Hel Lokisdottir wanted every soul in the nine realms, but tonight she could not catch a single one. She rode Fenrir through her father's portal into Asgard, the great black wolf's red and green eyes cutting the dark. Her wings hung loose at her back. She was the goddess of death, ruler of the underworld, and she had come to make herself queen of the Aesir. Yet a farmer had just died three realms away, and his soul had slipped past her before she felt it go. That was the flaw in her whole plan. Death happened everywhere, all at once. By the time news reached her cold halls, the soul had already wandered elsewhere. She claimed the dead in her own realm easily. Beyond it, she was always too late. To rule death across all nine worlds, she needed to know the instant each life ended. Loki met her on the pale stones, his golden armor bright against the gloom. He smiled the way he smiled before every ruinous thing. "You look hungry, daughter," he said. "And empty-handed." "The dead escape me," Hel said. "I need eyes that miss nothing." "Then take Odin's," Loki said. He lifted one finger toward the towers of Valhalla. Above them, a black raven circled. "The Allfather keeps two birds. They fly the nine realms each day and whisper him everything. Every battle. Every last breath." His grin widened. "Steal one, and you will hear each soul die as it dies." Hel dug her heels into Fenrir. The wolf leapt up the fortress walls. The raven saw them and screamed, but Hel was faster. She snatched the bird from the air. Its wings beat against her fist. In that touch she felt it at once, a thousand deaths flickering across the realms like sparks. A drowning sailor. A gutted warrior. An old woman by a fire. She knew each one the moment it ended. The fortress gates burst open below. Odin walked out alone, his spear catching the light. He did not shout. He looked up at her on the wolf, at the raven crushed in her hand. "That bird is mine," Odin said. "You have taken my sight of the realms." "I have taken death itself," Hel answered. "Now I feel every soul fall." "Then you feel what I have lost," he said. "Munnin flew to me. Now she does not. Every god-king will know a raven is missing, and they will know who took it." Hel felt the truth land. She could sense the dead now, all of them, everywhere. But she had blinded the wisest of the Aesir, and Odin never forgot a debt. Below her, Loki had already vanished into the dark. Hel wheeled Fenrir toward the portal. The raven throbbed in her grip, feeding her the whole world's dying. She had her eyes at last. She had also made an enemy of the one god who saw everything coming.

Back in her cold halls, Hel held the stolen raven against her chest. It fed her every death across the nine realms. A drowned child. A frozen hunter. She caught them now, one by one. But a new dread crept into her. Among all the small deaths, she felt a great one coming. One god, huge and bright, would soon fall and walk into her realm. She did not know his name. She only knew this death would break the worlds. Hel rode Fenrir back through the portal to find her father. She needed the truth before the great soul arrived unclaimed. If a god died wrong, Ragnarok would follow, and no one would be left to rule. She crossed the rainbow bridge on the wolf's back. Its light shifted under Fenrir's paws. At the far end stood the watchman, Heimdall, his golden teeth bright, a great horn strapped to his chest. He was the guardian of this bridge, and his horn would sound the first blast of Ragnarok. He barred her path with his sword. "You feel it too," Heimdall said. His golden eyes narrowed. "A death moving toward your gates. I hear its heartbeat slowing already." "Whose heart?" Hel demanded. "Name the god." He did not answer. She saw the fear behind his stare. Above them, a rider swept across the sky. A woman in silver and gold armor sat on a white horse, spear leveled, her hair streaming. The valkyrie carried the slain to the halls of the gods. Now she flew fast, low, searching, as if the whole sky felt the coming death. Loki stepped onto the bridge behind Heimdall. His golden armor caught the shifting light. He smiled the smile that meant ruin. "My daughter senses a prize," he said. "The greatest soul in Asgard." Heimdall turned on him. "You know which god," he growled. "You always know." Loki only looked at Hel. "You want to name him," he said. "So close your eyes. Feel the death you fear. Follow it to its source." Hel closed her eyes. She let the raven's gift pour through her. She felt a thousand small deaths, then one thread brighter than the rest. Warm. Radiant. Beloved by every living thing. Light poured off the dying god even in her vision. She followed the thread to a shining palace, to a face too fair to forget. Her eyes snapped open. "Baldr," she whispered. "The light of Asgard. He is the one who comes to me." Heimdall's face went pale. Loki's smile widened. Hel had her answer. The great death had a name now. But naming it did not stop it. Baldr would fall, and his soul would come to her halls, and Ragnarok would follow at his heels. She had wanted to rule all death. Now she knew the one death that could destroy everything she meant to rule.

Hel rode Fenrir back through the portal to her cold halls. Baldr's name burned in her mind. She knew the god who would die. She did not know the moment. The raven fed her every death across the nine realms, but a death not yet fallen stayed hidden. If the fatal blow struck while she looked elsewhere, his soul could slip past her gates. Then his death would go unclaimed, and Ragnarok would come loose. She had to be there the instant his heart stopped. She pressed the raven to her chest and closed her eyes. The thread of Baldr's death still glowed, warm and bright. But it did not tell her when. She followed it anyway, out of her halls, back across the bridge, into the shining places of Asgard. The thread led her to an open field of golden grass. Baldr stood in the center. Light poured off his skin. Gods circled him, laughing, throwing stones and spears for sport. Every weapon curved away or bounced off his chest. He caught a thrown axe and grinned. He did not know he could die. No one there did. Hel landed the wolf at the field's edge. She was too close now. If the blow fell here, she would catch the soul the instant it left him. She only had to wait and watch. She fixed her eyes on the radiant god and did not blink. Then a shape swept down from the sky. A woman in gold and silver armor rode a white horse through the air. Her hair streamed behind her. She carried a spear, and she flew fast, low, searching. The valkyrie who gathered the slain. She too had felt the death coming, and she meant to reach Baldr first and carry his soul to the halls of the gods. Hel understood. If the valkyrie claimed him at the moment of death, Baldr would go to Odin's hall, not to her realm. The rider was her rival for the same soul. Whoever stood closest when he fell would take him. The valkyrie circled the field and hovered near the laughing god. Hel could not fight her here, not with all the Aesir watching. But she did not need to fight. She closed her eyes and let the raven's gift pour into her. She reached for the rider's own thread, her name, her hour of death. Hel opened her eyes and spoke the valkyrie's name aloud. Then she named the day the woman would die. The rider went still. Her horse reared in the air. She stared at Hel with white terror, then wheeled and fled the field. Hel stood alone at the edge, closest to the light. She could not stop Baldr's death. She no longer wanted to. She would claim him herself, the instant he fell, and no rider would take him first. Now she only had to learn the hour.