The throne of Asgard never felt heavier than when Harry sat upon it.
It rose behind him like a mountain of carved gold, shimmering with runes older than the stars, but all Harry felt was the weight. The weight of watching eyes, the weight of responsibility, and—above all—the weight of treachery slipping like smoke through the palace halls.
Odin had been gone for only few days, but those days were more than enough for the nobles to start circling like vultures over a battlefield.
Harry kept his back straight, his expression as unreadable as he could manage. He had watched Odin do it a hundred times. Smooth. Calm. Dangerous.
Now he understood why the old man always looked so tired afterward.
Before him, the Council of Nobles stood in a sweeping crescent, adorned in shimmering armor, robes heavy with jewels, and expressions even heavier with contempt.
"My prince," Lord Vali began, dipping into a bow that was shallow enough to be an insult, "it is the opinion of this council that your… foreign associates be kept from the palace. For security reasons."
Harry raised a brow. "Foreign associates?"
"Your Midgardian family," Vali replied smoothly. "Surely you understand, the palace must maintain decorum."
Another noble nodded vigorously.
"We also believe—respectfully—that the throne room should be reserved for Asgardians. Allowing… outsiders to sit beside you sends the wrong message."
Harry forced himself to breathe. "The wrong message," he echoed calmly, "or a message you do not like?"
A ripple ran through the council. Vali's jaw stiffened.
"We are merely concerned for the stability of the realm," he said. "Your mother walked freely through the palace. Your companions speak openly in council. Asgard needs a king, not a—"
He stopped himself, but the word lingered in the air like a bad stench.
Harry descended the golden steps of the throne, each footfall echoing in the hall. At eleven years old, he was small compared to the towering nobles—but not a single one dared look down on him as he approached.
He stopped directly in front of Vali, who had to tilt his head down to meet Harry's gaze. The noble expected anger, or outrage, or even childish indignation.
He did not expect Harry to smile.
"You forget something," Harry said quietly. "When King Odin gave me this throne, he gave me authority. Not you. You are here to advise me—not to command me."
Vali's nostrils flared. "And what if we refuse to follow the orders?"
Whispers exploded through the hall.
Harry's smile did not fade.
He simply raised one hand.
A soft crackle responded.
Lightning—raw, unpredictable, alive—danced across his fingertips.
The nobles recoiled as one. A few stumbled backward. Someone gasped.
Even Vali's eyes widened, his skin paling as Harry whispered:
"My mother can face any army alone."
The lightning flared bright red.
"My father wields a power that shakes worlds."
Vali took another involuntary step back.
"My uncle bends chaos and illusion."
The lightning deepened into a violent, swirling crimson.
"And I," Harry finished softly, "am all three."
Silence swallowed the throne room.
Even the golden torches along the walls seemed to burn more quietly.
"If any of you," Harry continued, lowering his hand, "undermine my authority… I will remove your tongue and let you eat your own words."
Vali dropped to his knees.
"My prince… forgive me. I spoke out of concern for the realm."
"Then learn to speak with respect," Harry said, turning away from him.
"And remember your place."
He climbed the steps again and sat upon the throne.
"Council dismissed."
The nobles fled the hall without a single protest. The doors slammed shut behind them, and the echoes drifted away.
Harry let out a long breath and slumped slightly in the throne.
"Asgard is exhausting…" he muttered.
A shadow stirred behind one of the pillars.
"You handled them better than most kings," came a familiar voice.
Harry didn't startle. "Fandral," he sighed. "Were you spying on me again?"
The warrior stepped forward, smiling under his mustache. "Only a little. Old habits."
Harry rubbed his temples. "How bad is it?"
Fandral didn't answer at first.
Then, quietly, he said, "Several noble houses gathered tonight. They mean to question your right to rule."
Harry felt the cold flicker in his chest. "How?"
"Either a vote," Fandral said grimly, "or an assassin."
Harry's eyes hardened. "Names?"
"We're working on it," Fandral replied. "But they believe Odin may die in Jotunheim. Or your father might."
Harry clenched his fists.
The torches flickered with red energy.
"Find every conspirator," he ordered. "Every messenger. Every guard they buy. Every servant they bribe."
Fandral bowed. "Of course."
"And Fandral," Harry added softly, "one more thing."
"Yes, my prince?"
"If they attempt a coup…"
His voice became the quiet, lethal voice of someone who had already survived war.
"…I will tear down their estates and exile their entire families."
Fandral's face drained of color.
But he nodded.
Lord Kjarl's estate was an empire of excess.
Gold-veined pillars rose like frozen lightning. Tapestries woven with enchanted thread shimmered under torchlight. Every wall groaned with the weight of trophies stolen from fallen kingdoms—skulls of beasts, shards of relics, weapons forged from metals no mortal realm had ever touched. The estate did not merely speak of wealth; it screamed of ambition.
Tonight, its grand meeting hall—an obsidian chamber lit by silver fire—was crowded with the most dangerous kind of Asgardians: nobles with power and grudges.
Sixteen lords sat around a crescent table carved from meteor stone, their cloaks whispering like snakeskin. At the head of the table lounged Lord Kjarl, tall and broad-shouldered, his black hair tied back in a warrior's knot and his eyes sharp as frost-bitten steel. Beside him sat Lady Brynhild, draped in emerald velvet, her gaze as sharp as a dagger's edge. And across from them, clutching a goblet for comfort rather than thirst, sat Lord Vali—still pale from the memory that haunted him.
It was Vali who finally broke the silence.
"Let us… address the obvious," he began hesitantly. "We believed the prince—young as he is—would be malleable. Easy to influence. But he is… not."
Lady Brynhild's lips tightened. "Not malleable," she repeated. "Not compliant. And certainly not blind to our ambitions."
Lord Kjarl's fingers drummed lazily on the table. "A child on the throne should have been a blessing. A boy with no experience, no political backbone—"
"No fear of us," Brynhild corrected sharply.
"No hesitation to use force," Vali whispered.
Murmurs rippled across the table.
Vali swallowed hard. He could still see it—red lightning crackling across the prince's fingers, humming with the promise of destruction.
"You were not there," he said hoarsely. "When he confronted us in the throne room. The moment I questioned him—he did not shout. He did not tremble. He smiled. Red lightning danced in his hand as though he had been born to wield it."
Brynhild's eyes narrowed. "Power can be overcome."
"But not his mother," Vali muttered. "You all forget what she is capable of."
Silence fell like a blade.
Even Kjarl paused.
Vali's voice shook as he continued. "She tore through our palace as though they were ants. When she came to Asgard the first time, she laid waste to half the guards who tried to stop her. She is… terrifying. No one tormenting her son will live."
Lady Brynhild snorted softly. "She is mortal."
"Mortal or not," Vali said quietly, "I do not want to die screaming under her magic."
His words hung heavily over the room.
Kjarl's lip curled with disdain. "Fear makes you weak, Vali."
"Fear keeps me alive," Vali snapped back, surprising even himself.
Lady Brynhild leaned back, eyes glinting with cold calculation. "We are not here to discuss fear. We are here to discuss opportunity. Odin is gone. Thor and Loki are fighting far from the throne. Asgard is ripe for reshaping."
Kjarl stood, his cloak falling behind him like the wing of a raven.
"I want what Odin refused me for decades. The Vanir territories will be mine when the war ends."
"And I want the Uru Prime," Brynhild said, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet. "The boy will never grant me access to the mining rights. Never."
Vali swallowed, then forced himself to speak.
"And I desire stability. Influence. A future where Asgard is led by wisdom—not the whims of a boy who has lived barely over a decade."
Kjarl spread his arms.
"You see? Each of us seeks a future that the prince—Odin's precious heir—stands in the way of."
Brynhild's eyes glittered. "Manipulation failed. Threats failed. Intimidation failed."
Kjarl smiled, slow and venomous.
"Then we use the oldest law in Asgard."
Vali stiffened. "No. You cannot mean—"
"Yes," Kjarl interrupted. "The Grand Moot."
Several nobles gasped.
The torches in Lord Kjarl's meeting hall burned low, their silver-blue flames flickering as though uneasy with the company they kept.
Lord Vali stood at the table, broad shoulders casting a long shadow across the stone. "We all agree," he declared. "The prince must be removed."
Lady Brynhild's emerald eyes flashed with cold ambition. "But we lack the one requirement the Moot demands."
"Indeed," Vali muttered, fingers trembling around his goblet. "The Grand Moot cannot simply overthrow a king or regent. The law demands a challenger of same bloodline. A true heir."
Kjarl's jaw tightened. "Odin has only Thor, Loki—and now the boy. There is no other."
"No other who lives," Brynhild corrected softly.
Kjarl ignored her. "The Moot requires more than a bloodline. It demands a champion stronger, wiser—more worthy—than the one on the throne. Someone who can prove Harry unfit."
Vali shook his head. "No such person exists. Odin named the prince his heir. Thor has no interest in ruling. The Moot is impossible."
A murmur of frustration swept the room. Some slammed goblets onto the table. Others cursed under their breath. Even Brynhild's mask of poise cracked for a moment.
They had schemes. They had ambition.
But they lacked the one thing ancient law demanded: royal blood.
Until a voice older than the rest croaked from the end of the table.
"There is one."
The room fell unnaturally still.
Sixteen heads turned toward Elder Hrovald, the oldest noble present, his skin wrinkled like worn parchment, his silver beard resting against his chest. He rarely spoke. When he did, the others listened.
Vali frowned. "One who what?"
"One who bears Odin's blood," Hrovald rasped. "One who is older than Thor. More powerful. More rightful."
Brynhild's breath hitched. "That cannot be. Odin has no other children."
Hrovald's eyes gleamed with something ancient—knowledge long buried.
"Odin has a daughter."
Silence struck the hall like winter frost.
Kjarl leaned forward, voice dangerous. "Explain yourself, old man."
Hrovald's fingers drummed weakly against the table. "Thousands of years ago, before Asgard became what you see today… Odin waged wars across the Nine Realms. Not for peace, but for conquest. For glory. In those days, he fought beside his firstborn."
Vali felt his stomach drop. "Firstborn? You mean—"
"A princess," Hrovald said. "A warrior unmatched. A reaper of realms. The rightful heir to Asgard's throne."
"Lies," Brynhild whispered, shaken. "If she lived, we would know."
"You know nothing," Hrovald snapped, sudden energy rising in his ancient voice. "Her power grew too great. Too violent. Odin feared she would destroy all that he built. So he struck her down… and imprisoned her."
Another shiver passed through the lords.
Imprisoned.
Not slain.
Lord Kjarl narrowed his eyes. "And where is this… lost princess?"
Hrovald's lips twisted into something between reverence and dread.
"Sealed somewhere no one knew."
A gasp tore through the nobles.
"Hela," Hrovald exclaimed. "Odin's firstborn. The one who should have been queen. She is of the royal blood. She fulfills the law of the Grand Moot."
Brynhild pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. "If we find and free her… she could claim the throne legally."
"Not only legally," Kjarl murmured. "Effortlessly. She conquered realms with Odin himself."
Hrovald leaned back, exhaustion overtaking him. "And if she rises again, she will reward those who set her free. Her vengeance will remake the Nine Realms… but she will grant us anything we desire."
A feverish silence filled the hall.
Uru prime. Vanir lands. Power. Influence. All of it—finally within reach.
Lord Rollo, however, felt cold. Truly cold.
"Do you fools not understand?" he hissed. "She was imprisoned because she was too dangerous. Too powerful. She is Odin's nightmare. If she returns, she will not reward us—she will rule us. She will slaughter us the moment we cease to be useful."
Kjarl's smile was sharp as a blade.
"Better a goddess who needs us," he said, "than a child who don't care about us."
Rollo stared at him, horrified.
"You would unleash the Goddess of Death to topple an eleven-year-old boy?"
"No," Brynhild corrected, her smile matching Kjarl's.
"We would unleash her to topple a king."
The nobles raised their goblets in twisted unity.
"To the return of Princess Hela," Brynhild said.
Hrovald lifted his cup high. "To the true queen of Asgard."
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