingdoms to the sunlight and fresh air of Midgard. It was a monumental legacy for all their descendants.
Thus, when Magni was assassinated through the treachery of the High Elves, Dodan could not remain passive. He had readily accepted the vanguard role for Modi, who sought nothing less than total vengeance and the annihilation of the Elven race.
Dwelling on these memories, he decided it was time to rest; tomorrow would surely bring fresh trials. He stretched out upon the bed, adhering to his habit of leaving the right side empty. He detached his mechanical right arm and placed it in the vacant space beside him.
No sooner had Dodan’s eyelids grown heavy than he drifted into a state of half-sleep.
“Dodan… Dodan…”
A voice echoed in the recesses of his mind. Dodan knew instantly he was dreaming, so he feigned deafness, attempting to sink back into slumber.
“You dim-witted Dwarf! I am calling you!”
Dodan bolted upright. He frantically reattached his mechanical arm and sprang from the bed, assuming a defensive stance.
“Where are you hiding? Show yourself!” Dodan roared as he snapped the limb back onto his shoulder, the mechanism locking with a sharp, metallic click.
“You fool. It is I, Modi,” the fierce voice barked.
The lightning sigil of Modi etched into the mechanical arm flared with a brilliant blue light. The radiance was blinding, far more intense than usual. Dodan’s heart hammered against his ribs. Without a second thought, he dropped to his knees, prostrating himself upon the floor.
“I… Dodan, bow and pay my respects to the Great God Modi!” he stammered, his voice trembling with awe. He remained motionless, face pressed to the ground, awaiting the voice from his arm.
“I have come to inform you… that my battle with Vidar has concluded.”
“I offer my congratulations on your victory, my Lord,” Dodan said, injecting his tone with celebratory fervor.
“It is not so. Neither victor nor vanquished has yet emerged between us…” Modi’s voice grew aggressive.
“……” Dodan fell silent, unsure how to respond. He was accustomed to supreme command, not subservience. Furthermore, communicating with Modi without a physical manifestation was unprecedented; he was at a complete loss regarding the proper etiquette.
“After fighting for so long, my hatred for Vidar has waned, replaced by a grudging respect for our mutual prowess,” Modi continued, his voice sounding significantly calmer as he recounted the events.
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“Then… has the war ended, my Lord?” Dodan asked, unable to hide his shock. He had not anticipated such an abrupt cessation.
“Who told you that?” Modi snapped fiercely. “A third battle must take place, and it shall be the final reckoning between us.”
The pressure radiating from those words made the air heavy, as if the room were being crushed by a gathering storm. Dodan flinched, his brow furrowing in involuntary confusion even as he kept his head low.
“My Lord… what do you mean?”
“It means I must reclaim the complete triad of my father Thor’s sacred relics.”
The mention of the "Three Sacred Treasures" caused Dodan’s heart to pound. He lifted his head slightly, though he dared not look up fully. “What are these three treasures?”
“The triad consists of the thunder hammer Mj?lnir, the iron gauntlets Járngreipr, and the belt of power, Megingj?re.”
Dodan paused before venturing a question. “Have those treasures not already descended to you, my Lord?”
“Magni and I received only Mj?lnir and Járngreipr,” Modi’s voice paused, then dropped to a deep, hollow timber. “As for the belt of power, Megingj?re… it was lost along with the body of the Great Serpent J?rmungandr, which fell from Asgard during the cataclysm of Ragnarok.”
Modi revealed only this much, omitting the death of Thor—specifically, how J?rmungandr had severed the god's lower body, taking the belt into the abyss with it.
Dodan swallowed hard. “And… where did it fall, my Lord?”
“It fell from Asgard,” Modi replied with irritation. “Therefore, it must be somewhere in Midgard.”
“I see,” Dodan replied. Internally, the pieces began to fit together. He realized that Magni’s erratic travels across the realms had likely been a search for this very artifact. Yet, centuries had passed, and Megingj?re remained lost. This would be no simple undertaking.
“From this moment, your urgent mandate is to scour the land for the belt of power. Once I possess Megingj?re, Vidar meets his end.” Modi’s voice resonated with finality, a vow that the belt would ensure his rival's destruction.
“Are we to… abandon this fortress, my Lord?” Dodan asked, his voice shaking. In his mind’s eye, he saw Born’s corpse and the bodies of the Dwarven warriors buried beneath Ainen-dor’s foundations. If they left now… would their spilled blood have been for nothing?
“Naturally. All of you must return to Midgard and secure Megingj?re at any cost.”
The command was absolute.
Dodan remained prostrate, his forehead nearly touching the cold stone. His hands clenched into trembling fists. The agony of a sacrifice rendered meaningless washed over him, but he had no alternative.
“...As you command,” he replied, forcing the words through the tightest constriction of his throat.
Far to the east of Ainen-dor, on a hillside beside a crystalline stream, lay the encampment of the Elven warriors.
A single white raven circled the war standard, which bore the emblem of a floral crown. The moment Queen Embla received word of the omen, she rushed to witness it.
Upon seeing the bird clearly, the Elven Queen immediately knelt in reverence. The bustling camp fell instantly silent. Seeing their Queen’s posture, the Elven soldiers dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in unison to the mysterious creature without a single order spoken.
After paying her respects, Queen Embla rose and raised her arm. The intelligent white raven descended from the standard to perch upon her wrist. With solemn dignity, the Queen and the bird entered the command tent.
The high-ranking generals of the Elven army were already assembled, kneeling in anticipation. Embla walked to her commander’s throne, the raven perched on her right shoulder. Only after she was seated were the generals permitted to rise.
“This is the divine bird, the herald of the God Vidar,” Embla announced, her voice ringing out to her officers.
The clever raven hopped from her shoulder to her uplifted wrist. It then spoke in the common tongue: “I am Sjón, the Raven of Vidar.”
The Elven generals immediately knelt once more, paying homage to Vidar through his emissary.
“The battle between Vidar and Modi has been temporarily suspended,” Sjón declared. “At Modi’s request.”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the generals. It implied their god had held the upper hand.
“Silence. Let Sjón deliver the message,” Embla commanded.
“The Mad God Modi has exhausted his berserker rage. Should they face one another again, Lord Vidar shall emerge the ultimate victor,” Sjón stated, confirming their ascendancy.
“That is wondrous news,” Embla replied, though her tone remained cautious. “But for Modi to beg a ceasefire… it suggests a stratagem is in play.”
The generals began to debate the nature of this potential treachery.
“You speak thus, Embla, but what lies truly within your mind?” Sjón asked, peering at the Queen with the scrutiny of a god.
“Modi knows his rage is spent. To fight now is to court death. By halting the second battle to arrange a third, he surely intends to acquire some new advantage,” Embla reasoned.
“Modi matched Vidar only through the peak of his madness. Without it, only defeat awaits him,” Sjón insisted, dismissing the threat.
“I suspect Modi seeks a sacred treasure to turn the tide,” Embla posited. The generals hummed in agreement.
“Modi already wields Mj?lnir, yet he cannot overcome Vidar. What other treasure exists that could save him?” Sjón argued. Since the dawn of time, even Odin had acknowledged Mj?lnir as Asgard’s most precious artifact.
“True. But what if Lord Vidar were to possess an additional treasure of his own?” Embla asked calmly.
“Do you doubt Lord Vidar’s victory, Embla?” Sjón asked, clearly displeased.
“I know well that Lord Vidar is superior...” Embla bowed her head slightly to the bird. “But if our God were to possess the one thing Modi fears most... victory would be assured.”
“What does Modi fear?” Sjón demanded, its claws digging into the Queen's arm in a mix of irritation and curiosity. The raven, who believed it had witnessed all things, could not conceive of an object that terrified the Mad God.
“Snow-White...”
The moment Embla uttered the name, the air in the tent turned glacial. Silence descended, as if the breath had been stolen from every throat.
Snow-White was the magical axe Magni had used to slay Vulkanfang, the great dragon feared across the Universe. It was the weapon that had shattered a Mithril blade—the pinnacle of High Elven craftsmanship—as though it were brittle glass. It was the reason Modi spent his days obsessively forging weapon after weapon, fueled by the stubborn, desperate hope that he might one day create something to surpass it.
“Snow-White... the axe forged by Dwarves!?” the white raven's voice echoed, now heavy with sudden realization.