Valhalla is a realm truly worthy of being called the domain of the All-Father.

  As Death stepped through the great golden doors of the hall, he moved carefully, his footsteps echoing softly as the light of the vast golden chamber spilled across the floor and illuminated his every step. The air inside felt heavy with the heat of a sun above a bloody battlefield.

  Within the hall were five hundred and forty doors, each one towering and wide enough for entire ranks of warriors to pass through at once. These were the doors the Einherjar used when they returned from their daily battles in the colossal training fields outside, fields so vast they made even mountains seem small by comparison. Beyond those lands lay Asgard itself, the shining realm of the gods. But between the gods and the warriors stretched immense forests and sweeping plains, a natural boundary of towering pines and rolling grasslands that kept the two worlds respectfully apart.

  The hall itself was staggering.

  The roof was formed from countless rows of golden shields, fitted together into a massive vaulted canopy that acted like a glass ceiling. Sunlight poured through the gaps, captured and reflected by the thick spear shafts that served as rafters, their steel tips crossing above like the bones of Ymir.

  From those spears hung grand golden chandeliers, their polished surfaces reflecting the light against enormous windows of decorated glass along the front and sides of the hall, glass that had been painted with scenes from Norse legend—towering images of battles, heroes, monsters, and the branches of the world tree itself.

  Large wooden stages had been built along the edges of the hall as well, places where the valkyries often performed for the warriors. Sometimes they sang ancient songs of fallen kings. Sometimes they danced with laughing smiles while the Einherjar roared and pounded their cups on the tables in approval.

  Great fireplaces burned throughout the hall, their flames brewing warmly in massive stone hearths while smaller fires crackled in iron braziers scattered between the tables. Thousands of long wooden tables and benches stretched across the chamber. Some were used for eating, others for resting, and quite a few had clearly been picked up and thrown at someone who had annoyed the wrong warrior during a drunken argument.

  Across the floor, armor stands were scattered almost everywhere. Some held pieces of armor while others stood empty. They were placed there purely for convenience, allowing the Einherjar to strip off their gear before feasting.

  And feast they did.

  The warriors of Valhalla were a loud and proud people. Their laughter thundered through the hall as they drank and shouted across the tables. Most of them wore simple but effective armor: heavy chainmail shirts, iron helmets with some being horned, leather arm guards, thick wool trousers, and sturdy boots. Many still carried the scars of the battles they fought, be it crooked noses, jagged cuts across their cheeks, or missing fingers or ears.

  Some stood towering and broad-shouldered, their long beards braided with bits of bronze. Others were leaner, wolfish men with sharp eyes and long hair tied behind their heads with strips of leather. Axes rested against benches, spears leaned casually against tables, and round shields lay stacked in messy piles across the floor.

  On the walls were enormous painted murals.

  There were scenes of Yggdrasil, its branches stretching across the sky and into other realms. Others showed battles, with armies clashing beneath dark clouds, berserkers charging through storms of arrows, and longships cutting through monstrous waves.

  And a few…….depicted naked women.

  Death blinked.

  He stared for a moment longer than he probably should have.

  Aside from all the gold and divine grandeur, the place had a strange familiarity to it. With the endless rows of tables, the loud chatter, the laughter, the occasional shouting match—

  It reminded Death, oddly enough, of a high school cafeteria.

  At least, that was usually the case.

  Instead, Death was met with the strange sight of the entire hall lying in a state of deep sleep.

  The great Danish king Skjoldr was usually impossible to miss. The man had a booming laugh that echoed across the hall, his wide grin revealing the golden teeth that had been implanted in his mouth long ago. His chainmail was always puffed out proudly across his chest, embroidered with golden threads and intricate patterns.

  Now, however, he was nowhere near as imposing.

  Death noticed a long spill of blond hair poking out from beneath one of the tables. Beneath it lay a massive figure slumped awkwardly on the floor, an iron helmet still covering most of his face. Even the helmet carried the same golden embroidery that decorated his armor.

  So this is the legendary king who had founded the Skjoldung dynasty, now reduced to snoring under a table like a drunken sailor.

  Not far from him was the noble king Volsung.

  Volsung was usually standing proudly somewhere in the hall with his sword Garm raised high while singing some old heroic tune. It was a strange hobby for a warrior king, and one he tried to hide, though the Einherjar all knew about it by now.

  But at the moment, the proud king was slumped sideways against a bench, fast asleep. His arms were wrapped tightly around Garm, clutching the blade to his chest like a child hugging a teddy bear for comfort.

  Death stared at him for a moment.

  Nearby lay Sigurd, who was famous in Valhalla for two things: killing the dragon Fafnir, and bragging about it constantly. He was also always arguing with Beowulf over which one of them had the greater legend. Their debates usually ended with the entire hall gathering around to listen while the two tried to outdo each other.

  Now, however, the mighty dragon-slayer was curled up tightly on the floor, like a dragon guarding its hoard.

  Next to him lay Beowulf, stretched across a bench with one arm hanging lazily off the side. His long golden hair spilled across the wood, and a huge carefree smile rested on his sleeping face.

  That man was always smiling.

  Even when he was alive, he had been absurdly fearless, charging into battle with monsters as if it were a friendly wrestling match. He had once fought Grendel with nothing but his bare hands simply because the monster used no weapons.

  To Beowulf, it had been an act of honor. A reflection of how he believed life should be faced: directly and without fear.

  To Death, it had just seemed incredibly foolish.

  Further along the hall, Angantyr the Berserker lay sleeping beside his daughter Hervor.

  The sight was…….unusual.

  When they were awake, the two of them could not go more than a few seconds without shouting at each other. This father and daughter duo were infamous for their fights, which all started from that huge argument over that cursed sword.

  Even while sleeping, Angantyr looked like a man born for war. His body was massive and scarred, thick arms crossed loosely over his chest as if he had simply collapsed where he sat. His wild beard was tangled with small iron rings and bits of leather, and the heavy fur cloak around his shoulders rose and fell slowly with each deep breath. The infamous sword Tyrfing rested beside him, its dark blade half-sheathed and ready to be used.

  Beside him lay Hervor who shared much of his fierce appearance. Her long dark hair was braided tightly along the sides of her head, though a few strands had fallen loose across her face while she slept. Her armor, lighter than her father’s but still durable, clung to a delicate but firm frame.

  For once, the legendary berserker and the stubborn warrior daughter looked less like rivals and more like family. Death liked seeing it.

  Nearby, another famous Danish king rested quietly.

  Hrolf Kraki slept at the center of a protective circle formed by his warriors. The twelve legendary champions who had fought beside him now lay around him like a living wall, their bodies sprawled across benches and floors with weapons still within reach. Beside being in the center of the circle, one could tell that Kraki was someone special by his crown and golden braids and beard.

  When they were alive, these warriors had defended Denmark from trolls, dragons, and entire invading armies.

  Death watched as Bodvar Bjarki rolled onto his side with a low rumbling snore. It reminded Death of a bear settling deeper into its den for winter.

  Across the hall, the massive giant Starkad had claimed an entire table for himself. The eight-armed warrior sprawled across the wood like some oversized cat. His many limbs had fallen wherever they pleased. One arm lazily scratched his stomach. Another rubbed at his neck. A third hung uselessly off the table and occasionally twitched. One was even playing with his long, gray hair. The rest were laid down.

  On another bench, Orvar-Oddr slept far less peacefully.

  The legendary hero clutched his quiver of arrows tightly against his chest, his fingers gripping the leather strap as if someone might steal it. His lean and wiry body shivered every few seconds, his black brow tightening in discomfort.

  The warrior was probably having another nightmare about a horse.

  Further down the hall lay Ragnar Lothbrok.

  When he was alive, Ragnar had been a notorious raider and conqueror. He was a man who plundered every ship and town they came across.

  In Valhalla, he was a drunkard.

  Even now he slept heavily across a bench, letting out a loud hiccup every few seconds. The smell of mead followed every hiccup. Aside from the scars near his eyes and neck, along with the body of a seasoned warrior, not many would think Ragnar was the legendary raider that brought fear to all seas.

  Nearby, his sons lay sleeping as well, powerful warriors in their own right.

  Beyond these famous figures were countless other warriors, men and women who had either fallen bravely in battle or impressed Odin enough to be chosen for Valhalla.

  Yet, all of them shared something at that moment.

  Everywhere Death looked, legendary heroes lay sprawled across the hall—on benches, under tables, against pillars, even across the floor itself.

  And every single one of them was sleeping peacefully.

  “What?”

  It was all Death could say, because……well-

  It was strange.

  Though, Death had already suspected something was wrong the moment he entered and heard nothing.

  Usually, Valhalla was the last place he wanted to visit. The hall was almost always unbearably loud. Warriors shouted across tables, mugs of mead slammed against wood, and laughter echoed off the golden shields above. Even if someone tried to quietly drift through the hall unnoticed, it was nearly impossible. A flailing arm from a drunken battle, a flying chunk of roasted meat, or an entire table getting flipped during a brawl could easily catch anyone unlucky enough to pass by.

  Valhalla was chaos in its purest form. It was the kind of chaos that Death preferred to leave for Odin to deal with.

  But now it was silent. And it was silent because everyone was asleep.

  That alone wasn’t necessarily strange. The Einherjar were warriors, but even warriors needed rest. Valhalla itself blessed them with the ability to recover completely after every battle. Wounds healed and strength returned as if nothing had happened. Naturally, that kind of endless fighting would make anyone tired by the end of the day.

  But everyone sleeping at the same time?

  That was different. Something was clearly wrong.

  Death moved through the hall, watching each step as he navigated the conglomeration of sleeping bodies. He stepped over warriors sprawled across the floor, avoided a fallen spear, and silently cursed as he stubbed his toe on a shield.

  He then tried to wake them up.

  “Skjoldr.”

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  The king didn’t move.

  Death crouched slightly.

  “King Skjoldr?”

  Nothing. At most, the king let out a slow huff through his nose.

  Death frowned. He moved through the hall after that, stopping beside one hero after another.

  “Sigurd.”

  No response.

  “Beowulf.”

  Still nothing.

  He shook one warrior by the shoulder. Another he nudged with his foot. A third he slapped lightly across the cheek.

  A few of them snored louder.

  Death straightened slowly, his expression growing more suspicious.

  Then another thought crossed his mind.

  If the Einherjar were all asleep……was everyone else asleep too?

  The valkyries occasionally stayed in Valhalla after escorting fallen warriors to the hall, though it wasn’t common. They were far too busy guiding souls across the battlefield to linger long.

  Still, if something had happened, perhaps one of them would be here.

  Death slowly scanned the massive hall again.

  Warriors. Benches. Armor stands. Sleeping bodies everywhere.

  But no valkyries. No one else, which left only one possibility.

  Death turned his head toward the far end of the hall.

  “Andhrimnir.”

  If anyone was still here, and possibly still awake, it would have to be Andhrimnir.

  The chef of Valhalla was responsible for preparing the endless feasts that filled the hall every day. His cooking was legendary even among the gods. The smell that drifted down into the mortal world was enough to make any Viking charge headfirst into battle with the dream of Valhalla waiting for them.

  Heading to the kitchen door, Death had expected to see the usual sight: the large, burly chef standing over the massive cauldron, his soot-covered face glistening with sweat as his thick arms stirred the boiling stew, his loud voice yelling at any impatient Einherjar who tried to take a quick bite.

  Instead, the kitchen was quiet.

  The massive chef sat slumped against one of the counters, while his apron had been pulled loosely around him like a blanket, barely covering his huge frame.

  Even he was affected?

  “What in the realms?” Death muttered quietly as he stepped further into the kitchen and began searching.

  He checked the massive cauldron first, peering inside as if the answer might somehow be floating in the stew. Then he began rummaging through everything else. High shelves, low shelves, baskets of ingredients, racks of utensils, stacks of cups and plates, he searched every corner of the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  Eventually he returned to the sleeping chef.

  Death leaned down and gave Andhrimnir a firm slap across the cheek.

  The only response was the chef’s long bronze hair shifting slightly as it slid down over his face like a curtain closing on a stage.

  Death clicked his tongue in annoyance.

  He turned to leave, then paused. With a quiet sigh, he reached down and adjusted the apron that Andhrimnir had been using as a blanket, pulling it back over the man’s shoulders properly. “…….Sorry about that.”

  Returning to the main hall, Death stood silently for a moment as a million thoughts raced through his mind.

  Was this also Egoros’s doing?

  It had to be. The situation was perfect. If Valhalla was completely incapacitated, Egoros could sneak in and take Saehrimnir. Then there was the situation in Hel.

  Egoros had deliberately tricked Odin into leaving Freki and Geri behind to guard Mimir’s head. With the wolves occupied by the boar, Egoros could easily take the head while no one was watching.

  But that was exactly what didn’t make sense.

  For that plan to work, this mass sleep in Valhalla would have had to happen before the distraction in Hel.

  And that shouldn’t have been possible.

  Egoros couldn’t have been here earlier. Death had been with him the entire time.

  And it couldn’t have happened very long ago either. If it had, Odin would have noticed immediately.

  So how could Egoros steal the boar………and lure both Odin and Death to Hel……at the same time?

  Death slowly looked across the massive hall again.

  His gaze drifted across the sleeping warriors. Hundreds of them, thousands, perhaps even more, all gathered here for the same reason. Every single one of them had been chosen carefully by Odin himself. These were the warriors who would fight beside the All-Father during the final battle of the universe.

  They were meant to stand with him during Ragnarok.

  And suddenly the answer became painfully clear.

  Egoros wasn’t working alone. Someone else had been here.

  Someone who had the power to make all of Valhalla fall asleep at once.

  Death slowly exhaled. “But who?” he wondered aloud.

  But standing there and repeating the question wouldn’t solve anything.

  So Death got to work.

  Death then searched around, looking for any clues. Anything to provide him a bit of insight, be it the broken chairs that littered the floor, the fallen cups with puddles of mead sprinkled about, the blind god Hodr sleeping peacefully on a chair, the sleeping goat Heidrun that provided the endless mead that satisfied the drunkards of-

  Hodr?

  Death slowly turned back, fixing his gaze on the sleeping figure of the blind god.

  Despite the miserable state of his clothing, little more than worn rags that hung loosely from his body, Hodr was still unmistakably a god. He was tall and broad, his frame large and powerful in the way that often marked the children of Odin and Frigg. His hair was short and uneven, and strands of it stuck out in messy directions. Heavy bags hung beneath his closed eyes, the deep shadows hinting at years of exhaustion that even this sleep only slightly eased. His skin lacked the bright glow his brother Baldur had once worn, but there was still a faint divine light beneath the surface.

  Death’s gaze dropped slightly and he grimaced.

  Hodr’s fingernails and toenails were broken and uneven, some darkened with dirt. Dried blood stained the edges of the worn sandals on his feet.

  Hodr had clearly been through a lot.

  But that still didn’t explain why he was here.

  “Hodr.”

  No answer.

  Death frowned slightly.

  Even a god was affected by this?

  Just who had Egoros gotten help from?

  Death leaned forward and pinched Hodr’s nose shut.

  His reasoning was simple. Since Hodr was blind, his other senses should have been sharper and sensitive. Cutting off his ability to breathe should have startled him awake.

  At least, that was the idea. Hodr didn’t react at all.

  Death paused. Then he slowly released his nose.

  He had forgotten that Hodr was still a god.

  With a quiet sigh, Death pulled over a nearby chair and sat down across from him.

  From what Death knew, Hodr’s life had fallen apart long ago.

  It had started with Loki.

  During one of his usual cruel games, Loki had tricked the blind god into throwing a spear made from mistletoe, the one thing capable of harming Baldur. Believing it to be part of some harmless contest, Hodr had thrown the spear toward his brother.

  And Baldur collapsed and died from it. The realization had shattered Hodr.

  Overwhelmed with guilt, he had exiled himself from Asgard and wandered the nine realms alone like a ghost. There had even been the matter of Vali, the god who had sworn revenge and hunted Hodr for Baldur’s death. Odin and Frigg had stopped him, unwilling to lose another son so soon.

  But it hardly mattered as Hodr never returned from his self-imposed exile.

  As for Loki, he was still chained inside that cave, suffering beneath the venom dripping from the serpent above him.

  Never mind that fool.

  The important thing was this. Hodr had always been a meek and naive god. That was exactly why Loki’s trick had worked on him in the first place.

  So why was he here? The barbarous Valhalla wasn’t exactly the best fit for a god like Hodr. And yet he was here, sleeping just like the Einherjar.

  “........I wonder-”

  Death took a sharp breath as he felt the small hairs on his arms and legs prickle. Even the hair along his back rose sharply.

  Slowly, almost instinctively, Death turned toward the doors of Valhalla.

  He felt it. An overwhelming, unmistakable rage.

  It rolled through the hall like the storm that threatened Noah’s life. It was the kind of rage that had once flooded the world. It was the same divine fury that had sparked wars like the Trojan War.

  And it was the disgusted hatred that saw humans as mere puppets in a show.

  And Death knew exactly who it belonged to.

  A pair of thunderous howls tore through the quiet hall. Freki and Geri burst through the doors first, their eyes glowed brightly as they recognized the hall.

  A moment later came the beating of wings. Two familiar caws echoed above as Muninn and Huginn swept into the hall, circling overhead.

  “So, there’s no longer any point in leaving a pair behind,” Death thought.

  Then the sound of hooves followed.

  “Where is he?” Odin’s voice boomed through Valhalla as he rode in atop Sleipnir.

  But unlike before, Odin’s face contained an uncontrollable rage.

  “Who?” Death asked calmly.

  Odin slid off Sleipnir in one smooth motion and strode directly toward him. “That nameless god, this Egoros,” Odin spat with clear disgust. “Why was he not in his own realm? Who is he? And why do you know so much about him?”

  Death tilted his head slightly. “You went to his realm?”

  Odin’s single eye narrowed sharply. “Why wouldn’t I?” he snapped. “Matter of fact, why didn’t you?”

  “There’s no point,” Death said simply. “Why would the final boss appear so early?”

  Odin blinked. “The……final boss?” he repeated incredulously. “What in Muspel are you talking about?”

  Death froze slightly. “Final boss?”

  He frowned.

  Why had he said that?

  “Damn it all to Ginnu!” Odin suddenly roared.

  He had finally seen the hall’s current state, with every warrior sleeping and in a disarrayed state.

  “He came here too?!” Odin shouted.

  Death watched silently as the All-Father fumed.

  “I’ve never seen him this spiteful,” Muninn commented as he fluttered down to perch beside Death.

  “It is a rare sight,” Huginn added, landing on the opposite side.

  “It’s clear why,” Death said calmly.

  His eyes drifted toward the wolves.

  Upon seeing Death and the ravens looking back at them, the wolves acted like the shiny armor on the ground was suddenly the most interesting thing in all of Asgard.

  To Death, it made sense. Odin had a rather huge ego. It’s why he was so hellbent on proving his superiority to that jotunn Vafthrudnir all those years ago. He traveled to his very home just to quiz him, and when he was about to lose, he had to pull out a question that only he knew the answer to.

  Ever since then, Death thought Odin was a rather petty god.

  So now, seeing a nameless god like Egoros outsmart him so thoroughly……Yes. It made perfect sense why the wolves were suddenly so quiet. And why Odin was furious.

  Being tricked on this level would bruise anyone’s pride.

  “Do you know what happened?” Odin asked suddenly.

  Death shook his head. “That’s what I was trying to figure out.”

  Odin clicked his tongue irritably. But his expression quickly shifted as his eye fell upon the sleeping figure nearby. “……Hodr?”

  Odin stepped closer slowly, his voice softening. “Hodr……” he said quietly, reaching out. His hand gently touched his son’s face. “Why are you-”

  It had been a long time since Odin had seen Hodr in person. Most of what he knew about his son now came from the scattered reports that Huginn and Muninn brought back from their travels across the realms.

  Frigg had wanted Hodr to return home. But Odin understood the crushing guilt Hodr carried.

  He had believed it was better to wait. To let Hodr come back on his own terms.

  Was that the right choice? Or the wrong one?

  Death glanced at Odin. “Did he say anything to you before this?”

  Odin took a moment before answering. “No,” he said quietly. “He was still in exile. He never told any of us that he-” Odin exhaled heavily. “……that he was coming to Valhalla.”

  His hand rested gently against Hodr’s face. “My boy.” Odin murmured softly. “You can stop now. It wasn’t your fault.”

  But Hodr didn’t hear that.

  And Death knew he wouldn’t for a long time.

  “Why do you think he’s here?” Death asked. “Valhalla isn’t a place meant for someone like Hodr.”

  Odin stood up slowly. “I don’t know.”

  Death looked around the hall again. They didn’t know why Hodr had come here.

  But they knew that he had come here.

  And that—

  Death’s eyes widened slightly.

  “He’s sleeping too,” he said suddenly.

  Odin turned toward him. “What about it?”

  Death stepped toward one of the large tables, scanning the remains of the feast left behind. Plates, cups, half-eaten meat, fruit, vegetables.

  “They all share the same condition,” Death said slowly. “They’re asleep.” He picked up a plate. “So would it be unreasonable to assume….the same thing caused it?”

  Odin’s eye widened. “The feast.”

  They didn’t know why Hodr had come. But they knew what he had likely done while he was here.

  He had eaten and drunk. Just like everyone else.

  “It has to be in the food,” Odin said.

  So the two began searching, all of the food, the meat, vegetables, and fruit. The ravens joined as well, and the wolves tried to, but when Odin gave them a stern eye, they lowered their heads and laid down while whimpering softly.

  It took a while, with many loud complaints from Muninn when he got tired, and when Odin continually cursed when each clue led to a dead end, until-

  “These cups,” Death said suddenly, lifting several from the table.

  “What is it?” Odin asked without looking up as he examined a chicken leg suspiciously.

  “They retain…….magic,” Death said uncertainly.

  Odin’s head snapped up immediately. “Let me see.”

  Death handed them over.

  Odin examined the cups carefully, his brow tightening.

  After a moment, he spoke. “It’s runes.”

  “Runes?” Death repeated.

  Odin nodded slowly. “Not just any runes,” he said. “They’re written in the Elder Futhark alphabet.” He studied them for another moment. Then he read aloud. “Pu mont sofa.”

  Death translated instantly. “You will sleep.”

  Odin’s expression darkened. “It’s seidr,” he muttered gravely. “This is the work of a volva.”

  Death’s eyes narrowed.

  So a volva helped him.

  “And not just any volva,” Odin continued. He glanced back toward Hodr. “To affect this many warriors…..and even a god-” Odin examined several more cups, confirming the same runes etched into each one. “The use of Elder Futhark,” he continued slowly. “Future tense magic….” He turned toward Sleipnir. “There is only one volva capable of this.”

  Death followed him. “Gullveig.”

  Odin climbed onto Sleipnir’s back. “Are you coming?”

  Death glanced back at Hodr. “What about him?”

  Odin hesitated. “……I’ll speak to him when he wakes,” he said quietly. “But for that, we’ll need Gullveig.”

  He patted Sleipnir’s neck. “Are you coming?” he asked again.

  Death sighed. With a faint shimmer, he summoned Vesper. “I don’t really have a choice.”

  A pair of loud caws echoed through the hall. Freki and Geri howled as well.

  Then, together, they rode out of Valhalla, ravens and wolves following closely behind.