The Dark World | Book 3

Twelve: Dark Elf Harrow

The heavens trembled as the deep roar of thrusters split the skies over Asgard. From the cascading edges of the great realm, where water tumbled endlessly into the void, silver ships surged upward, breaking through the mist like spectres of war. The Vanir fleet had arrived.

Gleaming vessels, each a testament to Vanir craftsmanship, hovered over Asgard's waterways and lower cities, their formation precise, unwavering. A dozen great warships loomed above, their hulls reflecting the golden spires below, while sleek skiffs detached from their holds, descending like hunting falcons toward Asgard's centre.

At the heart of the shattered throne room, where the Bifrost bridge met the golden palace, King Iwaldi stood amidst the ruin, his stance unshaken. His gaze lifted to the sky, watching as his warriors flooded the air, a tide of steel and fury descending upon Asgard in her defence.

This was no mere gesture of goodwill—this was a declaration. The Vanir had come to war.

With a hand resting on the pommel of his blade, Iwaldi turned his eyes toward the long hall. In his good faith with the All-Father, he had summoned his might to Asgard's defence. Now, the Dark Elves would learn what it meant to challenge the united realms.

Odin thundered down the Bifrost bridge, his steed's hooves striking sparks against the golden path as he raced toward the observatory. Heimdall had called for him with rare urgency, his voice carrying the weight of a dire warning—something terrible was unfolding.

 Hidden behind a fractured pillar, Princess Sigyn pressed herself against the cold, crumbling stone, her breath steady but filled with an unmistakable tension. The chaos of battle raged around her, yet she remained eerily calm, her eyes sharp and unwavering. Jane and Lady Sif crouched beside her, their gazes following Sigyn's as they tried to make sense of the scene unfolding before them.

"My father," Sigyn muttered under her breath, her voice thick with frustration and something darker. Her hands clenched tightly at her sides as she peered around the edge of the pillar, her expression hardening.

Jane, feeling the weight of Sigyn's words, followed her gaze. What she saw next was enough to steal the breath from her lungs. A figure stood amidst the ruins of the throne, his presence undeniable—his beauty almost otherworldly. His hair, as white as the coldest winter snow, cascaded down his back in a silver sheen. His regal bearing seemed to command the air around him, and his eyes—though distant—shone with a piercing intensity that cut through the smoke-filled sky.

The Vanir fleet loomed overhead like a cluster of glistening silver predators, their warships silent yet menacing, casting shadows over the city below. The fleet was a living entity, its power palpable, as if the very heavens were bending to its will. The soldiers descended in perfectly disciplined ranks, their armour reflecting the dimming light of the battlefield, while their banners fluttered defiantly in the smoky air.

Jane swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes away from the striking figure below, unable to comprehend the connection between this ethereal man and Sigyn. He was undeniably powerful—his presence alone seemed to shift the balance of the world around him.

"That... is your father?" Jane finally whispered, her voice shaking slightly, the reality of the moment sinking in. "Wow."

Sigyn didn't respond immediately, her gaze unwavering as she watched her father give orders, his movements calm but deliberate. She exhaled slowly, her lips curling into a frustrated, resigned frown. "Yes. King Iwaldi of the Vanir." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "And the Vanir army," she added grimly. "Getting out of here just became impossible."

"Vanir?" Jane echoed, confusion laced in her voice.

"People from the realm of Vanaheim." Sigyn explained. "They are here to reinforce Asgard—but if we get caught, they'll slow us down. We need to move."