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The Stormborn - Chapter - 83
🕑 Added 2025-12-21 04:19:29 +0000 UTCThe courtroom of the Vanir palace was built to inspire reverence.
That, at least, had been the intention.
Its design echoed Asgard unmistakably—high vaulted ceilings formed from living wood and crystal, columns shaped like intertwined roots rising toward a canopy of glowing leaves, light filtering down in soft greens and golds. At the far end stood a raised dais, a broad platform carved from a single ancient trunk, polished smooth by centuries of ritual.
Upon it sat the King of Vanaheim.
Below him, arranged in a wide semicircle on a lower tier, were the seats of the council—dozens of them, occupied by guildmasters, elder-lords, trade barons, and war-captains. Their chairs were ornate, personalized, marked with sigils of wealth and influence. Some lounged comfortably. Others whispered to aides. A few openly ignored the king entirely.
And at the very center of the hall, on the lowest level, stood the petitioners—farmers, merchants, healers, minor nobles—those who still believed, however faintly, that the crown meant something.
From the shadows near one of the living pillars, Wanda and Hela watched.
Hela’s jaw tightened the moment her gaze fell on the dais.
“That’s it?” she muttered. “That’s their king?”
Wanda didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on Freur—the way his shoulders were held stiff, the way his hands rested on his knees as if afraid to move too much, the careful neutrality carved onto his face.
“He’s not ruling,” Wanda said quietly. “He’s… surviving.”
Hela snorted. “I could end this in a heartbeat. Walk up there, tear out his throat, and slaughter anyone who objects. No king, no council, no war.”
She flexed her fingers, black-green energy flickering briefly along her nails.
Wanda caught her wrist without looking.
“Wait.”
Hela turned sharply. “You hesitate because you care. I hesitate because I’m bored. Either way, this ends faster with blood.”
“And starts worse,” Wanda replied calmly. “If we kill him now, the guilds will martyr him. They’ll claim Asgard assassinated a helpless king. You’ll give them exactly what they want.”
Hela’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t pull away.
“Then enlighten me,” Hela said coolly. “What are we waiting for?”
Wanda gestured subtly toward the hall. “We’re watching.”
The proceedings continued.
A Vanir farmer stepped forward, hat clutched in his hands, voice shaking as he spoke of rising grain taxes, of levies demanded by three different guilds for the same land.
Freir leaned forward.
“The harvest was poor in the eastern groves,” he said, his voice measured but sincere. “Reduce the levy for this season. Let the land recover.”
For a heartbeat, hope flickered across the farmer’s face.
Then one of the councilors laughed.
A broad-shouldered lord draped in emerald silk leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand. “A noble sentiment,” he said lazily. “But unrealistic.”
Freir turned toward him. “Lord Tharion, the eastern groves cannot—”
“The guild census disagrees,” Tharion cut in smoothly. “According to our projections, they can pay double and still remain solvent.”
“That census is five cycles old,” Freir said, more firmly now. “I have received updated reports—”
“And I have received donations,” another council member interjected, smiling thinly. “Which suggests the groves are doing just fine.”
Laughter rippled through the council seats.
The farmer looked between them, confused, desperate.
Freir’s jaw tightened. “The crown decrees—”
“The council overrules,” Tharion said, not even bothering to look at him. “Next petitioner.”
A pair of guards gently but firmly ushered the farmer away.
The king said nothing.
In the shadows, Hela went very still.
“They mock him,” she said softly, disbelief creeping into her voice. “Openly.”
Wanda nodded. “He has a throne. Not authority.”
Another petitioner approached—a healer this time, pleading for relief from conscription. Her village had already sent too many sons to the gathering army outside the city.
Freir opened his mouth.
A guildmaster spoke first. “All villages must contribute equally. Sacrifice is the price of unity.”
“But we have already lost—” the healer began.
“Enough,” the guildmaster snapped. “You will send more.”
Freir stood abruptly.
“That is not justice,” he said, voice rising despite himself. “You are stripping Vanaheim bare to feed a war you have not even declared in my name.”
The room went quiet.
For a moment, Wanda thought—hoped—that something might change.
Then Lady Eryndra, one of the wealthiest councilors, rose slowly from her seat.
“Sit down, Your Majesty,” she said, her tone soft but laced with steel. “You are embarrassing yourself.”
The words struck harder than any blade.
Slowly, painfully, he lowered himself back onto the throne.
The healer was escorted away, tears streaming down her face.
Hela exhaled sharply through her nose.
“So this,” she said, voice of disgust in her tone, “is what they’ve done to him.”
The proceedings dragged on.
Trade routes were reassigned without royal consent. Military resources redirected by guild vote. Freyr offered counsel, compromise, caution—each time brushed aside, mocked, or rewritten to benefit someone else.
By the end, the king looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
When the council finally adjourned, they rose as a group, turning their backs on the dais without so much as a bow. Freir remained seated, staring at nothing.
The hall emptied slowly.
Wanda and Hela stayed where they were.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Finally, Hela broke the silence.
“I have conquered realms,” she said quietly. “I have seen kings beg, scream, curse me with their last breath. But this…” She glanced at Freyr’s slumped form. “This is worse.”
Wanda nodded. “They turned him into a symbol and locked the symbol in a cage.”
Hela’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
“They want war with Asgard,” she said. “They are marching under his name while silencing his voice.”
Her gaze sharpened, predatory.
“Then perhaps,” Hela continued, “it’s time Vanaheim remembered what happens when gods stop whispering and start answering.”
Wanda stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly red.
“Not yet,” she said. “But soon.”
High above them, the living leaves of the palace rustled uneasily.
The sleeping chamber of King Freyr of Vanaheim was vast enough to rival a lesser palace.
Moonlight filtered through high arched windows grown directly from living wood, their leaves glowing faintly with bioluminescent veins. The bed itself was carved from a single colossal trunk, draped in silks woven with spells of warmth and comfort. Gold inlays traced the floor in delicate patterns meant to calm the mind. Crystals floated lazily near the ceiling, pulsing softly to regulate temperature and air.
It was a room built for a god-king.
And yet, for all its splendor, it felt like a cage.
Wanda stepped inside first, her boots making no sound on the polished floor. With a subtle flick of her fingers, scarlet runes bloomed briefly along the walls, ceiling, and doorframes before fading into nothing.
The air shifted.
Sound vanished.
No echo. No whisper. No breath carried beyond the room.
Hela followed her in, eyes sweeping the chamber with open disdain.
“A golden prison,” she said softly. “How poetic.”
Without warning, Hela raised her hand.
Three necroswords formed instantly—sleek, black-green blades humming with death—and she hurled them toward the bed.
They struck the wooden frame with a thunderous crack, embedding themselves inches from where the sleeping figures lay.
King Freir awoke with a gasp, his hand instinctively reaching for the queen beside him. Queen Neryssa screamed, sitting bolt upright as another blade buried itself in the canopy above them.
“Guards!” Freir shouted, voice hoarse with panic. “Guards!”
No answer came.
The silence pressed in, unnatural and absolute.
Wanda stepped forward into the moonlight.
“No one will hear you,” she said calmly. “The room is soundproof.”
Freir froze.
His eyes darted between the two women standing at the foot of his bed—one cloaked in calm crimson energy, the other radiating an ancient, terrifying presence that made the very air recoil.
“W-who are you?” Freir demanded, forcing his voice steady. “What do you want?”
Hela tilted her head, studying him like a specimen.
“At first?” she said lightly. “Your death.”
Queen Neryssa let out a strangled sound.
Freir’s breath caught. “You—”
“But,” Wanda interrupted gently, “after observing your court… we realized killing you would change nothing.”
Hela smirked. “Your war would continue without you. Your council would weep publicly, celebrate privately, and march all the same.”
Freir swallowed hard. “Then why are you here?”
Wanda met his gaze, red light flickering faintly behind her eyes.
“We are from Asgard.”
The king’s face drained of color.
Hela spread her arms slightly. “Specifically, the parts of Asgard your council fears.”
For a long moment, Freir said nothing. His eyes flicked to the blades embedded around his bed, then back to Wanda.
“If you are here to threaten me into submission,” he said slowly, “you are too late. I have already lost everything.”
“We can help you get everything back,” Wanda replied quietly.
Freir let out a bitter laugh. “Help me? You think I have any power left to use?”
He gestured helplessly. “I obey the council because I must. They control the army. The guilds fund the cities. And if I resist—”
His voice broke.
“They have my son.”
The room seemed to darken.
Hela’s expression changed—not softened, but sharpened.
“They kidnapped your heir?” she asked, incredulous.
Freir nodded once, shoulders sagging. “My only son. Prince Alaric. He was taken a year ago.”
Freir’s hands clenched into fists atop the silken sheets.
Queen Neryssa covered her mouth, tears spilling freely now.
“I sign what they put before me,” Freir continued hollowly. “I sit when they tell me to sit. I watch my people suffer while they gather armies and wealth in my name.”
He looked up at Wanda, despair etched deep into his features.
“If I refuse… they will kill him. Slowly. And they will blame Asgard for it.”
For the first time since entering Vanaheim, Wanda felt true fury—not explosive, not chaotic, but cold and precise.
Hela exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Cowards,” she muttered. “Hiding behind children.”
Wanda stepped closer to the bed.
“Listen to me carefully, King Freir,” she said. “If we return your son to you—alive and unharmed—will you oppose the war against Asgard?”
Freyr looked up instantly. “Yes. Without hesitation.”
“And if we break the council’s hold on your army?” Wanda continued.
Freir’s voice trembled. “Then I will end it. I swear it. No war. No mobilization. I will stand before my people and speak the truth.”
Hela leaned forward slightly. “And if your council resists?”
Freir’s jaw set.
“Then they will learn,” he said quietly, “that Vanaheim still has a king.”
Silence followed.
Hela studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
“Good,” she said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Queen Neryssa looked between them, disbelief warring with fragile hope. “You can… find him?”
Wanda’s lips curved into a small, confident smile.
“I can,” she said softly.
She turned toward Hela.
“We’ll need to move quickly.”
Hela grinned, summoning her blades back into her hands. “Oh, I’ve been itching for a fight.”
Wanda glanced back at Freir.
“You will remain here,” she instructed. “Say nothing. Change nothing. Act as though tonight never happened.”
Freir nodded fervently. “I will do whatever you ask.”
Hela paused at the doorway, glancing over her shoulder.
“And King Freir?” she added. “When this is over… you owe Asgard everything.”
Wanda found the prince long before she saw the fortress.
It was not sight that guided her, nor sound, nor even magic in the conventional sense. It was fear—a thin, constant vibration in the weave of reality, pulsing like a wounded heart. Fear layered beneath comfort. Panic smothered by silk.
She slowed her steps and raised a hand.
“There,” she said quietly. “He’s close.”
Hela stopped beside her, standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking the stronghold below.
The Vanir military fortress rose from the forest like a living thing—walls grown from enchanted stone and ironwood, banners fluttering in disciplined rows, watchtowers alive with patrols. Thousands of soldiers moved in precise formations, drills echoing through the night. Wards shimmered faintly across the structure, overlapping like scales.
Wanda frowned. “That is an army base.”
“Of course it is,” Hela replied, amused. “Where else would cowards hide a prince?”
Wanda turned to her sharply. “We should go in quietly. I can bend the wards, silence the guards, extract him without—”
Hela stepped forward.
Then she jumped.
She landed in the middle of the outer courtyard like a falling star.
The ground cracked outward in a spiderweb of shattered stone as necroswords erupted from her arms, shoulders, and spine. The first wave of guards didn’t even have time to scream—black blades pierced armor, flesh, and bone in the same heartbeat.
Alarms rang.
Horns sounded.
And Hela smiled.
Wanda inhaled sharply. “Hela—!”
Too late.
Hela tore forward, moving with terrifying grace. Soldiers charged her in disciplined ranks—pikes lowered, spells forming—but they broke against her like waves against a cliff. She hurled blades that multiplied midair, each one seeking a heartbeat. She kicked a charging Vanir champion through a tower wall. She ripped the magic from a battle mage’s spell and stabbed him with it.
“This,” Hela called over the chaos, “is what happens when councils forget fear.”
Wanda clenched her fists.
She hated waste.
But when the first volley of arrows flew toward her position, she moved.
Reality bent.
Scarlet energy surged outward, stopping the arrows mid-flight before turning them back—every shaft striking its owner with perfect precision. Wanda descended into the courtyard, eyes glowing as she tore wards apart thread by thread.
The fortress screamed.
Walls collapsed inward as Wanda folded space like cloth. Entire squads were lifted into the air and dropped unconscious—not dead, but broken enough to remember the lesson.
“You’re making this worse,” Wanda snapped, blasting open a sealed gate.
Hela laughed, blood splattering across her armor. “I’m making it louder.”
They moved deeper into the fortress, devastation following in their wake. Soldiers fled. Commanders died. Messengers never made it out.
And then—
Silence.
They reached a guarded inner sanctum untouched by battle. No bars. No chains. No darkness.
Wanda stopped short.
The chamber beyond was lavish beyond reason—carpets woven with gold thread, crystal lamps glowing softly, walls adorned with paintings of Vanaheim’s history. A massive bed dominated the center of the room.
And upon it sat Prince Alaric.
He looked up, startled—then frozen.
“You’re… not guards,” he said slowly.
Hela stared.
Then barked out a laugh. “They kept him in a guest suite.”
Wanda felt a surge of cold anger. “A cage made of comfort is still a cage.”
Alaric rose unsteadily. He was young—barely older than Harry. Well-fed. Well-dressed. And utterly hollow-eyed.
“Who are you?” he asked quietly.
“Your father send us to rescue you” Wanda said gently.
Alaric’s composure shattered. He rushed forward, hands shaking. “They told me they would kill him. That if I escaped—”
“They lied,” Hela interrupted flatly. “They are weak.”
Wanda opened a star-shaped portal behind them, its edges humming with power.
“You are going home.”
Alaric hesitated, glancing once more at the room that had been both refuge and prison.
Then he stepped through.
The court froze as Wanda and Hela emerged from the portal with the prince between them.
Gasps echoed.
The council paled.
King Freir staggered forward, disbelief giving way to tears as he pulled his son into his arms.
“You kept your word,” he whispered.
Wanda met his gaze evenly. “Now you will keep yours.”
Hela smiled—sharp, satisfied.
Power had changed hands.
