The sky over Asgard was still gloomy when I reached the Asgardian fortifications, following Eirik.

  A smoky ash was carried slowly in the gentle breeze over the Fire-Giant scorched walls of the fortress, softening the rough silhouettes of what had once been watchtowers. The gates of the central citadel still stood firm, and within them, the fires of life still burned. Eirik walked ahead of me, helmet now under one arm, the other hand steadying a wounded soldier. Even exhausted, the old warrior supported by Eirik walked proudly, his pale silver-blue armour marked by gashes aplenty, but his character still unbowed.

  Behind us, the last of the shield-wall survivors trickled in, some carried on stretchers, others limping but alive. A Valkyrie descended in front of us. Not the one I’d seen earlier with the frosted wings. This one bore bright golden feathers and the proud markings of someone of high rank.

  “Welcome to Asgard, Newblood. You have not been given a legion yet, correct?”

  “Uh, yes, that’s correct.”

  She glanced at Eirik, who nodded once in some unspoken communication.

  “Congratulations, you’re part of Odin’s Einherjar 5th Legion now,” she said briskly, voice carrying over the bustling courtyard. “Form up with your unit near the amphitheatre. Veteran Eirik is your immediate commander and will show you the way. Be prompt as Commander Freya speaks soon.”

  I exchanged a look with Eirik, and he motioned me forward to join him. We gathered under the fractured dome of the amphitheatre where others were already standing. There was a large crowd of Einherjar, Dwarves, and even Elves who had all fought for Asgard.

  Freya stood atop a damaged dais, her armour catching what light remained. She was striking; taller than most of the warriors before her, posture regal yet commanding, her presence radiating power. Her armour shimmered gold, not bright and polished, but burnished like an ancient relic, shaped to highlight both her beauty and power.

  A deep-purple cloak fluttered behind her shoulders, slightly torn at the hem. Faint runes pulsed along its seams, glowing softly with magic that seemed to thrum in the air. Her long hair, the colour of an earthen dawn, was braided tight.

  She didn’t radiate the warmth or fury I’d expected, only the aura of command, the kind that didn’t beg loyalty but assumed it. Her gaze swept over us.

  “You were not chosen to die,” she said, her voice quiet yet carrying. “You were chosen to survive. And you have.”

  There was no cheering, just the silent acknowledgement of what they’d endured.

  “You stood against chaos; you held the line. And because of you, the Nine Realms can still hold. They will hold.”

  Only then did murmurs rise, tired but relieved.

  “Tonight, you feast and celebrate our victory,” Freya continued. “Rest well. In three days, new banners will be raised. Now, honour the living, my warriors!”

  The cheer that went up was ragged but heartfelt. After a few minutes, Eirik waved me toward a nearby hall.

  Inside, smoke curled upward from firepits stoked high. Meat sizzled and hissed on spits, juices dripping into orange flames that lit the centre of the room. Flickering braziers dotted the stone walls as conversation and laughter echoed. Mead horns clashed in toasts; poorly sung battle songs spilled from groups of warriors sitting at long tables, each group trying to sing over the other. Even the wounded leaned into the noise, bandages glowing faintly from healer’s runes as they drank and roared and lived. It wasn’t solemn. It was rowdy, gloriously rowdy. It was the feast of those who survived after all.

  I stood at the edge, loosening the straps of my shoulder armour when Eirik nudged me with a knowing grunt.

  “Go on. I assume that the librarian over there is a friend of yours. You’ll be Sveiting with him and a few others soon, I wager.”

  “Sveiting? Librarian?” I asked, looking at him, completely confused.

  “Your fellow warriors! They’ll be sent to you soon, and who else but a strange newblood would carry a book to a feast?”

  I followed his directed nod. There was Patchy, posted up at a stone table near the back of the hall, surrounded by empty plates, a half-eaten loaf of bread, and a strange red book open in front of him. He was writing with a quill in one hand and eating with the other.

  Patchy was smaller than most people, wiry, narrow-shouldered, with a mop of brown curls spilling into his face that resisted all forms of order. His cloak was too big, one sleeve rolled up so it wouldn’t spill into his stew. Thin-rimmed glasses perched slightly askew on his nose, catching the firelight when he moved. A soft ink smudge marked one cheek. He looked more like a little kid lost in a library than a battlefield for the end of the universe.

  I called out to him, “Patch! You’re here too!?”

  He looked up mid-bite, blinked, and grinned. “Well. If it isn’t the ‘Newblood’ I’ve been hearing about.”

  I laughed and slid onto the bench beside him. “Looks like you made it.”

  “You too,” he said, then added dryly, “One of us made it without the blood, sweat and tears, though.”

  Before I could answer, a pair of Einherjar nearby slammed their heads together above their table, loudly arguing over who had dealt the final blow when they tackled a Tartarus hound off the walls together. Patchy leaned back. “Honestly… this is kind of amazing. The noise. The chaos. The smell of roasted meat. It’s like a fever dream where dinner is catered by a barbarian horde.”

  I grinned. “And the book?”

  He held up the notebook. “Got to record this all somehow, right? What kind of myth doesn’t have a decent historian? Also, when I first arrived, I had the book in my hand. I don’t know how I know, but it’s called a ‘Bookmark’. And I just… know I have to keep it with me.”

  As we were talking, I heard someone coming in through the doorway behind me, and judging by Patchy's surprised expression, it was someone we knew.

  Athena entered through the hall’s side arch with a group of battered Einherjar in tow. Her posture was straight but strained. She wore a fitted breastplate over a padded shirt, whilst small spaulders sat tight on her shoulders. Her right forearm was wrapped in a sturdy bracer with a raised ridge and scarred edge, built to catch or deflect blades. The right bracer was slimmer, its inner face a kind of flattened smooth silver with runes carved into its surface. A short sword rode high in a leather scabbard at her side. Greaves and soft boots wrapped her legs to complete the outfit.

  Her hand played with the grip of the short sword scabbarded at her waist as she walked into the hall; her dark brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, with strands of dark brown hair clinging to her face in places from the dried sweat.

  “Athena?” I called.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She turned at my voice and walked over to us, pausing at the edge of the table, looking me over. “Well. You didn’t die. That’s… surprising.”

  I gave a half-smile, glad to have another friend present “You either, I see.”

  She muttered something to herself, moving to our table to sit down without asking. Patchy wisely slid over. She didn’t touch the food or drink set in the middle of the table. She just stared at a firepit where a group of inebriated Einherjar were betting on who could hold burning skewers the longest whilst duelling.

  “Where’d you end up?” I asked.

  “The Western flank of the battle, it was absolute madness. A dimensional rift opened in the middle of the battlefield, and everything went to hell.”

  “Anyone else come with you?”

  A pause.

  “Not to the fortress.”

  At that awkward pause, Patchy sat a little straighter.

  “I came through the portal with Hollywood in the middle of a battle, and the Einherjar commander there took us under him as the battle escalated. As we were trying to escape, the hounds tried to split the group; they were like a swarm. The only good thing was that, for some reason, they attacked the berserkers as well, allowing us to retreat. However, we still ended up getting encircled by barbarian riders whilst the hounds chased us. The commander led an attack into the barbarians with four others and Hollywood to draw their attention; Hollywood fought their leader long enough for everyone else to get clear.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was… only after he didn’t come back and I couldn’t access the system that I figured out that this was reality. I just didn’t think it’d be... this bad.”

  She looked down at her lightly armoured gloves, fingers twitching as she clenched them. Then, softer, “He was torn apart, and I couldn’t do anything.”

  “You survived. That’s not nothing,” I replied.

  Athena laughed once, humourless. “Yeah. I guess.”

  We sat there awhile in silence, warmed by the burning fires around the hall. Athena looked over at me, eyes sharp again. “So. What about you? You look terrible too.”

  “Got stabbed. Thrown around like a chew toy a bit by a hound. Somehow made it through.”

  “And you’re still fine after being stabbed? I don’t see any wounds.”

  I thought about telling them about my ‘death’, but I had a strange premonition that my regression wasn’t something I should mention out loud under any circumstances.

  “Let’s just say… I got lucky.”

  She pursed her lips, which I knew meant she was annoyed, as I had deflected her question. But fortunately, she didn’t press it.

  “We made it back,” Patchy added softly. “Surely that’s what matters right now.”

  Athena didn’t answer at first; she just exhaled loudly. “Yeah. I guess it’s just us.”

  “Looks like.”

  I’d barely begun to relax when the entrance doors of the hall creaked open again, and a certain booming voice was heard.

  “…If the stone supports hadn’t been so weak, it would’ve been like poetry. A perfect demonstration of martial prowess; the gods of combat would have wept in jealousy.”

  “Mm. I’m sure they left you a round of applause when you caused the ceiling to collapse after you ploughed through its sole supporting wall.”

  Theo entered first, tall enough to require ducking under the lintel, and broad-shouldered, like he’d been born simply to wrestle with bears. Encased in his enormous armour, he removed his helmet as he entered the hall, his dark-blond hair was damp with sweat; his face was soot-streaked as if he’d just finished a bar fight with a bonfire.

  “I knew I saw you earlier!” he shouted upon seeing me.

  “Theo!”

  We completed our handshake ritual; the kind of knowledge only old friends share.

  “You look terrible. Slightly better than I expected, though.”

  “You too, smell worse though.”

  “This is simply battle-tested cologne; you may continue to be jealous of my heroic musk.”

  The man beside him stayed back a few steps, arms crossed. Theo jerked a thumb towards him as I laughed. “This marble bust’s been glued to me since my dramatic entrance to save his life. Marive, meet Kai.”

  Marive’s gaze swept over me, whilst not quite dismissive, it was measuring. “So, you’re the 'heroic' newblood.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Eirik just told me we’d be working together.”

  “And yet, here you sit, at the centre of the table and at ease – smiling even.”

  I was a little taken aback by the aggression, “Well, we just survived our first battle, and we’re not even from here – I’m still not 100% sure this is even reality! We’re just eating, and talking... It's not a crime yet, is it?”

  “You call this survival? I was in Midgard two days ago. I was part of the last line of defence in my city. My father was betrayed by his retainer, and I watched my own brother be burned to death. Half my city vanished before my eyes underneath a wave of undead horrors. And upon my own death before I could go to Hel with my people, I alone was dragged into Valhalla. So, if you’re going to take command, make sure you know what that means. Don’t waste time pretending the worst is already over.”

  Theo leaned toward Patchy with a stage whisper as Marive reached the end of his furious diatribe: “This guy might be even more dramatic than you.”

  “You’re welcome, by the way,” Theo added to Marive, before turning back to us, “pulled him out from a collapsing building like a sack of noble potatoes.”

  “A collapse that YOU CAUSED!” Marive responded in disbelief before coughing lightly and returning to the aristocratic inflection he seemed to prefer; “I was simply unable to respond at the time due to an ongoing duel.”

  I met Marive’s eyes. “Look, I’m not pretending anything. I may not be whatever it is you expect from me, but we’re here now. And if we want to stay that way, I’d rather fight with people who haven’t already become bitter and given up.”

  Marive gave me a short look. “Then prove it.”

  There was a moment of silence as Marive and I continued our staring competition.

  Taking that as the signal to sit down, Theo dropped himself onto the bench next to Athena, nearly sending Patchy flying off the other end as he reached for some food and looked at us all.

  “So… anyone got a deck of cards?”

  Silence.

  “No? Are we just going to sit here and do some deep and meaningful brooding? That's cool too.”

  Patchy’s Note:

  Odin, the All-Father. King of Asgard, the master of runes, has one eye, and has the only allowed opinion (except maybe Mimir, his advisor). He’s famous for trading his eye for wisdom, which is the sort of commitment you don’t argue with. If he’s talking to you directly, it’s either the best day of your life, or the last.

  Patchy’s Note:

  Ranks look like this:

  Einherjar: Newblood < Warrior < Veteran < Captain

  Valkyrie: Sister < Warden < Advisor < Commander (There is only one commander and that’s Freya)

  Patchy’s Note:

  This is a lot of notes. Kai, please write some context, you lazy bastard.

  Freya is the Vanir goddess of love, beauty, and war, which is a terrifyingly effective combination. She commands the Valkyries and receives the twice-dead souls (The Einherjar who die in battle) in her hall, Sessrúmnir, and is said to know every form of magic worth learning.

  Patchy’s Note: Inkpot not required, thankfully! Who knew magic could be so useful?

  Patchy’s Note: Big words coming from the guy who looked like the wrong end of a horse after all the rolling around in blood, snow, and dog slobber he’d been doing.

  Patchy’s Note: Too right!

  Patchy’s Note:

  Athena: The number two player of Gods and Heroes, a master tactician (and yes, her name is actually Athena, parents must have loved Greek mythology). Then there was Theo, the respective number 3, whom we meet later: Kai’s long-time teammate, strong, reliable, and thinks he’s funny.

  Patchy’s Note: Einherjar drinking games are a full-contact sport. The rules are simple: lose a bet, take a drink; win a bet, take two drinks. This explains the existence of the “Hel’s Bellows” incident, which I will not describe in the interest of time and my own sanity.

  Patchy’s Note:

  Dimensional Rifts are the real problem of Ragnarok – forget the Giants, the endlessly regenerating supply of enemies from Greek Tartarus are by far a more pressing concern. The forces of Asgard have little familiarity with these enemies, and as the dimension becomes more unstable, the theory is that worse enemies will soon slip through.

  Patchy’s Note: For some reason, just like earlier in this journal I can read what Kai has written, but every time I take my eyes off the text and come down to write a note about it, I forget what I have just read. I have tried to copy it word by word elsewhere, but the same issue occurs just before I can write it.

  I have asked Kai what he wrote in his journal here, but he tells me he can’t say. I assume he’s under some restriction which stops him from talking about it, the same way I can’t talk about the Bookmark itself, no matter how many times I try writing it down.

  Patchy’s Note:

  Marive arrived with Theo and immediately set about measuring everyone‘s worth like a jeweller inspecting a shipment of particularly suspicious diamonds. No greeting, and no name offered either. The one actually useful thing he said all evening was about some royal retainer betraying his father, which means either he is some kind of noble, or he has a very committed imagination.