Chapter 32: The Celestial Vault

Chapter 32: The Celestial Vault

Pain.

It was the first thing Baldur felt as consciousness returned. It gnawed at every fiber of his being, deep, raw, unrelenting. His ribs felt like shattered glass, his muscles torn apart and barely holding together. His golden energy flickered weakly, unstable, struggling to keep his body from completely shutting down.

He had lost.

Not just in a battle, but completely, decisively.

Terrax had broken him.

His body was heavy. Too heavy. Every attempt to move was met with a sharp reminder that he had barely escaped with his life.

The fall had been anything but graceful. He had torn through the sky like a comet, burning bright before colliding with the surface of a world he didn't even know. His body had carved through rock and dust, the impact shaking the land, leaving behind a massive crater—his resting place.

And now, as his vision blurred, he saw shapes moving above him. Figures, standing at the edge of the crater, their forms dark silhouettes against the sky.

They weren't warriors.

They weren't soldiers or mercenaries.

They were scholars.

Long robes, strange metallic scrolls hovering at their sides, faces etched with calm curiosity rather than fear. They murmured amongst themselves in hushed tones, speaking a language Baldur didn't immediately recognize.

One figure stepped forward. An elder, his violet eyes sharp beneath his hood. He studied Baldur not with concern, but with interest.

"You fell from the sky like a dying star," the man mused, his voice measured, almost amused. "And yet, you are still breathing."

Baldur tried to chuckle, but it came out as a painful cough. His body rebelled against even that small movement, every nerve screaming at him to stop.

"Yeah…" he rasped. "Barely."

The elder turned to the others and gestured. "Take him inside. He will not last long if left in the open."

A few of the younger scholars hesitated before moving toward him. They weren't particularly strong, and yet when they lifted him, their movements were precise, controlled. Almost as if they knew exactly how much pressure to apply to avoid worsening his injuries.

Baldur barely had the strength to think on it before darkness overtook him once again.

He awoke to warmth.

The air was thick with the scent of parchment, old ink, and burning incense. The distant sound of water trickling echoed through the space. A ceiling stretched above him—not stone, not metal, but something else.

It took him a moment to remember what had happened.

The battle. Terrax. His escape. The fall.

Pain still clung to him like a second skin. He tried to move, but his body refused. It wasn't just the injuries—he had nothing left. His reserves were spent. His golden energy barely flickered.

A voice broke the silence.

"You are awake sooner than expected."

Baldur's gaze flickered to the side.

The elder from before sat a few feet away, cross-legged on a raised platform, reading from a floating projection of text written in symbols Baldur couldn't understand.

"You are resilient," the elder continued. "Few survive a fall like the one you endured."

Baldur exhaled, forcing himself to speak. "Yeah, well… I've got a bad habit of not dying when I should."

The elder chuckled softly, a small, knowing smile forming. "That is a rare talent."

Baldur closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. "Where am I?"

The elder's hands moved over the projection, causing the symbols to shift before vanishing completely. "You are in the Celestial Vault."

Baldur had heard the name before. Somewhere, in Asgard's old archives, buried in a section he had never paid much attention to. It was mentioned in passing—a planet of scholars and historians, a place where knowledge was gathered but never shared.

His head turned slightly, taking in the room around him. Books and scrolls lined the walls, stacked high on floating platforms, shifting seamlessly as if responding to unseen commands. The architecture was ancient, crafted from something resembling obsidian, yet pulsing faintly with golden light.

This place wasn't just a library.

It was something older, something deeper.

The elder watched him closely. "You are Asgardian," he said. It wasn't a question. "I recognized the aura around you even before you stirred."

Baldur didn't respond right away. He could barely hold a conversation, let alone decide what to say next.

The elder continued, unbothered by the silence. "It is rare for one of your kind to come here. Even rarer for one to arrive as you did—half-dead and falling from the sky."

Baldur smirked weakly. "Wasn't exactly my first choice for a vacation."

The elder's eyes gleamed faintly with amusement. "No, I imagine not."

A pause. A long one.

Baldur hated how weak he felt.

He had fought warlords, survived space battles, torn through entire fleets. And yet, here he was—broken, drained, barely able to sit up.

Terrax had won.

And that burned more than any of his wounds.

The elder stood, pacing slowly around the chamber. "You fell here by chance. Or by fate. Either way, you are here now." He glanced toward Baldur. "And in your condition, you will be here for some time."

Baldur tensed, his pride flaring despite his exhaustion. "I don't plan on staying."

The elder tilted his head slightly. "You may not have a choice."

Baldur clenched his jaw, trying to force himself upright—but his body wouldn't move.

Damn it.

The elder watched him for a moment longer before speaking again. "Tell me, young prince. What did you encounter that left you in this state?"

Baldur exhaled through his nose, frustration settling in his chest. "A bastard with an axe and a god complex."

The elder chuckled. "Ah. One of those."

Baldur would have laughed if it didn't hurt.

Silence settled between them once more, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The elder turned, gazing toward one of the ancient walls lined with knowledge.

"Rest," he said. "Recover. When you are able, we will talk again."

Baldur wanted to argue.

He wanted to move, to get up, to leave.

But his body was already giving in.

His eyelids felt heavier. His energy flickered again, weaker this time.

Damn it.

The last thing he heard before darkness took him again was the elder's voice—quiet, knowing.

"Rest asgardian, when you are able to we'll talk again"

…

"You are not the first warrior to fall here, Baldur Odinson. And you will not be the last."

Then—nothing.

————————————————————

Darkness.

It swallowed him whole, an abyss deeper than space itself. There was no sense of time, no sensation beyond the lingering echoes of pain, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his very being. Baldur's body had long since stopped protesting—now, it simply refused to move at all.

He drifted, caught between consciousness and unconsciousness, the remnants of battle playing in his mind like a cruel reminder of his failure.

The axe. The weight. The crushing force that had ripped through him, made him feel like he was nothing.

It had been a long time since he had truly lost.

Not just struggled. Not just faced a challenge. Lost.

The shame burned hotter than any wound.

A voice, distant at first, began to seep through the haze. Soft, calm, and yet commanding in its own way.

"Your mind is restless."

Baldur forced his eyes open.

The chamber was the same as before—dimly lit by golden runes that pulsed faintly against the dark stone. The scent of parchment and burning incense filled the air, a strange contrast to the battlefield he had left behind.

Aetolus, the elder scholar, sat near the edge of the platform, watching him. His posture was relaxed, but his violet eyes carried something sharp beneath their serenity.

"You are not at peace."

Baldur scoffed, though the motion sent a sharp ache through his ribs. "No offense, old man, but I just got my ass handed to me by a guy with an axe the size of a starship. You expect me to be at peace?"

Aetolus chuckled, unbothered by the sarcasm. "No. But I expect you to understand what has happened."

Baldur turned his head slightly, trying to read the scholar's expression. "And what exactly happened?"

Aetolus leaned forward slightly. "You overestimated yourself."

Baldur's jaw tensed.

"You are strong, that much is obvious," Aetolus continued. "But strength alone does not decide victory. You have spent too long fighting enemies who cannot match you. You have become accustomed to winning. And in doing so, you failed to consider that there are forces in this universe that do not care how powerful you are."

Baldur remained silent.

Because the old man was right.

Terrax hadn't won because he was faster. He hadn't won because he was more brutal.

He had won because he knew exactly how to counter Baldur's strengths.

He had manipulated the battlefield itself, forcing Baldur to fight on his terms. He had bent the very laws of movement, turned Baldur's greatest advantage—his speed—into a liability.

And Baldur, in his arrogance, had tried to fight through it instead of adapting.

Aetolus must have seen something shift in his expression because he nodded approvingly. "Good. You are beginning to understand."

Baldur exhaled slowly, his body still too weak to move properly. "So, what? You brought me here to lecture me?"

Aetolus smiled faintly. "No. I brought you here because you were dying."

He stood, pacing slowly around the chamber. "But now that you are alive, you must decide what comes next. Will you continue as you are, believing your power alone will see you through? Or will you learn?"

Baldur narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly am I supposed to learn here?"

Aetolus stopped, turning toward one of the massive walls of text and symbols that shifted in the air like living entities. "The Celestial Vault is more than a sanctuary of knowledge. It is a record of history. Of battles fought long before Asgard rose. Of empires that crumbled under the weight of their own arrogance. Of warriors who thought themselves invincible—until they were not."

He glanced back at Baldur. "You are not the first to come here after a fall. And you will not be the last."

Baldur clenched his jaw. He had never cared much for history. He had never needed to. He was a fighter, not a scholar.

But now, lying there, still feeling the lingering weight of Terrax's final strike, he wondered if that had been his mistake all along.

Silence stretched between them for a long moment.

Then, finally, Aetolus spoke again. "Rest. You are not ready yet."

Baldur wanted to argue. Wanted to say that he didn't need rest, that he needed to move, to act.

But his body betrayed him.

His energy flickered. His vision blurred at the edges. The exhaustion was winning.

Damn it.

His last thought before the darkness took him again was simple.

He had to be better.

No matter what it took.

————————————————————

Baldur dreamed.

Not of battles, nor of golden halls, nor even of Asgard.

He dreamed of the void.

A vast, endless expanse of nothingness, stretching in every direction, swallowing the stars. In that darkness, he saw himself—small, flickering like a dying ember. No throne, no warriors at his back, no radiant power burning beneath his skin. Just a lone figure, suspended in a place where light had no meaning.

Then came the voice.

Soft at first, then thunderous, ancient, woven into the fabric of reality itself.

"The strong fall, just as the weak do. The only difference is whether they rise again."

The darkness swallowed him whole.

Then—light.

Blinding, searing, pulling him back into the world of the living.

He woke with a sharp inhale, his ribs aching in protest. His golden energy flickered weakly at his fingertips, barely a spark compared to the brilliance he once wielded.

How long had he been asleep?

He turned his head, blinking away the last remnants of his vision.

Aetolus was already watching him.

"You are awake," the scholar observed. "That is a good sign."

Baldur groaned, rolling his shoulders as much as his injuries allowed. "Yeah, well, I don't feel very awake."

Aetolus gave a faint smile, but his expression was unreadable. "Your recovery is progressing faster than expected. That much is clear."

Baldur exhaled slowly. His body still felt weak, still felt wrong. He wasn't used to this—being unable to move as he wished, unable to fight, unable to be himself.

He had faced warriors who sought his death. He had survived assassins, fleets, warlords.

But now?

Now he was trapped in his own broken body.

Aetolus stood, his robes shifting as he moved toward the chamber's exit. "Come."

Baldur frowned. "I don't think you noticed, but I'm not exactly in top condition right now."

"You can walk," Aetolus said simply. "Slowly, perhaps. But you can."

Baldur clenched his jaw.

Damn it.

A part of him wanted to refuse. To tell Aetolus he needed more time.

But another part—the part that had never backed down from a challenge, that had never allowed weakness to define him—forced him to move.

He swung his legs over the side of the platform, gritting his teeth as pain flared across his torso. His limbs felt heavier than they ever had, his energy dim and unresponsive.

For the first time in years, Baldur felt mortal.

Aetolus watched as he slowly pushed himself upright. His breathing was uneven, his muscles burning with every movement, but he refused to collapse.

The scholar gave a small nod of approval. "Good."

Then he turned and began walking.

Baldur followed.

The halls of the Celestial Vault were nothing like those of Asgard. There was no grandeur for the sake of vanity, no golden thrones or massive feasting halls. The architecture was ancient but restrained, carved from a stone unlike anything Baldur had seen, pulsing faintly with shifting runes that whispered as they moved.

The knowledge stored here wasn't just written—it was alive.

They passed floating texts, inscribed in languages Baldur couldn't recognize. Some hovered midair, shifting as if rewriting themselves in real time. Others were encased in crystalline structures, locked away behind layers of protective energy.

It was knowledge beyond Asgard. Knowledge Asgard had never been meant to see.

Baldur wasn't sure how long they walked before Aetolus finally spoke.

"Tell me, Baldur Odinson. What do you seek?"

Baldur exhaled sharply, still focusing on keeping his footing steady. "Right now? I'd settle for my ribs not feeling like they're about to snap in half."

Aetolus gave him a knowing glance. "And beyond that?"

Baldur paused.

The answer should have been obvious. Strength. Power. The ability to make sure what happened with Terrax never happened again.

But there was something else. Something deeper.

He had thought much about his purpose before. He had fought because he could. Because he wanted to be stronger, to see the limits of what he could do.

But now?

Now he had seen a glimpse of something bigger than himself.

The cosmic forces at play, the unseen threats lurking in the void. He had lived among myths, but he was starting to realize that even myths had things they feared.

What was Asgard in the face of what was coming?

What was he?

Finally, he spoke. "I don't know."

Aetolus nodded, as if he had expected the answer. "Good. That means you are ready to listen."

They entered a vast chamber, the walls lined with massive, glowing inscriptions. The air was thicker here, heavy with something Baldur couldn't quite place.

At the center of the room, a single, floating pillar of light pulsed softly.

"This," Aetolus said, gesturing toward the pillar, "is the Archive of Echoes."

Baldur narrowed his eyes. "Sounds important."

"It is," Aetolus said simply. "It holds the remnants of knowledge lost to time. Not just words, not just history—but the very experiences of those who came before."

Baldur looked at him. "You're telling me this thing can… what? Show me the past?"

Aetolus met his gaze. "In a way. It does not show. It allows you to feel. To understand not through sight, but through experience."

Baldur wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

But Aetolus stepped aside, making it clear that the choice was Baldur's alone.

"You came here by accident," the scholar said. "But fate does not waste opportunities. The question is—will you?"

Baldur clenched his fists.

He wasn't afraid.

He was tired.

Tired of being blind to the full picture. Tired of seeing only fragments of the universe while others moved in the shadows.

Terrax had shown him his limits.

Maybe it was time he understood what lay beyond them.

He stepped forward, his hand reaching toward the pillar of light.

And as soon as his fingers brushed against it—

The world vanished.