That so-called fearless legion of giants fell before Odin like grass under a scythe.

Giants weren’t mindless. Even the dullest beast knows pain, and these giants had joined humans to overturn the Asgardian Realm.

From the shadows, a blade of light flicked by.

“An anti-magic arrow? That’s it?”

Odin sneered at the black shaft in her hand, a poison-black thorn.

For old Asgard, such a weapon was venom, a plague in metal.

It severed their bond with the World Tree, shredded every Rune, a god’s nightmare.

But Odin had Aether coiled in her veins, a sea under ice.

“A parlor trick... huh? Interesting!”

Before she could strike back, an arrow-storm closed like rain from all horizons.

From saddles hung great bows; giants drew to the ear and loosed like pouring hail.

The first anti-magic arrow wasn’t for harm; it was a beacon nailed to her.

The shooter wasn’t a giant. A white-bearded elder in beast-hide stepped from the ranks.

His eagle eyes pinned Odin midair, sharp as winter stars, full of old hatred.

He raised his longbow again, a gauntlet thrown like a cold banner.

“Interesting. Then fight!”

Blue-gray Thunder halted, and a feral force strained like a cocoon tearing inside her.

A crimson blaze, twin to Aphelia’s Crimson Fire, bled into the Thunder like dye.

In a breath, the whole sky turned into a blood-red sea.

Lightning branched like tree roots, lacing the heavens and devouring the rain of arrows.

Odin stood in the storm’s heart; pale skin inked with strange crimson sigils.

For a heartbeat, time froze; only the scarlet Thunder crept like burning vines.

Her eyes brimmed with kill-cold, a blade behind a smile.

The pause shattered. Giants lifted their faces; the scar was gone like a dream.

Hot ash fell like dark snow, reminding them the crimson Thunder was no mirage.

They raised their bows again, iron geese on a river, stubborn against the current.

Elders wove among giants, hawk-eyed, hunting angles, lurking in shadow for a next strike.

Odin wouldn’t stand and take it, but a cold breath pricked her back like thorns.

“Honored Lord Odin, need my help?” a chill woman’s voice whispered in her ear.

She whipped around. Only a silver ring hung behind her like a cold moon.

“What are you?”

Odin swung Thunder and batted aside a howling arrow, then eyed the ring, and smirked.

“Hmph. I’m no mere thing, ‘Lord’ Odin. Watch your contempt; it has limits.”

“One more word and I grind you to dust,” she said, voice like iron frost.

She had no patience for a phantom’s chatter. She turned, but the ring slid in front.

“You don’t trust me? Then I’ll show you my power,” it chimed, sly as silver.

Before Odin moved, the ring soared into the swelling host like a tossed coin.

Yet nothing changed. Giants kept spilling arrows like reeds in wind.

The white-bearded elder angled for a shot, lurking to clip Odin like a viper.

In that instant, a black shadow zipped across Odin’s sight like a night-snake.

On the Golden Plain, ripe wheat bowed, pressed flat by an unseen weight.

From the sky, Odin saw it all; giants in the grain sensed nothing at all.

A chill licked her spine as that nothing crushed the field; Thunder in her hand slowed.

The human elder took his chance. He drew; three odd arrows screamed and shaved her hair.

“Hmph!”

The shriek snapped her back. A lapse wouldn’t wound her, storm-steeped as she was.

She gathered Thunder to answer, but the elder’s scream tore the air like cloth.

A man falling in battle is common, dust on steel, but his ruin froze the giants.

He’d meant to fade into ranks after three shots, but his belly opened like a gate.

No blood seeped from the gash, a dry canyon under his ribs.

His face twisted with pain; he clutched his throat like a drowning man clawing air.

Giants rushed to pry his hands, but he burst with strength and strangled himself rigid.

Callused palms became iron clamps, sunk deep, leaking thin blood like rust.

The horror stunned the giants, a storm stalled over stone.

He wasn’t a nobody; his presence here meant weight among humans, a pillar in fog.

Now he died so strangely, a lantern snuffed mid-charge, and morale cracked like ice.

They lifted their eyes to Odin aloft, hatred flaring like coals in wind.

Right now, they could only hate; only hate could brace their charge like a shield.

They chose to believe the wound was Odin’s work, a verdict carved in rage.

From shadow came a soft laugh, a cat’s purr in winter.

Over the golden wheat, the first black blood-flower opened its petals.

The hulking shape hiding in the grain darted wild, a thunderless storm.

Eyes couldn’t catch it, but Odin felt it from the sky, a hunter in straw.

Cold and dark, an unnamable thing harvested giants like sickles harvest grain for the Abyss.

By now, even a blind giant should sense the horror at his side like a low tide.

They swung their weapons through air, yet touched nothing, a fight with fog.

As if the killer didn’t exist, a ghost under the skin of earth.

Odin saw clearer. Coiled on the Golden Plain lay a pitch-black serpent like night river.

It bit without restraint; where it passed, not even bones remained, only feed for bulk.

It felt her gaze. The serpent paused; dark eyes met hers, a brief salute.

Then it sank into the plain again and butchered giants like reeds cut clean.

Panic took the giants. Before a mountain of corpses, valor cracked like pottery.

If the foe can be seen, you fight to last; an unseen foe is mist and knives.

This foe shredded giants without resistance; their anti-magic hides tore like paper in rain.

Blood-scent thickened over the plain, and the unstoppable legion broke like a wave.

“Heh... quite an interesting ally,” Odin said, amused as a blade glinting.

Odin didn’t just watch. Blinding Thunder wrapped hammer and blade like storm serpents.

She plunged like a meteor into the ranks, a tiger into sheep.

In the forest, Aphelia’s reforging finished, a chrysalis split amid trunks.

Crimson Fire and blue Thunder twined; a body of Primordial Soil knit itself firm.

“Whew...”

Aphelia exhaled deep. As she landed, she hugged herself, cheeks blooming like dusk.

After rebuilding, she wore nothing; pale skin bared to air like cold porcelain.

Not an exhibitionist, she felt wrong, a lone crane without feathers.

She searched for clothes and found none; Crimson Fire and Thunder had burned them to ash.

In that awkward hush, the forest rustled, leaves whispering of iron.

A towering giant with a blade stumbled in, panting and blood-soaked like a boar.

Their eyes met at once, flint to tinder.

“Roar!!!!”

Seeing a human, the blood-wet giant charged, swinging madly, pain a spur.

Aphelia stopped caring; her fists rose like twin suns.

Before she could strike, the giant’s chest opened; a neat fist-hole blossomed.