Chapter 1: Son of Shadows

  Asgard…

  A realm shining across the Nine Realms, a nd whose might could make the stars themselves tremble. Smoke of war still darkened the skies; destruction clung to every stone like an old curse. Yet amidst the chaos, a light of hope flickered into being:

  A prophecy…

  A blind seer, her hair as white as fresh snow, stood tall within the golden throne room and spoke unto all of Asgard:

  “The Allfather’s firstborn shall command the storms, shining like a sun amid shadows! His power shall bring nations to their knees!”

  Her words tore through the heavy mist of despair, seeding a fiery hope in the hearts of the Asgardians.

  They waited for the Allfather Odin’s first child to be born, clinging to a steadfast belief that this child would change the fate of worlds.

  At st, the long-awaited moment came.

  Frigga’s bor pains echoed through the golden halls of Asgard. The heavens turned a cold, merciless grey, and for a fleeting instant, the stars themselves seemed to dim.

  Silence bnketed the universe.

  No battle cries, no roaring beasts—only the breathless anticipation of countless souls.

  And then… Valmorr was born.

  But he was not the miracle they had envisioned.

  Before them y not a titan, but a frail, pale child. His magical reservoir was but a droplet compared to the vast oceans expected. His body, thin and trembling, seemed a breath away from shattering.

  The streets of Asgard roared with ughter and fury.

  Curses fell upon the prophecy.

  The seer was branded a liar and a fool.

  Yet even amidst the storm of voices, the old seer, her blind eyes filled with a misty sorrow, whispered defiantly:

  “Judge not by what your eyes behold. Fate forges its truth within the hidden chambers of time.”

  Years passed…

  And the Son of Shadows grew.

  Valmorr Odinson.

  The Allfather’s first child, the rightful heir to Asgard’s throne… yet neither could he summon storms, nor strike down a foe.

  Even a simple Asgardian farmer wielded greater strength and magic than him.

  He was a prince only by name.

  Odin, driven by dreams of conquest and dominion, turned his gaze away from the weak son who could offer him nothing.

  Kings do not pause for the powerless.

  Valmorr retreated into himself.

  Within the cold stone walls of the pace, he spoke only to the silent shadows that clung to him.

  Each new Asgardian victory, each new triumph he could never cim, pressed like a dagger against his heart.

  Pride fractured into quiet despair.

  In that heavy silence, another prophecy was whispered through the halls of Asgard:

  “The Goddess of Death shall be born! Her power shall burn through realms; her ambition shall carve the path of conquest anew!”

  Once again, hope ignited among the people.

  They would not endure another disappointment.

  Destiny, after all, waits for no one.

  Frigga gave birth once more: a daughter—He.

  This time, the very stars seemed to sing her arrival.

  From infancy, her tiny hands sparked with wild magic, her soul an endless ocean of power.

  She was the champion Asgard longed for.

  He grew swiftly, and before she was yet a woman by mortal standards, she led the armies of Asgard to war.

  Where her foot fell, enemies were crushed; where her eyes turned, nations surrendered.

  And Valmorr…

  He was left behind, adrift in the cold sea of his own solitude.

  The people no longer whispered his name—they had buried him in silence.

  In the shadowed chambers of his lonely tower, Valmorr wrestled with a storm of emotion.

  Self-loathing gnawed at him; jealousy coiled tightly around his heart.

  “Why?” he whispered to the empty air.

  “Why was she born stronger than I?”

  The jealousy festered into something darker.

  It grew, day by day, until at st, it drove him to a desperate resolve.

  If no ordinary magic could grant him strength…

  Then he would seek the forbidden.

  Deep within the pace’s sealed libraries, Valmorr found it:

  A book, bound in bckened leather, sealed with ancient warnings.

  Its pages whispered of powers not meant for mortal hands—creatures born of darkness, whose names alone could make the shadows tremble.

  With trembling fingers, Valmorr turned those cursed pages.

  He looked into the abyss…

  And made his choice.

  “If no light will empower me… then I shall forge my fate through the dark!”

  Thus began the true tale of the Son of Shadows, whose destiny would be written not with ink—but with blood.