The forest near Yggdrasil doesn’t breathe. It waits. The trees are thick as pillars, their roots like ribcages curling over mossed bones. I’ve never felt so small. Even the wind dares not move. Every sound is swallowed by the quiet.

Lucien walked ahead with purpose. Not fast. Just... determined. Like something was calling him forward.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"To the edge of the world," he says without turning. "Where the old gate lies. Where the Hatisynir once broke through - a gateway to the world tree."

The name still makes my skin crawl. I see them in dreams now — red-furred, half-decayed, their eyes glowing like coals in snow.

"What is the Wolf-Gate?" I ask.

Lucien stops. Looks back.

"A wound. Between realms. Sealed by moonfire and blood. And your ancestors nearly tore it wide open."

The path narrows. Ahead, the land dips into a valley — unnaturally round, ringed with stone obelisks etched in Norse runes. At the center stands a massive arch of black bone, veined with silver — like a ribcage wrenched from the sky and frozen mid-roar.

It pulses. Faintly. Like something alive is inside.

Lucien stops. Before us, the earth droped into a crater — unnaturally round, ringed by black stone obelisks inscribed in runes that shimmer faintly under moonlight. At the center stands a vast arch made of fused roots and bone — not carved, but grown. Living. Pulsing. It rises like the spine of some dead god, and it hums when I draw near.

I feel it before I step closer — not magic. Recognition. A tug in my chest. Like this place remembers me.

“I’ve seen this,” I whisper. “In my dreams.”

Lucien places a hand on the arch. “Because your blood remembers what came through.”

The runes flare. The Gate groans open — not like stone, but like bark splitting, exposing the raw marrow of Yggdrasil. A warm, amber light pulses from within, threaded with shadow. I step through—and fall.

We hit the bottomwith a thud. Lucien landed on his feet. Typical showoff….

The inside of Yggdrasil is alive.

We’re in a vast tunnel, carved within the trunk. Roots weave across the walls like veins, pulsing gently. Glowing spores drift in the air, floating like embers. The further we walk, the less real everything feels. Time stutters. Steps echo too long. Sometimes I hear whispers in the wood — sometimes in my voice.

Lucien was tense. Watchful.

Then I hear it.

A skittering. High above.

Something darts between branches overhead.

I draw my dagger. “What was that?”

Lucien doesn’t answer. His eyes are already scanning upward. “Move. Quickly.”

But it’s too late.

A blur of fur and fang drops down — spiraling between roots and curling tail — slamming into the bark before us. It’s huge — longer than a wolf, with sharp claws, beady eyes, and a toothy grin that splits its head almost in two.

It chatters — not in words, but meaning bleeds through:

“You shouldn’t be here, little wolves.”

It circles us on the bark wall like a serpent. Its claws carve glowing gouges in the wood as it moves. “I remember your scent,” it hisses at Lucien. “Moonlit traitor. Celestial orphan.”

Then it turns to me.

Sniffs.

“But you — you’re new. You’re wrong.”

I grip my dagger tighter. “Ratatosk,” I breathe. The squirrel that ferries insults between eagles and serpents. The whisperer of chaos. The eater of names.

Lucien doesn’t flinch. “We’re not here to fight.”

Ratatosk laughs — a sound like bones clattering. “No... you’re here to bleed.”

He lunges. I duck. Lucien blocks the first strike with his sword, but the force sends him flying. I roll to my feet. The runes on my back burn.

Then I hear it — a groan from the wood. The Gate is closing.

I dash forward, grab Lucien’s arm. “Move!”

We dive through just before the root-tunnel slams shut behind us, trapping the screeching Ratatosk on the other side.

We land hard in darkness.

This is no forest. The air is thick with smoke and metal. Lanterns burn blue along jagged stone paths. The dwarven realm smells like fire and old secrets.

Lucien rises slowly, his sword cracked. “We’re here.”

“Where?”

“The forges beneath Yggdrasil. Home of the Dvergar. If anyone remembers what sealed the Gate before — it’s them.”

As we entered I saw a statue of a wolf prostrating and looking at the ground. Head dipped in worry. I step closer and immediately felt it — a pull. Not just magic. Something deeper. Recognition.

I turn to Lucien. "You’ve been here before."

He nods once. "This was where we fell. My kin — the last stand of Máningardr — tried to reseal it after the Hatisynir breached. We failed."

He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t have to. I can feel it in the air — the grief soaked into the soil. The battle still echoing between trees.

I reach out — touch the satue. And it howls.

A blast of vision hits me: Flashes of war — wolves of moonlight battling their corrupted kin. Screams in ancient tongues. A young Lucien, blood-soaked, dragging a fallen Alpha away from the Gate. A dying woman clutching a baby with my mark. Then — the Gate itself, wide open, a void bleeding wolves made of rot and smoke. And behind it — a shadow. Watching. Me.

I fall back, gasping. Lucien catches me before I hit the ground. "It called to you, didn’t it?" he asks softly.

I nod. "It knows me."

"Because you’re tied to both sides of the bloodline. You’re the child of light and the remnant of shadow. You’re what it fears… or wants."

We camp near the edge of the crater. I can’t sleep. The visions still flicker behind my eyes. That shadow — it wasn’t just evil. It had known me. Almost... like a part of it still lives in my bones.

I stare at the glowing mark on my back — now pulsing faintly. "What if I can’t stop it?" I whisper. "What if I open it instead?"

Lucien sits across from me, sharpening his sword slowly. Without looking up: "Then I’ll stop you."

In the firelight, his expression is unreadable. Not cruel. Not kind. Just... final. And for the first time, I realize how much of this world had been broken before I was even born.

I am a last chance. A final card. Maybe even a mistake.

But tomorrow, we’ll move again — toward Svartalfheim. Toward the place the Hatisynir can never ever corrupted.

And I will either become the shield... ...or the key that undoes everything.

We pass under an arch of iron and ashwood, guarded by twin statues — dwarves with axes larger than me, their faces set in eternal scowls. Lucien walks like he’s done this before. I walk like I’m stepping into the mouth of something old and hungry The realm is too dark and dank. I really dislike it here I tell myself.

The dwarves don’t greet us with words. Just silence and sharp eyes. Metal clinks in the distance — not coins, but hammer to anvil. Fire roars behind barred gates. Every wall breathes heat.

We are led down a long tunnel, carved with reliefs of battles — wolves and dragons, dwarves and gods. Always war. Always flame.

At the end of the hall is a throne carved into a cliffside. No gold. Just dark stone and roots twisted into armrests.

And upon it sits the King of Svartalfheim.

He’s not what I expect.

No beard. No crown. Just a face carved like stone and eyes like cut obsidian. One of them glows faintly — a forge-eye. His skin is burnt in places, silver-lined scars branching like rivers.

He doesn’t rise.

Lucien bows with one hand to his chest. “High Smith-King. We seek what your forebears forged in moonfire. The knowledge to seal the Gate.”

The King studies him. Then me.

His gaze lingers longer than I like.

“You brought a half-born,” he says.

Lucien tenses. I step forward before he can speak. “I brought myself.”

The King’s lip twitches — not a smile.

“We remember Máningardr,” he says. “We remember your last stand. Brave. Foolish. Costly.”

Lucien says nothing.

“But we do not give gifts. Not for blood. Not for sorrow. You want secrets? You bleed for them.”

He stands — and when he does, the hall itself seems to lean in.

“There is a wyrm in the deep. A flame-drinker. Spawned when the first moonfire fell and burned into the stone. It nests in our forgotten forge, where old knowledge sleeps beneath its coils.”

He steps closer — his voice like hammers striking bone. “You want what we know? Slay the beast. Prove the old fire still burns in you.”

“And if we fail?” I ask.

“Then your bones will feed the roots of Yggdrasil.”