The congregation of the gods does not last. We are greeted at Vigrið's violent coast by two ships in conflict. One is the Skiðbladnir; the other is the Naglfar, where Hrym pilots a grim horde of Etin. Thrown from the Ship of Nails is the lad we call Hodr, a son of the Waetling smiths, blinded by Loki's malevolent magicks. The Trickster himself disembarks Hrym's imposing craft, strutting along with a slain Balder! Run through by the Weyland's Mistilteinn, Balder's only bane. How could I not have seen this before? Or smelled Balder's blood on the wind? The Aesir and Vanir charge the Etin horde, but Loki is mine.

Our swords are drawn and we upon one another like wild dogs. Around us thrives the clash of metal and the spray of sweat and blood. With a fatal stroke, I sever Loki's smug head from his shoulders, and his body falls lifelessly to the ground. But his head cries out with a blast to rival the Gjallar, and I find myself as deafened as Hodr is blinded. The head's barbed whiskers run through me like pins through a cushion. I am fallen...