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The Stormborn - Chapter - 80
🕑 Added 2025-12-11 18:37:02 +0000 UTCFor a heartbeat, the throne room of Asgard did not breathe.
It could not.
Every guard, every noble froze where they stood as the newly freed Goddess of Death stared down the young Prince of Asgard. Her presence—cold, ancient, overwhelming—pressed against the air like a storm waiting to break. Even the golden walls seemed to dim, reflecting shadows that did not belong to Asgard.
Harry stood tall beneath her gaze, refusing to flinch.
Wanda moved half a step forward, both palms aglow with swirling red fire. Chaos magic crackled around her wrists in long spirals—unstable, unpredictable, hungry.
Dozens of Asgardian guards circled them with their weapons drawn, hands shaking despite their bravery. None of them had ever faced a foe like this.
And Hela—her jagged crown of blackened horns rising above her like the crest of a great beast—only smiled.
A sharp, sinister smile that knew too much.
A smile that promised death.
Harry broke the silence first.
“So… you are Princess Hela,” he said, voice steady even as tension swirled around him. “The Goddess of Death.”
Hela tilted her head, amused. “You say that name like it’s a storybook legend.”
“I thought you were dead,” Harry admitted honestly. “No one ever mentioned you alive. Not once.”
“Dead?” She let out a low, mocking laugh. “Tell me, little prince—why would you think I died?”
Harry met her gaze head-on. “Because no one speaks of you. Not Grandfather. Not Grandmother. Not Father. Not anyone. I assumed you fell during the Conquest of the Nine Realms. There are no statues. No songs. No accounts in the public archives.”
Hela’s smile sharpened. “And yet you know my name.”
“I went deeper into the library,” Harry said. “Much deeper. There’s a whole section—sealed, dusty, hidden behind illusion barriers. All filled with scrolls about you.”
That froze her.
For the first time, Hela’s expression flickered—surprise, quickly masked.
Harry continued, “I read about your battles. Against the Frost Giants. Against the Dark Elves. Your strategies, your victories… your strength. They were some of the best inspirations for my own training.”
Wanda blinked at him, then stepped closer and hissed softly, just for Harry to hear, “You never told me that.”
Harry shrugged faintly. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
Wanda turned to Harry, suspicion in her eyes. “If all that is true… how come Thor and Loki know nothing about having an older sister?”
Hela’s eyes flickered—anger, and something deeper—before she smoothed her expression.
Harry answered before she could.
“Because Father was never a reading person. And Uncle Loki? He only reads magic scrolls. If it isn't about enchantments or illusions, he doesn’t touch it. They probably walked past the archives a thousand times and never looked.”
Wanda looked back at Hela again, watching for her reaction.
Hela… laughed.
Not cruelly this time.
A genuine laugh, low and disbelieving, as her thorn-like crown began to melt and shift. The jagged black antlers receded into her skull, becoming long, dark hair that flowed like a river of midnight down her back.
She revealed the face of a queen—regal, proud, shockingly beautiful.
“Well,” Hela said softly, almost to herself, “Father sealed away everything about me… except in the one place he never expected anyone to look.”
Her gaze rested on Harry with interest that was no longer murderous.
“You may be more interesting than I thought.”
Wanda shifted immediately in front of Harry. “Don’t mistake curiosity for invitation.”
“Calm down, witch,” Hela said with amusement. “If I wanted him dead, no one here could stop me.”
Red magic flared violently in Wanda’s palms.
Harry placed a gentle hand on her arm.
“Mom,” he murmured, “it’s all right.”
“It is not all right,” Wanda muttered through clenched teeth. “She tried to kill you a moment ago.”
He glanced back toward the throne room doors.
“Put away your weapons,” he commanded.
The Asgardian guards froze.
“But—my prince—”
“That’s an order,” Harry said firmly.
Slowly, reluctantly, swords and spears lowered. All eyes then turned to Wanda.
Her flame did not extinguish.
“Mom,” Harry said softly.
Wanda’s jaw tightened. For several long seconds, she refused to move—her red energy swirling like a living creature around her fingers.
Finally, with visible reluctance, she let the flames die.
But her eyes never left Hela.
Hela smiled at the display, deeply entertained.
“My, my,” she said. “Such devotion. Such fire. You must be delightful on a battlefield.”
Wanda glared back. “You’ll never find out.”
“Oh, I hope I will,” Hela whispered.
Harry cut between them.
“You asked earlier how I know of you,” he said. “So… how about you see it yourself?”
Hela arched a brow. “Oh?”
“Let me show you the library,” Harry said.
For the first time, Hela’s composure cracked—not with rage, but something dangerously close to nostalgia.
“Very well,” she murmured.
Harry turned and walked toward the palace halls. Hela followed him, steps silent and smooth, her long dark hair flowing behind her.
Wanda moved as Harry’s shadow, staying less than an arm’s length from him, every instinct on alert.
And the guards parted like water before the three of them—terrified, confused, uncertain whether they were witnessing a peace talk… or the beginning of Asgard’s next great war.
The library of Asgard was vast enough to make even gods feel small. Golden pillars rose to the ceiling like the trunks of living trees; the scent of aged parchment and magical ink hung heavy in the air. The glowing runes etched into the shelves flickered faintly as Harry walked past, guiding him toward a wing few dared to enter.
Hela kept pace beside him, her expression unreadable.
Harry stopped before an arched doorway carved from dark stone. Unlike the rest of the palace’s gleaming gold, this section felt older—untouched for eons.
“This is where I learned about you,” Harry said quietly.
He pushed open the heavy door.
The room inside was dim, lit only by enchanted orbs that pulsed gently. Scrolls lay stacked in towering shelves, and ancient books—bound in leather so old it had cracked—lined the walls.
Hela stepped inside.
Her breath caught.
The bookcases were filled with records of The Conquest—the great war in which Asgard had claimed the Nine Realms. Handwritten accounts. Battle strategies. Military journals. Diagrams of magical weapons long forgotten.
And woven into many of them… her name.
There were descriptions of her armies, of her wolf, of her single-handed victories on battlefields soaked with the blood of Frost Giants and Dark Elves alike.
Hela traced her fingers along one of the cracked spines, her hand trembling slightly.
“These records… they are older than the palace itself,” she murmured. “Before Father… rewrote history.”
Harry watched her carefully.
She pulled a book from the shelf—a thick battle journal written by an Asgardian general who had fought beside her. In it were detailed accounts of her strategies, her power, her unmatched ferocity.
But no drawings.
No portraits.
No statues.
Just words.
Hela’s jaw clenched.
“Not even a sketch,” she whispered. “He erased my face… but not the fear I inspired.”
She closed the book and began walking through the aisles, her voice low and sharp.
“Odin replaced every painting. Every mural. Every record of our conquest with his ‘peaceful age’ propaganda.”
Harry followed her down the corridor as she moved, almost gliding, toward the grand hall adjoining the library.
When she reached the far wall, she stopped.
Once, this hall had been a tapestry of Asgard’s might. But now the murals showed Odin raising his spear in diplomacy. Odin making peace. Odin blessing children. Odin restraining armies.
Hela’s eyes darkened.
“And this,” she hissed, “is the lie he built his throne on.”
Her hand rose.
Black shadows spun around her fingers, twisting and condensing into a long blade—the Necrosword. It pulsed like a beating heart.
“Watch closely, little prince.”
She threw the sword.
It shot upward, slicing into the ceiling with the scream of rending stone. A thunderous crack echoed as a great section of the golden roof collapsed.
Gasps erupted from the guards in nearby corridors.
But as the dust cleared, Harry saw what Hela meant.
Beneath the modern roof… lay the old one.
Hidden.
Preserved only because Odin hadn’t bothered to destroy it—just bury it.
The ancient ceiling was painted in sweeping strokes depicting the true conquest of the Nine Realms:
Hela at the forefront of a massive battlefield, riding atop a colossal wolf whose teeth dripped with magic.
Odin beside her—not as a wise king, but as a ruthless warrior—striking down Frost Giants with Gungnir blazing like a star.
Armies clashed beneath them. Fire and ice collided. The sky burned red.
It was magnificent.
It was terrifying.
It was truth.
Hela stared up at it with an expression Harry had never seen on her—an expression raw and unguarded.
Pain.
“This,” she whispered, “was my life. My legacy. My right. And he buried it because it frightened him.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
Before Harry could speak, a voice rang from behind.
“Hela?”
Queen Frigga stood at the entrance, her eyes wide with shock.
“Hela,” she whispered, stepping into the hall. “By the Norns… you’re alive.”
Hela turned slowly, her face hardening back into the cold mask she wore like armor.
“Alive,” she said sharply, “despite your husband’s best efforts.”
Frigga’s expression softened with sorrow. “We believed you lost. Odin—”
“Odin lied,” Hela snapped. “He buried me along with the truth.”
Wanda appeared at Harry’s side, protective, her gaze flicking between Hela and the broken ceiling.
The tension became razor sharp.
Frigga swallowed, looking at Harry. “How did she escape?”
Harry hesitated.
Hela answered for him, voice like ice over steel.
“Your charming nobles broke my chains. They wish to use me as their weapon. Their puppet. They think I am desperate for a throne.”
She laughed coldly.
Frigga’s eyes widened further. “Harry… this is dangerous.”
“I know,” Harry said quietly. “But running won’t solve this. I need to understand what Grandfather hid.”
“And I intend to show you,” Hela said, turning back to him, eyes glowing. “All of it.”
A gust of shadow swept around her.
Harry felt—as though on instinct—that this was only the beginning.
The shattered ceiling of the grand hall still rained dust as Harry, Wanda, and Hela stepped away from the exposed mural of conquest.
Hela folded her arms, her emerald eyes glowing faintly. The jagged crown of shadow flickered above her head like a living thing.
“So,” she drawled, fixing Harry with a look that was half-amusement, half-challenge, “shall we go deal with your little noble problem? The rats who freed me thinking I would be their blade?”
Harry shook his head.
“No.”
Hela raised a brow, genuinely surprised. “No? A coup against you isn’t worth your attention?”
Harry walked to the exposed mural, studying the painted carnage as if seeing Asgard’s history for the first time.
“It is important,” he said quietly, “but not compared to what’s happening elsewhere. Vanaheim has mobilized. There’s an army forming as we speak… and they’re marching toward Asgard.”
A hum of interest rose from Hela’s throat.
“Ah. War.”
Her smile widened, slow and predatory. “Now that is something worth my time.”
Wanda stepped closer to Harry, her hand brushing his arm protectively.
Harry ignored the ripple of magic forming around his mother and continued, “All-Father and the main Asgardian army busy in Jotunheim… or cannot return in time… then we are all that stands between Asgard and a Vanir invasion.”
Hela tilted her head.
“Then it seems I arrived at precisely the right moment.” She smirked. “I have been dreadfully bored, you know. No armies to crush. No realms to conquer. No one to remind who the Goddess of Death is.”
Wanda’s fingers sparked with red magic.
Hela’s eyes flicked toward her, amused.
Harry stepped between them before the air could ignite.
“Aunt Hela,” he said firmly, “I will not send you alone.”
“Afraid I get killed?” she teased.
“Afraid you won’t stop killing,” Wanda snapped, stepping forward, energy swirling around her like a crimson storm.
Hela’s eyes gleamed. “And who are you to dictate what I do?”
“I am called the scarlet witch,” Wanda said. “And the one who will accompany you.”
A long, tense silence stretched.
Then—unexpectedly—Hela laughed.
A sharp, dangerous sound.
“Oh, this will be… entertaining.”
Wanda raised her chin. “The Vanir are not Frost Giants. They will use nature magic, illusions, battlefield traps—”
“And I will break them,” Hela said simply.
Harry exhaled slowly.
He knew this pairing was the only logical choice—and the most terrifying.
“Aunt Hela,” he said, meeting her gaze squarely, “I need your help to fight the Vanir army… but I also need you restrained.”
Hela blinked. “Restrained?”
“You cannot destroy Vanaheim,” Harry said. “Or slaughter innocents. Or ignite a war that affects all Nine Realms. We need a controlled victory, not annihilation.”
For a moment, Harry wasn’t sure if she would strike him.
But instead, Hela smiled—a thin, cold, dangerous curve of her lips.
“You speak to me like I am a weapon.”
“In this situation,” Harry replied calmly, “you are.”
Wanda’s red magic flared.
“And I will be the leash,” she said quietly.
Hela’s expression shifted—something unreadable flashing across her gaze.
Then she nodded.
“Very well, little prince,” she said. “I will march with your mother. And together…” Her smile grew razor sharp. “…we will handle your Vanir problem.”
Harry stepped forward, placing a hand on Wanda’s shoulder.
“Please be careful,” he whispered.
Wanda softened. Only for him.
“I will, sweetheart.”
Hela conjured two swirling portals—one black as death, the other crimson where Wanda’s magic intertwined with it.
“Let us go,” Hela said. “Before Vanaheim thinks Asgard has grown weak.”
Wanda stepped into the portal, crimson cloak flaring.
Hela followed, shadows rippling around her like wings.
The portal snapped shut.
Silence returned to the hall—heavy, foreboding.
Harry exhaled shakily.
Behind him, frightened murmurs spread through the guards.
The Goddess of Death had gone to war…
And the Scarlet Witch walked beside her.
If Vanaheim didn't fear Asgard before, they had no idea what awaited them now.
