The Dark World | Book 3

Fourteen: The Dark World

Imagine a world that once pulsed with life, where a civilisation thrived beneath an eternal night sky. Towering spires of darkened steel reached toward the heavens, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the cold glow of distant stars. A world ruled by a species both ancient and enigmatic, their presence as haunting as the void itself. Skin as pale as moonlight, eyes burning with an eerie luminescence—specters of flesh and blood, mistaken for wraiths by those who did not understand them.

The Dark Elves had their ways—sacrifice, ritual, and tradition woven into the fabric of their existence. Each act steeped in shadow, as cruel and unyielding as their history. Their empire was built on blood and darkness, their legacy etched into the bones of the cosmos.

That was Svartalfheim.

Once.

As the Asgardian skiff comes crashing out of a small mountain cave, the boat flies through the air. The skiff damaged. It's engines failing and dropping them to the ground. They hit what seemed to be sand and dirt that glistened like dark iridescence and diamonds. They bounced hard and all jerked roughly inside the boat. It glided through the sand carving it up into waves as it slowed their crashing descent into this world.

The boat stopped finally. Smoke rising from the back in billows.

Sigyn slowly lifted her head, wincing as she rubbed her neck. "That," she muttered, "was entirely too rough."

The world around them is quiet but nought for hushed winds that carried the last remnants and whispers of the Dark Elves. Ruins laid to waste around them from an ancient war fought long ago. An entire civilisation returned to the dirt by Asgard's armies. All for the sake of the universe the Elves once threatened with The Aether.

By her father's father, she cursed, this world was nothing but sand and ruin.

In their youth, when Loki and Sigyn explored the Nine Realms in search of old relics to bring home and study, this world has not changed since their last visit a long time ago. And it still saddened her greatly.

The universe above glittered with clusters of bright stars. Dark galaxies swirled in the night of hues of purple and greens. A dull sun burned softly that casted heavy shadows over the realm. This gave the illusion that the black sand beneath their feet was iridescent.

This is what war does.

She looked around.

Loki stood straight. "Ta, da!" he sang, proudly, presenting Thor the realm of Svartalheim. He got control of the skiff again and raised it into the sky and set it at a gentle pace to fly low through the ruins of this realm.

Thor stood motionless, his breath hitching as he took in the bleak expanse before him. Svartalfheim was worse than he had ever imagined—worse than any battlefield he had razed in his reckless youth, worse even than the frozen wastes of Jotunheim. The stories he had heard as a child did no justice to the desolation before him. This was not just a ruined world; it was a graveyard.

But they had made it. The plan had worked. Asgard was safe—for now. Yet their victory was hollow, for the true battle remained.

Jane.

At the helm of the skiff, she lay still, her breathing shallow, her body weakening as the Aether slowly consumed her. Thor had draped a blanket over her, but no fabric could shield her from the force tearing her apart from within.

The wind whispered through the wasteland, gentle yet unnerving, carrying the weight of silence. No life stirred. No voices called. Only the eerie stillness of a world long abandoned, a world that had forgotten what it meant to be alive.