“In the beginning, there was nothing incomprehensible to human understanding. Nothing existed in a state of being and not being — a paradox. Out of nowhere, a single thought went through that nothing and developed a consciousness. The creation of this first, vast consciousness caused an implosion of energy that birthed the primordials: Void, Space, and Time.

Time was an infant then — not the rigid, steady thing it is now. It flickered and folded, sometimes rushing, sometimes crawling, sometimes folding into paradox. Seeing her brother struggle, Space embraced her. Time calmed and settled throughout Space, granting it the probability of change. Void grew jealous. Space and Void had been equal at birth, but with the union of Space and Time, Space could become something more. Seeing their sibling’s envy and its attempts to sate greed, Space and Time banished the Void, never allowing it within themselves. From that union—”

“Wait. What happened to nothing?” I interrupted.

“The moment it first became conscious, it ceased to be nothing. It died. Some say nothing will return — that everything will return to nothing,” she replied.

From the union of Time and Space, three realms were born. Soon after, a pair of twins came into being: one was the giant Ymir, and strangely, the other was a cow. For a long time it was only the two of them. But Ymir grew lonely and wished to populate the realms.

He began with plants and animals spread across the lands. Then he made two sons and a daughter. One of those sons was Odin, the All-Father. Odin and his brothers looked forward to the future, but they noticed something strange: like everything else, Ymir held the future within himself. Time advanced only when he willed it. Tired of that tyranny, Odin decided to overthrow his father.

He succeeded.

With Ymir’s death, Time began to move and stopped for no one. His body decayed and birthed four new realms. Seeing the dangers of a divided world, Odin used Ymir’s carcass to bring five of the seven realms together into one — molding them into a ball he called Lifthrasir. Every god claims to have begun the world; no one truly knows what happened back then. The race of giants despised the gods for slaughtering Ymir and using his corpse.

For eons the gods and the giants warred until the gods crushed them and peace settled. Odin knew other gods had sprung from other phenomena, but the wars waged in his name made others distrust him. Older and wiser, Odin sought peace. He took raw materials and fashioned gifts in the image of each deity — one male and one female — and thus formed the living races of Lifthrasir. That is why he is called the All-Father. In the age of peace the races multiplied, and so did the pantheons.

“That is the origin of the gods as I know them,” she finished.

“Wait… so you believe in other gods as well?” I asked, trying to process the cascade of nonsense spilling from her mouth.

“All gods exist. The ones you put your faith in are what matters.” She smiled at me like a nun looking at a supplicant.

“So gods are real, then?” I kept asking, though the question felt ridiculous to repeat.

“Of course. They leave traces everywhere: blessings and curses, dreams and prophets — and most importantly, demigods. They all exist, but faith is what makes you vulnerable to them, and also blessed.”

I sighed. Merlin had dropped the word demigod in class as if it were an ordinary fact; I’d ignored it then, but now it gnawed at me. I looked at her — still chained, bruised, dried blood staining her rags. She caught my stare and smiled.

“You seem calm for someone speaking to their executioner.”

“The gods will be pleased with me for converting the next king of Jotunheim,” she said.

“Converting?” I scoffed. “I hardly believe any god is real. Why should I have faith in your gods?”

She gave me a knowing smile. “I believed the same once. Why keep faith in Jotun gods? But one spark of curiosity set me on this path. I may be a slave and you a prince, but I see the same spark in your eyes.”

We sat in silence. She looked young — younger than Edward. I swallowed and closed my eyes to steady myself.

“I’m going to kill you now if that’s all right.” I rose and tightened my grip on the sword. She hesitated, then nodded. I raised the blade but stopped. “Would you like me to bury you?”

She shook her head. Meeting my eyes, she said, “I don’t care what happens to my body, but grant me Valhalla.”

I blinked. “You do realize I don’t know what that is.”

She shifted awkwardly, then explained, “When a warrior dies with a weapon in hand, they may be accepted into Valhalla — a place to fight, feast, and serve the gods until the end of time. I know I am no warrior, and I am not a Jotun—” I placed the sword into her hand. It was the least I could do.

“What is your name?” I asked.

She seemed to steady herself and finally answered, “Amelia.”

I had no weapon of my own ready to finish it quickly. “I’m sorry, Amelia. But I’m sure you’ll make it into Valhalla.” I gripped her throat and squeezed as hard as I could. Amelia trembled and tried to break free, but I held firm. Her mouth opened, clawing for air I denied her. I wanted to be stronger, wanted to snap her neck and end it. I stared into her eyes until I could not look away, engraving them into memory.

Time stretched; everything slowed. The sword nicked my hand as Amelia thrashed. Tears tracked down her face as it paled. I watched — a spectator to an execution I performed without expression. I watched life drain from her eyes, the convulsions slow, the heartbeat fade. I watched the corpse settle. Her faith had outweighed her will to live.

Her fingers tightened on the sword as death took her; pale and unyielding. For a heartbeat I thought she smiled back.

I left that room with a hollow where something of me had died along with Amelia. I cremated her, kept the ashes and the sword, and stowed them away.

That was the last day I think I smiled.

It has been eight summers since then. Eight summers since I forgot how to smile.

Eight summers of training with Father and Edward.

Eight summers in which I grew stronger.

Eight summers of learning.

Eight summers navigating my Seithr.

Eight summers without a word from Mother.

Eight summers since I last held a sword.

Eight summers since I picked up a spear.

Eight summers since I murdered Amelia.

End of Introduction