Ragnarok

"Why… Did you lie to him?" Nidhogg was the first to speak.

Hel turned to face them, tilting her head slightly. "Lie? What did I lie about? Death does call Grim his son." She spoke innocently.

"But…" Ratatoskr hesitated, but a sharp glance from Hel silenced her.

"But what?"

"Death isn't just a lowly Grim Reaper. Being his son means becoming the next Death." Ratatoskr continued, this time shifting behind Nidhogg for protection.

Hel remained silent for a moment, tapping her finger against her staff. "And why do you think Death would choose a nobody like him over everyone else?"

Ratatoskr fell quiet, as if, deep down, she agreed with Hel's argument.

"I simply made it believable. He's just a replacement for Grim." Hel continued, a smirk forming beneath her veil.

"Then… if he isn't Death's son, who is?" Ratatoskr asked, thinking hard.

"That's a question you should ask Death himself. Squirrel, isn't it your job to be the messenger?" Hel replied calmly.

"But—"

"Enough questions for today. Corpse Meat, escort her out." Hel cut in, already turning away.

"Yes, Hela." Nidhogg nodded, grabbing Ratatoskr's arm and dragging her away.

A Few Days Earlier…

"You must have heard the news, Hel." Death's voice echoed against the desolate walls of Nattslor. His face remained hidden beneath his hood.

"Of course, Father. It's hard to ignore words like that." Hel stood before him, trying to conceal the spark of expectation in her eyes.

Death gave a small nod. "That is why I've come to you. You are perfect for this task."

Hel's face brightened. She knew it—there would be no better choice than her to inherit the title of Death.

"This is Mikhael, a human. I have chosen him to be the next Death. I want you to train him, teach him about the realms, and protect him until the time comes. Your siblings might not like it. They may even try to harm him. You are the only one I can trust." Death continued, his voice firm. "Will you do this for your father?"

Silence.

The joy in Hel's face drained, replaced by cold disappointment.

"As you wish, Father." She smiled, obediently bowing her head. But beneath her veil, her fingers curled into a tight fist.

Present Day…

"Your Highness." A corpse bowed as Hel stormed into the frozen halls of Nattslor. The eerie walls, coated in frost, loomed over them.

"Slow Feet, call that corpse meat and that hound." Hel commanded, her voice sharp as she marched toward her throne.

Ganglati bowed and hurried out as fast as his sluggish limbs would allow. Hel dropped onto her throne—an imposing seat of ice and bone—pinching her temples.

How could he, of all beings, be chosen?

A mere human, blinded by his own justifications and selfish desires. How could he become the god of the Nine Realms? The creator, the balancer, the ultimate one.

She clenched her fists.

Someone who understood both doom and life should take the role. Someone like her. How could the Goddess of Helheim not be qualified to become Death?

Hel suddenly burst out into laughter. 

A low, sinister chuckle that echoed through the icy hall. "Train him? Of course. I will train him so well that he will reject the title himself." A wicked glint flashed in her eye.

The doors creaked open.

"Hela, you called?" Nidhogg and Garmr entered, bowing before her.

"Good work with that squirrel. You know what to do when they question you, don't you?" Hel's smirk widened.

"Yes, Hela." Nidhogg answered, mirroring her grin.

Hel's gaze turned to Garmr. "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't die. Beyond that… let him struggle."

"WOOF!" Garmr barked.

Meanwhile…

"Veor!!"

A young man dressed in a grey suit leaned against the base of a massive tree, his hands holding a small booklet. His dark hair was messily tied in a low bun.

"How many times have I told you not to disturb me while I'm reading, Ratatoskr?" Veor said calmly, his gaze still fixed on the pages.

Ratatoskr, panting from running, huffed. "It's… important."

Veor didn't look up. "Hmm."

"Death's son… has been chosen. Hel is keeping him locked in the Corpse Shore."

The moment Ratatoskr finished speaking, Veor snapped his book shut.

His calm demeanor vanished.

"Who else knows?" Veor demanded, towering over her.

"Other than you? No one. Hel's trying to make him her ally."

Veor's expression darkened.

"Make sure no one else finds out. I will inform the All-Father." Without another word, he vanished into the forest.

"Death's son is a human."

"Death's son is Hel's ally."

"The All-Father plans to fight Hel for Death's son."

"Ragnarok may begin soon."

Within days, the Nine Realms erupted in whispers. Stories twisted and multiplied, leaving the balance of fate on the verge of chaos.

The Council of Nine Realms…

"Is it true that you are holding Death's son?"

Freyr's voice was sharp as her golden gaze locked onto Hel. Across the round table, Hel sat still, a black veil covering her face.

After the rumours spread across the nine realms and fear of Ragnarok. The council of nine rulers had to be met. In a giant round table, each of the nine took their seat. 

A giant golden mug filled with mead sat before each of them, untouched.

Hel smiled. "How could I imprison someone of such status? I am merely a humble overseer of the dead."

Freyr's eyes burned with suspicion. "Don't act innocent. Fire doesn't spark from nothing."

Hel merely shrugged. "Ah, if you are referring to my new servant—yes, he is here. But Death's son? No. Just a foolish human, blinded by vengeance." She tilted her head. "If you wish, I could prove it… but that would require you to step foot onto the Corpse Shore. That doesn't seem fitting for a goddess like you."

"Enough."

The room fell silent as Odin finally spoke, his single eye narrowing toward Hel and Freyr.

Another voice broke the silence.

"Don't act superior, Elder Brother. We all know what you've been trying."

Surtr leaned back in his chair, the red flames of his robe flickering against the dim lighting. His presence alone made the air heavy.

"The moment you heard the rumors, you tried to seize him for yourself."

"Father warned us of this very situation." Dvalin, the dwarf king, muttered while absentmindedly inspecting his golden goblet.

He set it down with a soft clang.

"Ragnarok."

Silence.

The weight of the word filled the room.