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The Stormborn - Chapter - 77
🕑 Added 2025-11-29 11:05:27 +0000 UTCThe morning sun rose behind the golden towers of Asgard, but inside the throne hall, everything felt cold.
Harry sat upon Odin’s throne—not comfortably, never comfortably—listening as chaos roared around him.
Sixteen voices, all nobles, all desperate, all terrified of the implications:
“…envoys murdered on our soil—”
“…Vanaheim will take this as an act of war!”
“…we cannot survive two fronts at once—not with Jotunheim still unstable—”
Harry raised a hand.
Instant silence rippled outward like a shockwave.
“Facts,” Harry said quietly. “Not panic. Tell me exactly what was found.”
Two Einherjar guards stepped forward, flanking a floating stretcher veiled in shimmering gold. Beneath it, Harry could see three still bodies—cloaked in green and brown, the insignia of Vanaheim stitched over their hearts.
The senior guard bowed deeply.
“Your Highness… at sunrise, these diplomats were discovered in the western garden. The were attacked and killed.”
Sirius, standing just beside the throne like Harry’s shadow, muttered, “Inside Asgardian ground… Merlin’s beard.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Continue.”
The guard gestured, and another pair of Einherjar placed objects onto a conjured stone table.
Harry stepped down from the throne.
Daggers.
Arrows.
All forged in Asgardian metal.
Harry rested his fingertips on one of the daggers. It vibrated faintly, still carrying trace magic.
“Magical residue?” he asked.
One of the guards nodded. “Fresh. No more than a day old.”
The council went wild.
“This is clearly retaliation!”
“No—this is a frame job!”
“Your Highness, Vanaheim will not care why their envoys are dead!”
Harry straightened, and the hall fell silent under his commanding glare.
“Asgard did not commit this murder,” he announced. “But someone wants Vanaheim to believe we did.”
Lord Vali stepped forward—tall, sharp-eyed, calculating.
“Your Highness… the Vanir king is not known for patience. He may already be mobilizing.”
Lady Brynhild scoffed. “We should respond with strength, not appeasement.”
Harry ignored her.
He addressed the guards instead.
“Secure the area. No one enters the garden except forensic mages. I want magical traces, footprints, every spell echo within the last forty-eight hours.”
He turned to Heimdall.
“Inform All-father. Update him. He’ll want to know.”
Heimdall nodded silently.
Harry returned to the throne and lifted his voice so it carried to every corner.
“Send a Bifrost envoy to Vanaheim. Request an immediate diplomatic meeting.”
Vali’s eyebrows shot up. “That may appear weak.”
Harry’s expression hardened.
“What it will appear,” he said evenly, “is civilized. Something many in this room have forgotten.”
Murmurs erupted. Some nobles looked displeased. Others exchanged wary glances.
Lord Kjarl, his beard braided with gold rings, finally spoke:
“And if Vanaheim demands reparations? Territory? Trade rights? Access to Uru?”
Harry’s glare sliced toward him.
“Asgard does not pay reparations for crimes we did not commit.”
He stepped closer to the nobles, voice low, deadly.
“And we do not bow to foreign demands simply because someone inside our borders is playing puppet-master.”
Kjarl stiffened. Brynhild looked away.
Vali merely smiled faintly—too faintly.
Harry catalogued each reaction.
Memorized them.
These nobles were not merely frightened.
Some even seemed… pleased.
Sirius leaned in, whispering, “Someone set this up. Quite literally.”
Harry nodded. “I know.”
Aloud, he continued:
“All forgemasters will be questioned. All logs reviewed. Memory-stones checked. A full audit begins today.”
The Einherjar saluted and left at once.
“The envoy bodies,” Harry added softly, “shall be preserved and returned with honor to their people. That is the least they deserve.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
Respect wasn’t something Asgard often extended to other realms.
Harry dismissed the council.
They filed out slowly, whispering to one another—calculating, assessing, recalculating. Their greed and fear churned in the air like stormwinds.
As the doors closed behind the last noble, Sirius exhaled deeply.
“They’re circling you like vultures, pup.”
Harry didn’t deny it.
His eyes remained locked on the blood-stained daggers.
“They are waiting for me to make a mistake,” he murmured.
Sirius placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “They all will pay.”
Harry closed his fist around one dagger. The metal sang, responding to the prince’s magic.
“This wasn’t just murder,” Harry whispered. “This was a message.”
He lifted his head, face calm and utterly lethal.
“Someone wants Asgard at war.”
His eyes darkened.
“And someone wants me off this throne.”
The forges of Asgard were never quiet.
Even in peacetime, the deep caverns beneath the golden city hummed with heat and metal, runes glowing like slow-burning stars across anvils and furnaces. But today, the forge felt… tense. Every smith paused in their work as Prince Harry entered, armored boots ringing sharply against stone.
Harry had no guards with him—he refused them when investigating anything delicate. His presence alone was protection enough.
The senior forgemaster, Asa-Eldrun, bowed deeply. His beard was white as frost, his hands callused from a thousand years of hammering.
“Your Highness,” Eldrun rasped, “I heard… about the envoys.”
Harry didn’t waste time. “They were killed with weapons forged in this very hall. Your hall.”
Eldrun’s face tightened. “I saw the daggers brought by the Einherjar. They bear my mark, yes—but those blades were forged long before your birth, my prince.”
Harry stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“Eldrun, we both know someone wants a war between Asgard and Vanaheim. I need truth, not excuses.”
The old smith swallowed.
“As the gods are my witness, I did not sell those blades recently.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed.
“Then when?”
Eldrun reached for a glowing memory-stone embedded in the wall. With a gentle tap, runic light flooded the chamber, projecting records written in old-fashioned script.
“These daggers were part of a batch I forged… ah. Here.” His finger hovered over an entry. “One thousand one hundred and forty years ago. During the Dark Elf War. A set of two hundred assorted close-combat weapons.”
Harry frowned. “Who bought them?”
Eldrun hesitated, his face creasing with embarrassment.
“My prince… that is the problem.”
Harry’s blood ran cold.
“No record? Not even realm affiliation?”
Eldrun shook his head slowly.
“In those days, Your Highness, the wars were frequent. Merchants, mercenaries, nobles… people bought in bulk. They paid in gold, but… they preferred anonymity.”
Harry stared at the glimmering runes, jaw tightening.
A thousand-year-old sale. No name. Weapons resurfacing now.
A perfect tool for a conspiracy.
“Are you certain no one else forged weapons identical to these?” Harry asked quietly.
“Every smith has a signature pattern, my prince,” Eldrun said. “The daggers’ balance and runic channels are unmistakably mine.”
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples.
“So someone from Asgard—one of our own—kept those weapons stored for a millennium.”
Sirius—standing silently in the corner—finally spoke.
“Someone who’s been planning for a very long time… or someone who inherited the stockpile.”
Harry nodded grimly.
“Which means a noble house. One old enough to have possession of relic weapons. One powerful enough to smuggle them. One desperate enough to start a war to gain advantage.”
Eldrun met Harry’s gaze with ancient sorrow.
“I fear so, Your Highness.”
Harry turned away, cloak swirling.
Harry didn’t stop there. He visited forge after forge. Spoke to metal-singers whose songs shaped swords. Questioned rune-engravers, armor-bounders, smelters.
Everywhere, he got the same answer:
“Yes, that is Eldrun’s work.”
“Yes, the batch was ancient.”
“No, no one knows who bought it.”
Not a single lead.
No trace of a current buyer.
Nothing useful.
Asgardian bureaucracy was thorough—except during wartime centuries ago, when secrecy was sometimes encouraged.
By the time Harry left the sixth forge, frustration was clawing up his spine.
Sirius caught up beside him.
“You alright?”
“No,” Harry muttered. “Someone outplayed us. Left nothing behind except a thousand-year-old trail.”
He kicked a loose stone; it skittered across the ground.
“This wasn’t random,” he said. “Someone waited until Odin was gone… until Vanaheim was already angry… until Asgard was stretched thin… and then used old weapons to spark a diplomatic nightmare.”
Sirius folded his arms.
“So what now?”
Harry slowed, staring at the gleaming halls of Asgard with a hard expression.
“Now I stop guessing,” he said. “And I start cornering suspects.”
He turned toward the palace.
“Every noble who has a vault old enough to store those weapons… every house with private armies… everyone who wanted the trade treaty signed… everyone who argued against sending troops…”
His eyes darkened.
“…I will speak with them. Personally.”
Sirius raised a brow. “Interrogation?”
“Not formal.” Harry smirked coldly. “I’m simply going to make them… nervous.”
The war with Jotunheim had shaken the Realms. Now the diplomatic crisis with Vanaheim threatened to drag Asgard into yet another inferno.
Harry had expected reports.
He had expected complaints from nobles.
He had expected petitions.
He did not expect the throne room doors to slam open.
Two Einherjar guards stumbled inside, half-carrying, half-dragging a man whose cloak was torn, armor dented, and boots covered in Vanaheim’s distinctive moss.
Harry stood instantly.
“Report,” he commanded.
The guards bowed.
“My prince… this one arrived at the Bifrost gate, demanding immediate audience. He is—”
The battered man lifted his head, revealing an Asgardian face—angular, proud, and bloodied.
“—one of ours,” he croaked. “Spy division. Embedded in Vanaheim.”
Harry’s heart dropped.
“Release him,” he ordered.
The guards helped the man stand upright. He wavered, clutching his ribs, and Harry crossed the room in three strides. He grabbed the man’s shoulders gently.
“Name.”
The spy swallowed hard.
“Eirik, son of Brolf… field operative, stationed in the capital of Vanaheim.”
Harry’s jaw clenched. “You were due to report in two weeks. Why return now?”
Eirik gave a humorless, ragged laugh.
“Because, Your Highness… we may not have two weeks.”
The guards stepped back as Harry guided Eirik to a bench beside the throne.
“Speak,” Harry urged. “Tell me everything.”
Eirik drew a shaking breath.
“The situation in Vanaheim has deteriorated. Rapidly. After the death of the envoys… sentiment has turned violently against Asgard.”
Harry grimaced.
“Even though we did nothing.”
Eirik shook his head.
“It does not matter. The Green Circle blames us. Merchants blame us. Nobles accuse Asgard of trying to destabilize their realm.”
Harry’s expression darkened.
“And the king?”
“King Freis… pressured. Almost cornered.” Eirik’s fingers trembled as he removed a broken dagger from his belt. “The Green Circle has stirred the populace. They claim Asgard murdered the envoys to provoke war.”
Harry cursed softly beneath his breath.
Eirik continued hoarsely.
“The king has ordered mobilization. Full mobilization. The Vanir Host is assembling as we speak.”
The room went deathly still.
Harry stared at him, voice barely above a whisper.
“How long?”
“Three, maybe four days before they march.”
Harry’s breath left him in a sharp exhale.
This was worse than he’d feared.
Far worse.
“And the attack on the outpost?” Harry questioned. “The Green Circle took our workers hostage—has there been any update?”
Eirik nodded grimly.
“They’ve executed two of the hostages… publicly. As a warning.”
Harry’s blood boiled.
“But the king?” he pressed. “Did he authorize it?”
“No. He’s losing control.” Eirik shook his head. “The zealots rally the populace, and the King is forced to follow. If he doesn’t march to war, he risks losing his throne.”
Harry sank back, eyes narrowing, brain racing.
A powerless king.
A hostile faction.
A dead envoy.
A staged assassination.
This wasn’t just bad politics—it was a setup.
Eirik bowed his head.
“I risked everything to return. If I was caught, I’d be executed as a traitor. But Asgard must know. You must prepare.”
Harry placed a steady hand on the spy’s shoulder.
“You did the right thing. And you will be honored for it.”
Eirik’s eyes shimmered—relief, exhaustion, loyalty.
Harry turned to the guards.
“Take him to the healing halls. Full medical priority. And inform the palace staff that he is under my personal protection.”
The guards bowed and led Eirik out.
Now alone, Harry walked slowly back toward the throne—each step heavy.
He didn’t sit.
He stood before it, staring out the open balcony at the shimmering Bifrost and the distant horizon where Vanaheim lay.
“So it begins,” he whispered.
A war on two fronts.
Enemies inside Asgard.
Enemies gathering outside.
And he was the one who had to hold the realm together.
Harry exhaled sharply.
“Prepare for war,” he murmured to the empty hall. “But I won’t strike first. Not unless I have proof of who staged this.”
His eyes hardened—steel beneath emerald.
“And I will find them.”
