Chapter 3: The Call of Darkness
The fabric of reality trembled.
Above the golden towers of Asgard, the sky split open with a massive rift. From within the breach, pure darkness seeped down toward the world below. A deep, droning roar echoed from within — the voice of an ancient, primordial rage that had slumbered for countless ages.
Valmorr lay motionless on the cold marble floor of his chamber. His body was weak and battered, yet deep within his heart, an indescribable elation was surging. With half-lidded eyes, he watched as a shape began to form within the rising dark energy… a creature… a being.
From the ominous rift, a colossal claw emerged. It was wrapped in shadows so dense they could shame even the night. The air grew frigid; frost cracked along the walls and floor as the entity began crossing into the world.
Before Valmorr, the Titan of Destruction was being born.
First came its head — a massive face without a mouth, adorned only with two terrible, burning orange eyes. Those eyes promised chaos, ruin, and death. Then followed its shoulders, jagged and majestic as though carved from the ashes of dead stars. The rest of its body was a shifting storm, composed of shadows and broken reality.
When Nightmare’s orange eyes locked onto Valmorr, an unseen voice echoed directly into his mind:
“You called me, mortal.”
“Speak your desire.”
The voice did not come through ears — it was burned into the very fabric of his soul — ancient, overwhelming, and inescapable.
Despite the rising fear within him, Valmorr forced himself to stand. Black blood still dripped from his left hand, forming ominous patterns on the ground. His breath was ragged, his body trembling, but his will was iron.
“I seek power!” he cried, his voice cracking under the strain of desperation and resolve.
“Enough power to crush my enemies and reclaim the throne of Asgard that is rightfully mine!”
Nightmare tilted its head slightly. The very air grew heavier, saturated with the scent of unseen pacts.
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“Power demands a price,” the Titan’s voice boomed, shaking the very foundations of the palace.
“I am willing to pay!” Valmorr shouted back, his voice thick with grim determination.
A rumbling — perhaps an ancient, mocking laugh — echoed through the shadows. Nightmare extended one of its colossal claws. In the air appeared an ancient contract, glowing with a sickly red light. It pulsed like a living thing, covered in ancient runic inscriptions.
“Sign with your soul,” Nightmare said, “and know there is no return.”
Without hesitation, Valmorr stepped forward. He pressed his bloodied hand onto the floating contract, and instantly, a searing agony ripped through his entire body. The scream that tore from his throat echoed through the halls of the palace — so primal, so savage, that even Asgard’s mightiest gods shuddered.
Outside, the people of Asgard watched the dark storm rising over the palace with horror-stricken eyes. Though they did not yet know what had occurred, instinctively, they sensed an oncoming catastrophe.
When Nightmare fully manifested in Asgard’s skies, fueled by Valmorr’s very soul, the earth quaked.
The cursed darkness spread across the palace’s golden walls. Waves of foul energy radiating from Valmorr’s chamber cracked the stones, shattering ancient protective wards carved into the very foundations of the palace.
And then — uncontrollably — Nightmare expanded like a frenzied storm.
The colossal titan roared across the heavens. Each movement scattered death and destruction. Beams of orange light fired from its eyes, incinerating the palace towers; shadowy claws slashed at walls, tearing them apart with horrifying ease.
Valmorr watched in utter terror.
This… was not how it was supposed to be.
He had believed he could control Nightmare. He thought to use it as a weapon, a stepping stone to the throne of Asgard.
But he had been wrong.
Terribly, fatally wrong.
The Dark Titan was no slave.
It was a catastrophe incarnate.
The grand halls of the palace collapsed one after another. Guards fled, some praying in panic, others being annihilated before they even understood what they faced.
And then…
A force descended upon Asgard that froze all in its presence.
From beyond the skies, a spear of pure golden light rained down, striking Nightmare squarely in the chest. The Titan roared, staggering, as huge chunks of its dark form were torn away and hurled into the void.
In every mind across Asgard, one name resounded:
Odin.
The All-Father of Asgard, the King of the Gods, had finally stepped onto the battlefield.
Odin appeared above the ruined palace, clad in dazzling golden armor. Around him spun lightning and powerful runic sigils, amplifying his divine presence into something utterly terrifying. His eyes blazed with endless fury and absolute authority.
A second blast of divine energy struck, this time targeting Nightmare’s head. The Titan’s orange eyes flickered and dimmed as its dark body rapidly unraveled.
“These lands are sacred,” Odin declared, his voice mighty enough to shake all of Asgard.
“There is no place for darkness here!”
Raising his spear — Gungnir — Odin called upon the fury of ancient runes, the spearhead glowing with endless light.
With a single, flawless throw…
Gungnir pierced Nightmare’s heart.
The sky lit up with a cataclysmic explosion.
Nightmare vanished without even a final cry, leaving behind only torn reality and a vast, empty silence.
Much of the palace lay in ruins. Some of the once-proud golden towers were now heaps of rubble, and the sacred gardens lay devastated.
At the center of the destruction, Valmorr collapsed to his knees.
His eyes were clouded. His mind buzzed with deafening static, his body trembling from the agony.
With the destruction of Nightmare, the bond they had shared was severed, leaving an irreparable void in his soul.
He gazed one last time at the torn skies…
And then, unconscious, fell to the cold stone floor.
That night, Asgard narrowly escaped total annihilation.
Yet everyone knew:
This was only the beginning.
