Brenna Skywing’s safehouse sat nestled in the western quarter of Winterhaven, wedged between a half-collapsed bathhouse and an old brick tannery whose sign had long since rotted away. To most passersby, it looked like a forgotten warehouse—broken shutters, rusted nails, a roof sagging from years of snowmelt and pigeons. But to those with the right eyes, it was a hive of whispered deals and shadow commerce.

  Inside, it was anything but decrepit.

  The first floor was a labyrinth of crates, ledgers, hidden caches, and secret panels. The scent of cedarwood oil masked less savory aromas—alchemical compounds, dried blood, exotic spices meant for bartering rather than consumption. Children moved like mice between shelves and boxes, tending to errands or running quietly along narrow catwalks. None spoke unless spoken to. They were her children. Orphans, like she’d been once. She fed them, clothed them, taught them, and in return they served as her ears, eyes, and messengers in a city that never slept and rarely forgave.

  On the second floor, sunlight bled through thin red curtains into her office—a cozy, dim-lit space with high bookshelves, old velvet armchairs, and a large desk made of repurposed ship timber. Brenna stood behind it now, pulling on a worn leather glove as she sealed a letter with black wax.

  “To Farrow’s line captain,” she muttered, addressing a young boy who waited patiently in the corner. “Tell him the barrels will be at Dock Eight tonight. No mistakes this time. And no drinking.”

  The boy nodded and vanished.

  She exhaled, tucking a loose braid of her iron-grey hair behind her ear. Her face was younger than her tone, her movements sharper than her years suggested. Brenna Skywing was hard to pin down—neither old nor young, rich nor poor. Just... dangerously capable. Her mind was a storm chart, always tracking which clouds were moving, which winds were shifting. In a city of millions, she fed hundreds without ever lifting a ladle. Money, medicine, maps, rumors—they all flowed through her hands.

  And it was almost peaceful.

  She turned toward a small window overlooking the alley and began sharpening a curved sabre, the blade catching the reddish light like flame.

  Then came the knock.

  One sharp rap followed by two slower ones.

  Brenna froze.

  The sabre slid silently into her palm.

  She crossed the floor, boots whispering over the rug, and placed her back to the wall. With a flick of her wrist, a hidden bolt on the side of the door released. She turned the handle—fast.

  Blade up.

  Until she saw the faces.

  “Tannis,” she said softly, then smiled. “Merryweather.”

  Tannis grinned. “Long time, Bren.”

  Maevis smirked beside him. “You’re getting slow. We could’ve stabbed you twice by now.”

  Brenna laughed dryly, lowering the sabre. “You always had the mouth of a bored assassin, Mae.”

  Then she caught sight of the others—one with a thunderous scowl and broad shoulders that seemed carved from oak, and the other with eyes too sharp to trust and a smile that said nothing ever happened by accident.

  “And who, exactly,” she asked, voice cool, “are the these strangers you've dragged in behind you?”

  Tannis and Maevis exchanged a look.

  Brenna already knew—this would not be another boring day.

  Loki stepped forward, hand outstretched, a coy smile playing on his lips. “Allow me to—”

  “I am Thor Wodinson,” the other one rumbled, stepping past him with all the subtlety of a battering ram. His voice was rich and thunderous, deep as a war drum. “And this is my brother—Loki Wodinson.”

  Loki closed his eyes and sighed, his smile cracking like a dropped mask. “So much for aliases,” he muttered.

  Thor either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He planted his feet and continued, arms crossed like a fortress. “We come on a matter that concerns the fate of GreyEarth and Asgard. And perhaps all the worlds between.”

  Brenna blinked, then looked at Tannis and Maevis. “You brought the Thor into my house? That Thor?”

  Tannis scratched the back of his neck. “Well... we didn’t exactly invite him to tea. It just kind of happened.”

  Maevis leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Yeah, fate and angry giants. You know how it goes.”

  “And him?” Brenna gestured toward Loki, who gave a two-fingered wave and an expression that said, Yes, it’s me, and no, I don’t bite—unless you deserve it.

  “The fabled Liesmith himself,” she murmured. “A storm god and a myth that breaks into stories uninvited... traveling with the two orphans I used to outrun guards with.”

  “You make it sound so romantic,” Maevis said dryly.

  “I make it sound dangerous,” Brenna corrected.

  “Fair,” said Tannis.

  There was a long pause as Brenna regarded each of them in turn, her eyes calculating, measuring, cataloging. The moment stretched until finally she turned and walked back toward her desk. “Come on then,” she said. “If you’ve brought me gods and war, I’d better hear the full weight of it.”

  They gathered around the central map table. Loki, back to his usual self, produced the blood-spattered map Maevis had pulled from the body earlier. Thor stood behind them like a boulder in stormlight. Brenna laid a hand on the map, studying the runes and markings.

  “This,” she said, tapping near the base of the parchment, “is Black Ledger territory. And these sigils here... they belong to one of their cipher rings. It’s real. And dangerous.”

  She leaned back. “The Black Ledger Syndicate isn't just a den of smugglers. They’re organized, ancient, and clever. They don’t just move money and goods—they deal in secrets, old knowledge, and forbidden contracts. Necrotech. Blood rites. Gods' bones. Anything with power and a price.”

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  “And Mavikundi?” Thor asked, his tone like grinding steel.

  “He’s joined with them,” Brenna confirmed. “My spies have whispered of meetings in the crypts beneath Winterhaven. The old catacombs. From the age before the city had walls. Mavikundi’s been digging something up down there, or awakening it. They’re hiring mercs, killing off rivals, and... bringing in sacrifices.”

  Tannis cursed under his breath.

  Maevis stared at the map, jaw tight.

  Loki, meanwhile, casually leaned in. “And what would it cost us to know more? Say... where exactly Mavikundi’s digging? Who he’s allied with?”

  Brenna didn’t blink. “That’s tightly guarded information. Cost me two agents and three months to learn what little I just told you.”

  Thor’s fingers tightened into fists. “Are you demanding tribute for knowledge?”

  “I’m asking for payment,” Brenna replied smoothly, eyes locked on Loki. “In this city, gods pay like everyone else.”

  All eyes turned to Loki.

  He smiled, but only with his lips.

  “Of course,” he drawled. “Let it never be said the Liesmith doesn’t honor a fair deal.”

  With a dramatic flick of his hand, he conjured a pouch of golden, ancient Asgardian coins, marked with runes that no longer graced the halls of Wodin’s vault. He placed them one by one on the table like a man parting with his own teeth.

  Brenna swept them into a drawer with a satisfied nod.

  “Now,” she said, voice low and steady, “let’s talk about how deep Mavikundi’s claws really go... and whether we can cut them out before this city bleeds.”

  Brenna unrolled another map across the table — a sprawling, hand-drawn web of Winterhaven’s underbelly, rendered in ink, charcoal, and blood-colored marker. The old crypts, sewers, and catacombs etched their twisted paths beneath the city like the veins of a corpse.

  “This,” she said, tapping the southern quadrant, “is where Mavikundi has focused his dig teams. Old Undercity, deep beneath the third ring. Abandoned sections of sewer and ossuary, long since sealed off by royal decree.”

  Loki leaned over, stroking his chin. “Sealed? Or forgotten conveniently?”

  “Sealed,” Brenna said, “with molten stone and heavy runes. But Mavikundi’s using a combination of Black Ledger arcana and brute force. He's pulled off at least three ritual detonations that blew through the wards. My contacts say he’s not looking for treasure—he’s looking for a vault.”

  “A vault?” Tannis arched an eyebrow. “Of what?”

  “That,” Brenna said with a smirk, “is the question.”

  Thor crossed his arms. “And what lies within this vault that demands gods, mercenaries, and blood?”

  “No one knows. But whatever it is, it predates the Ledger. Predates the city.” She drew a circle over a part of the map marked The Hollow Quarter. “This entire district was built atop a burial field. Not just the honored dead—something else. Some say it’s where the old kings buried the things they couldn’t kill.”

  Loki gave a theatrical shudder. “Lovely. Why do we always end up in places with names like ‘The Hollow Quarter’? Can’t we ever chase evil into something pleasant, like ‘Sunflower Garden’ or ‘Puppy Brook’?”

  Maevis snorted. “The day you chase evil into a sunflower patch is the day you stop wearing daggers in your boots.”

  “I’ll have you know I haven’t worn dagger boots in years,” Loki said, indignant. “Very last season.”

  “You wore them last week,” Tannis deadpanned.

  “That was a flashback,” Loki retorted, with a grin.

  Thor exhaled sharply, the shadow of a smile barely tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Enough.”

  Brenna nodded. “Right. Back to the vault. Whatever is inside, Mavikundi is getting close. And he’s consolidating. The Ledger is moving enforcers into the surrounding districts. My orphans—” she glanced toward the curtained window “—report strange symbols being carved into the walls at night. Fear is spreading.”

  Maevis leaned in. “So what’s the plan?”

  Brenna slid a smaller piece of parchment across the table: an access tunnel hidden in a crumbling bakery slated for demolition. “There’s a hidden path. Long and dangerous, but unguarded—because no one who’s gone down it has come back up. You’ll get close to the inner vault without alerting the Black Ledger.”

  Tannis narrowed his eyes. “And you’re not coming?”

  Brenna shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. My network keeps this place alive and your exits open. You’ll need me here if things go wrong—and they will.”

  Thor nodded once. “A wise strategy. Every war needs its web.”

  Loki grinned. “You sound like me.”

  “I sound like someone who’s survived more betrayal than you’ve told lies,” Brenna said coolly.

  The room quieted a moment. Even Loki had no clever retort.

  Maevis raised an eyebrow. “So... we sneak into the crypts, see what Mavikundi is digging up, and get out before the vault eats us. Sounds easy.”

  Tannis smirked. “When has it ever been easy?”

  Loki draped a lazy arm across Maevis’s shoulders. “Don’t worry, dear. We have Thor, the human sledgehammer. Nothing stands in our way—except perhaps physics, reality, or subtlety.”

  Thor grunted. “I prefer things that bleed.”

  Brenna rolled up the maps. “Then I suggest you all rest tonight. Supplies will be brought to you. Rations, lanterns, flame wards. Tannis, I’ve got some poisons and gadgets I think you’ll appreciate.”

  “Love you already,” he said with a wink.

  “To the crypts, then,” Maevis said, standing tall. “Let’s see what monsters the Ledger’s woken up.”

  And somewhere deep beneath Winterhaven, something old stirred in the dark… and waited.

  The ancient crypt door rumbled as its rune-etched seals cracked and disintegrated with a groan like dying thunder. Cold air rushed from the chamber beyond — air that had not touched the world of men in ages. Mavikundi stood there, his breath a thin vapor, his eyes alight with fanatic hunger. Now was the end of his long mission.

  Behind him, torchbearers and rune-callers stood back as the vault gates, forged of celestial ore and fused with froststeel, swung inward. The floor was a spiral of etched sigils, and at its center, atop a pedestal of petrified black ice, rested the Blade of Endless Winter.

  A longsword forged of silver-glass and blue flame, it radiated a chill so deep it cracked stone with every breath it exhaled. Mist clung to the floor, and frost crept up the very walls of the vault like fingers of some slumbering god.

  Mavikundi stepped forward, slow, reverent.

  “I dreamed of you,” he whispered. “You are the answer. You are mine.”

  He turned to the overseer beside him — a bald, tattooed man in black and violet robes, face gaunt from decades of whispering with the Ledger’s dark clients. “Sound the call. Summon the war council. Our dominion begins tonight.”

  The overseer nodded, tapping a series of brass plates on a communicator disc.

  Mavikundi reached out.

  And as his fingers brushed the blade’s hilt, everything changed.

  A pulse of frost exploded outward, knocking men off their feet, extinguishing torches, and frosting over armor and bone alike. From the shadows behind the pedestal, gears ground against age-thick rust. A figure rose from a sarcophagus of blackened steel.

  It was ten feet tall, vaguely humanoid but segmented, ancient — a construct of brass, frost-caged obsidian, and runes that glowed with dying embers.

  The golem's voice grated out like frost scraping against iron.

  “Heed my words, one who has come for the blade. This weapon can only bring death and misery. Go back. Leave this place in peace.

  The weapon must not be disturbed.”

  For a moment, silence.

  Then Mavikundi laughed — high and wild.

  “Peace? You preach peace, after this blade was forged in a war that shattered empires?” His eyes blazed. “You would bar me now, after all I’ve suffured?!”

  The golem stood unmoved, ancient eyes dim and sad. “You are not its destined bearer. Leave this place. Or perish.”

  Mavikundi drew a jeweled shortblade and pointed it at the golem. “Men! To me! The Vault is ours! Kill this relic of a dead world! Take any treasure you can find but that weapon is mine!”

  Black Ledger assassins dropped from the catwalks above like spiders in silk. Frost Giant mercenaries rose from frost-pits in the outer chamber, hammering shields and snarling war cries. Thugs, cultists, and alchemists rallied to his banner, eyes gleaming with promised wealth.

  Mavikundi raised his arms, cloak billowing, frost kissing his skin. “Double the reward to the one who brings me that construct’s core! You’ve eaten from my table — now EARN YOUR DAMN MEAL!”

  The room erupted into chaos.

  The golem raised its arms, activating a sigil shield that repelled the first volley of bolts and blades. Lightning cracked from its palms. Ice shattered beneath its feet. And still it did not attack — not until the first sword touched its armor.

  Then, with a roar of mechanical anguish and ancient pain, it struck.

  Mavikundi backed toward the blade, panting, eyes never leaving the fight. Blood sprayed across the ice. Screams echoed. Steel rang like chimes of death.

  And still he whispered, “Mine… it will be mine…”