The night The Odinson was born, the sky raged something fierce.

  Stormclouds gathered, pressing in low and heavy over Asgard’s golden spires, the seas themselves danced and heaved with waves cshing against the cliffside like a beast, raw in its hunger to devour the gilded realm whole.

  Thunder rolled out not in sporadic bursts, but in long, rumbling crescendos, like the heavens themselves beat a war drum in time with the queen’s bor.

  And what bor it was.

  So great the whole of the golden city seemed to feel it.

  The arrival of something other.

  Each fsh of lightning tore jagged rifts across the night sky, illuminating the city in bursts of stark blinding lights.

  And at the heart of Asgard, Odin’s Pace, Frigga fought her own battles.

  Her cries rang out, rising above the storm, bouncing through Asgard’s halls with the pain of childbirth.

  The healing room was crowded with Vanir witch-wives, their hands moving deftly, their chants weaving a song meant to soothe mother and welcome child. Yet, the air was charged, heavy with more than the metallic tang of sweat, blood and magic.

  At the Chamber’s edge, Odin Borson paced, his robes swirling around his boots with each restless turn. Back and forth, back and forth until—

  “Odin,”

  Frigga’s voice was low, strained, but audible to worried ears. It cost her to speak, her breath coming in hard-won gulps. She turned her head slightly, catching his gaze with her own, her blue eyes sharp even through the haze of pain. “You’re wearing a hole in the floor. Come. Be with me.”

  He was at her side in an instant, sinking to one knee, his fingers brushing against hers, rough but warm. The tension in his jaw eased, if only slightly. “I have nothing but The Odinforce and steel for you, my love,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Neither of which can ease this pain.”

  Frigga exhaled a faint, exhausted ugh. “Silly Borson. This is beyond you.” Her hand tightened briefly around his. “You’d best leave this one to my sisters.” She nodded toward the Vanir midwives bustling around her. “They will ensure that all goes right.”

  Odin’s brow furrowed, his hand tightening on hers. “How can I not worry? The Norns—”

  “To Hel with the Norns,” Frigga snapped, her voice rising sharply.

  A sharp cry tore from her throat as another contraction seized her, and she arched upward, her teeth clenched as another contraction seized her, and the words came through gritted teeth. “I curse them, Odin! They will not cim this child. I will bear him. He is ours, of Vanir and Aesir blood. The Norns will not write his fate, nor ours.”

  The outburst drained her. Her body sckened, falling back against silken pillows as the witches swarmed, their chants rising, hands moving quickly to reinforce her reducing strength. Her breathing came in short gasps now.

  Odin remained rooted at Frigga’s side, gripping her hand more tightly than he intended, as if holding on could anchor her through the storm raging within her. Around him, the Vanir midwives moved swiftly, their voices weaving together in a harmonious chant, though it did little to ease Odin’s worry. Their hands glowed faintly, tracing patterns of light across Frigga’s brow and abdomen.

  Still, he saw her wince, heard her sharp intake of breath as the next contraction tore through her. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding against the frustration of his own helplessness. He was the Allfather, the wielder of the Odinforce, the protector of the Nine Realms, and yet here he stood, powerless.

  Every cry from his wife was like a dagger, every grim expression from the witchwives was another blow. He had faced giants, wielded his spear against foes older than the stars, but he had never known a fear like this.

  No.

  The Norns would not take this from him.

  This, Odin swore on his magic.

  ________________________________

  The streets of Asgard pulsed with restless anticipation, the storm-washed air thick with the mingled breath of a gathered crowd. They stood shoulder to shoulder, warriors and borers, traders and healers, all eyes fixed upon the golden gates of the pace.

  Lightning carved jagged scars across the sky, bathing the throng in brief fshes of stark light, illuminating faces etched with anticipation.

  A boy crouched low a distance away, at the back of the crowd, elbows pressed against his knees, his face half-shadowed beneath the hood of his threadbare cloak. His name was Kjell, son of no one important, but tonight, he might bear witness to something grand. His threadbare cloak clung to his shoulders, damp from the rain but he paid it no mind. His gaze was fixed on the pace, his heart pounding in time with the thunder.

  Beside him, Tormund shifted restlessly, his fingers drumming against his thigh.

  "I heard the queen's screams from my roof," he muttered, his voice hushed but tinged with excitement. "The Odinson must be strong to have brought such a storm."

  Kjell gnced at him, his brow furrowing. Tormund was always quick to speak, his words often running ahead of his thoughts. But tonight, there was a glint in his eye that Kjell hadn't seen before—a spark of awe, or perhaps envy.

  "Of course he will be strong," Kjell replied, his voice low. "He's the son of Odin. ”What else would he be?"

  “He could be stubborn too.” Tormund retorted. “The blood of Bor runs thick in that family. My nan used to work in the pace, you know. She always said Odin was as hard-headed as they come. If the Odinson takes after him, Asgard's in for a wild ride."

  Kjell frowned, his gaze drifting back to the pace. He had never met anyone from the royal family, but he had heard the stories-tales of Odin's conquests, of Frigga's wisdom, of the golden realm's unshakable might.

  “Oh, shut it about your nan,” the third boy, Eirik, groaned, scuffing a boot against the rain-slicked stones. “Why didn’t you just stay with her tonight?”

  Tormund scowled. “I tried! My parents said—”

  “I don’t care.” Eirik cut him off with a sharp gnce. “Just stop making me talk. Some Einherjar might be watching, and I won’t be caught bickering like a child. You know I’m trying out next winter.”

  Tormund barked a ugh. “You? The Einherjar? You still wet the bed, you big oaf. They’d never take you.”

  Kjell winced, shifting uncomfortably. He knew better than to get in the middle of it, but Eirik was already bristling.

  “Say that again, you squealing rat, and I’ll break your teeth in.”

  “Try it, gorslorp, and I’ll have your head.”

  “Shut up both of you.” Kjell hissed, elbowing them both sharply. “Look.”

  From on high, the balcony doors groaned open.

  A hush fell over the crowd in front , the air taut with expectation. From the shadows of the great hall, the Einherjar stepped forward, their golden armor gleaming even beneath the storm-dark sky. They moved in perfect formation, fnking the entrance, their boots striking the stone in measured beats.

  Tormund swallowed. “You don’t think…”

  “The queen has given birth,” Kjell whispered, his breath shallow. “They are going to announce it.”

  The lead Einherjar stopped at the crest of the stairs, their captain stepping forward. His gaze swept over the gathered Asgardians, his expression unreadable beneath his silver helm.

  Before stepping aside.

  Then—Odin appeared.

  The Allfather stood tall, his presence alone enough to still the restless throng. His heavy cloak billowed in the wind, his one good eye piercing as it swept over his people. But it was not Odin alone that commanded their gaze.

  Cradled in his arms was a golden-haired boy.

  The crowd erupted, their cheers rising like a wave, crashing against the walls of the pace and echoing into the storm. Some wept, others fell to their knees, arms raised toward the sky.

  "The Odinson is born!" someone shouted, their voice ringing out above the chaos.

  "Long live the prince!" another cried.

  Kjell joined in, his voice rising with the others.

  But as the cheers died down and Odin raised his hand, Kjell's gaze drifted to the edges of the crowd, where shadows seemed to gather, unnoticed by the revelers. For a moment, he thought he saw movement, a flicker of something dark and unfamiliar. But then Odin's voice rang out, deep as the thunder itself, and the moment passed.

  "My son has been born," Odin decred, his words carrying over the huge crowd gathered below.

  The crowd roared again, their voices shaking the very ground beneath Kjell's feet. But as he cheered with the others, a shiver ran down his spine.

  Kjell had always trusted his instincts.

  They had kept him alive in the streets, sharp as a bde honed on hardship. As an orphan, he had learned that hunger made men cruel, that wealth blinded them, and that the wise survived by listening—to the shift of a footstep behind them, to the uneasy silence before a storm, to the feeling of wrongness that sometimes slithered beneath the skin.

  And right now, as the cheers of the crowd surged like a roaring tide, Kjell felt it.

  A tremor in his bones. A whisper in his gut. A certainty, cold and crawling.

  That something dangerous was about to happen.

  Kjell’s instincts were pinpoint.

  For you see, word of the royal birth had not only reached the ears of Asgard’s people. It had traveled further. To pces where Odin’s name was not spoken with reverence, but with hate. To those who had seen their cities burned, their kings sin, their banners trampled under the boot of Asgard’s conquest.

  To those who had been forced into silence.

  Who had watched as Odin the Warmonger wiped the oceans of blood from his hands and began preaching peace.

  Who had listened as he draped his victories in golden cloth, pretending that the screams of those he had judged never echoed in his very halls.

  They had waited.

  And now—now—when Asgard’s gaze was fixed inward, when its warriors and the mighty Einherjar were gathered within the pace walls, preoccupied with the birth of their future king—

  They had decided that they had waited enough. It was time.

  Debts remained unpaid, scores unsettled and Blood had certainly not been avenged.

  And so when the waters of birth broke and Queen Frigga began the bors of birth, shadows behan moving in pces unseen.

  Through the tangled, endless branches of Yggdrasil. Through paths forgotten by time and forsaken by reason, those who were knowledgeable enough—or perhaps madenough—to challenge the infinity of the void breached golden city.

  They stepped onto the streets of Asgard unseen. Unheard.

  But not unfelt.

  Kjell’s toes curled and the hair on his nape stood on end. His heartbeat did not slow—it quickened. He could not say why, could not pce the source of the wrongness, but he knew it was there.

  Then—

  “And his name will be Thor.”

  Move.

  His body obeyed before his mind could catch up, dropping low into the mud-slicked stone.

  That saved his life.

  An axe the size of a feast-table howled through the space where his head had been, singing through the rain like a reaper’s scythe. Tormund and Erik weren’t as quick.

  There was no scream. No chance for one.

  One moment, they were boys, mouths still parted in awe at the Allfather’s words. The next—bisected at the waist, their torsos sliding apart with a sickening wetness. Their lifeblood spshed against Kjell’s cheek, hot and reeking of iron, and he choked on it.

  The weapon did not stop.

  It cut through them like wheat before the scythe, the arc of its passage traced in red. And then—it returned, into the waiting grip of the one who had thrown it.

  Kjell opened his mouth to yell—to scream for the Einherjar, for anyone, but before the sound could escape, a hand cmped over his lips.

  Cold. Icy, like something pulled straight from the frozen rivers of Niflheim. It burned against his skin, seeping through flesh and bone, numbing his tongue before he could even bite down in resistance.

  “Hush now, little one,” a voice whispered against his ear, smooth as silk, soft as falling snow.

  A shudder crawled up Kjell’s spine, instinct screaming at him to move, to fight—but his body just wouldn’t listen. His breath had quickly began coming in short, sharp gasps, his ribs shuddering with each inhale. He tried to move, to wrench himself free, but his legs—his entire body—had stopped obeying him. His muscles strained, his nerves screamed, but all that came of his struggle was the grinding creak of ice tightening around his limbs.

  His gaze darted downward.

  And there it was.

  A jagged prison of frost, climbing in uneven, grotesque formations, locking him in pce from the feet up.

  It spread unnaturally, not like the slow creep of winter’s chill, but with purpose. Deliberate. As if unseen hands were guiding it, shaping it. His knees, his thighs—his ribs—his arms—

  Only his neck remained free, bare to the cold air. As if they wanted him aware. As if they wanted him to watch.

  His heartbeat pounded against his skull, a wild staccato that drowned out the ringing in his ears. Then, a voice—low and smooth, slithering through the chaos like silk sliding over a bde.

  “Quiet now. We don’t want to draw too much noise. Begin the ritual, Vanir.”

  A pause. The air seemed to shift, heavy with unspoken contempt.

  “Do not call me that.”

  The reply came slow, predatory—it carried something deep beneath it. Resentment.

  Then came ughter, cold as winter

  “Banished as you are, your spidery ways still reek of Vanir.” A sneer, as if the very word left rot on the tongue. “Begin the ritual. Now.”

  Silence stretched between them, taut and waiting. Kjell’s breath rattled in his throat, as he stood, an unwilling spectator.

  Finally, the reply came.

  ”…If we were to do battle here and now, would you offer me the satisfaction of death?”

  Something in the air snapped, like a bowstring pulled too tight. Kjell recognized it from the few hunts he had been privy to attend, as the intent to fight, to maim, to kill.

  “I would pave this very street with your blood.”

  A shudder ran Kjell’s body. Minuscule. Not enough to free him. Just enough to let him feel it.

  “Come then,” the other said, soft and amused, almost teasing. “Your words send tingles down my spine.”

  A slow inhale. Then—

  “Enough.”

  A simple word but the effect it had on the two could be felt. This was a new voice. Different from the two. Deeper. More dangerous.

  “Begin the ritual.”

  And that was it.

  The Vanir’s voice slithered through the air, low and rhythmic, chanting words Kjell didn’t know but felt deep in his gut—wrong, unnatural, like the groan of roots twisting beneath the earth. “Skal drepa, skal binda, blóe í skuggum brenna…” It wasn’t fast, wasn’t rushed; it dragged heavy, each sylble sinking into him like a stone dropped into dark water.

  He wanted to scream, to cw at the sound, but his tongue y numb behind his teeth, silenced by the frost.

  Then the Jotnar stepped into view, and Kjell’s breath caught, sharp and shallow. The Ice giant was a specter of blue, lean and coiled, his skin shimmering like a frozen river under starlight. In his hand, that massive axe rested easy, its bde still weeping red—Tormund’s blood, Eirik’s blood—dripping slow and thick onto the stones. Each drop hit with a drip and his stomach churned. Those pale eyes, bright as moonlight, flicked toward the Vanir, and the giant’s voice rumbled, impatient. “Hurry it up, Vanir. The Allfather’s not blind forever. I sense his birds close.”

  Kjell’s gaze darted upward, searching the storm for those ravens—Huginn and Muninn, Odin’s eyes—but he saw nothing. His chest tightened, a flicker of hope snuffed out.

  The Vanir’s chant broke for a moment, his voice cutting through like a shard of gss. “You, Ice-oaf, have no notion of what this is. This spell doesn’t bend to haste. It doesn’t kneel to Odin’s pomp or Frigga’s sorcery. This is dark, raw magic—deeper than the void itself.”

  Footsteps scraped closer, soft but deliberate, and Kjell’s pulse quickened, a frantic stutter he couldn’t control. The air from behind seemed to get sharper, as the Vanir’s shadow fell over him, swallowing the faint light of the storm.

  He felt it before he saw it—long, bony fingers sliding around his head from behind, gripping him with a strength that didn’t match their thinness. The touch was cold, but not like the ice; this was a deeper chill, one that sank into his skull, his thoughts, numbing him from the inside. The Vanir tilted Kjell’s head up, forcing his eyes toward the pace balcony where Odin still stood, cradling his newborn son. Kjell’s breath rattled, shallow and ragged, as the Vanir leaned close, his voice a hiss against his ear.

  “This spell will shatter every barrier, every ward the Allfather has woven around his precious pace. It will cw through his Odinforce like a bde through silk. This is pure dark magic, little one. And so…” The fingers tightened, nails digging into Kjell’s scalp, sharp pinpricks of pain that made his vision blur. “…it demands a sacrifice.”

  A sound—metal against leather, faint but final—reached Kjell’s ears, and his body went rigid. He knew what was coming. He’d seen bdes before, seen them gleam in the hands of thieves and warriors, but never this close, never aimed at him. The edge touched his throat, cold and steady, pressing just enough to sting. His mind screamed—move, fight, run—but the ice held him, and the Vanir’s grip was iron. Then, slowly, the bde moved.

  It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t a mercy. The cut came, a wet whisper of steel parting flesh, and pain exploded—sharp, searing, a white-hot line across his neck. Kjell’s mouth opened, but no scream came; only a choking gurgle as blood welled, hot and thick, spilling down his chest. It soaked his cloak, heavy and warm against the cold, dripping to the ground where the ice cracked and drank it in, darkening with every drop. His legs trembled, or tried to—the frost wouldn’t let them—but he felt the strength leaking out of him, pooling at his feet with his life.

  His vision swam, the world tilting, colors bleeding into gray. The Vanir stepped back, and Kjell’s head lolled forward, his neck too weak to hold it up. Blood pulsed slower now, each beat of his heart fainter, a drum losing its rhythm. His arms hung useless, his chest heaved with shallow, useless gasps. The storm’s roar dulled, the crowd’s cheers faded—all he heard was the Vanir’s chant picking up again, faster, fiercer, fueled by the red staining the stones.

  He was dying. He knew it. The streets had taught him hunger, cold, fear—but not this, not the slow unraveling of himself. His knees buckled, or would have if the ice hadn’t held him upright like a puppet on strings. His breath was a wheeze, his lungs burning for air they couldn’t find. Weaker. Weaker still. The edges of his sight darkened, closing in like a tunnel shrinking to a pinprick.

  Through that narrowing haze, he saw the Vanir raise his hands. They glowed—blinding, furious red, a light that scorched Kjell’s failing eyes. He aimed upward, toward the balcony, toward Odin standing proud and unaware with his son.

  His golden prince.

  Kjell’s st shred of strength clung to that image—the Allfather, the golden prince, the pace gleaming against the storm.

  Then he heard it.

  A sound like the world splitting—a shriek of power tearing free, unched from the Vanir’s hands. It roared upward, a streak of red cutting through the rain, aimed straight for Odin and his golden prince resting his arms.

  Kjell’s eyes fluttered shut, too heavy to hold open. The darkness took him, and the st echo of that sound faded into silence.

  May Bor grant me passage to Valhal.

  ——————————————

  I pray Bor hears your prayers, Kjell.

  Hello everyone, Khanadiety here.

  I’m excited to announce that I’ve started a new story—a Thor MCU Self-Insert fanfic. Now, I know what some of you might be thinking: “But Lord Khana, you haven’t updatedHave You Come To Meet Your Match?

  Worry not. I’ll be focusing on both stories going forward. Here’s how the update schedule will work:

  -This new Thor SI fanfic will update every Friday.

  -Have You Come To Meet Your Match will update every Sunday.

  That means you’re getting regur content for both stories each week.

  five advanced chapters (more than 15,000 words) for this new fic on my Patreon. I’m really excited about where this story is going, and I’d love for you to join me on the journey.

  If you’re interested in early access and want to support my work, you can find me at:

  patreon.com/khanadiety

  (or just click the link in my bio)

  Sign up, and I promise—you won’t regret it.

  Thank you as always for reading. I look forward to entertaining you.

  Ciao,

  Khanadiety