Jormund left the Dwarf's forge with only one direction in mind: upward, where the water of the silver waterfalls seemed to spring from the void. But in Alfheim, climbing is never a straight line. To reach the heights, one must first agree to descend into the bowels of the world.
He descended into the depths of the kingdom. Here, the ruins of the surface gave way to impossible geology. The walls of the cave were lined with giant crystals that glowed with a cold blue light. It was not stone, but solidified magic, the tears of the ancient Jötunns according to the legends whispered to him by his blood.
The nameless elf reappeared, walking on the ceiling, upside down, as if gravity were nothing more than a polite suggestion to him.
"You're going a long way for someone looking for a flying dragon," hissed the elf. His yellow eyes glowed brighter in the darkness of the depths.
"The Dwarf said that obsidian was found at the source of waterfalls," replied Jormund without stopping. "And waterfalls are born in the shadows."
"Clever. For a brute," conceded the being of light. "But be careful. In the depths, time doesn't just go round in circles. It stretches. A minute here can last a century on the surface. Are you prepared to age a thousand years for a simple piece of black rock?"
Jormund ignored the provocation, but he felt the weight of his words. His golden veins began to glow more intensely, reacting to the temporal instability of the place. He crossed natural bridges so thin they resembled silk threads, overlooking chasms where the songs of creatures that had never seen the light of the sun could be heard.
The further he descended, only to climb back up again, the stranger the scenery became. He passed statues of elven warriors frozen in crystal, their faces contorted with eternal terror.
"What put them in this state?" asked Jormund.
The elf stopped walking on the ceiling and dropped down in front of him with supernatural grace. His smile had disappeared, replaced by a glint of pure malice.
"They believed they could tame the Beast. They thought its size was a weakness. They learned, too late, that terror need not be immense to devour a soul."
Suddenly, the dull rumbling of the forge was replaced by a high-pitched whistling sound that seemed to pierce the eardrums. The water from the distant waterfalls began to flow backwards, rising toward a luminous opening at the top of the underground dome.
"We're here," whispered the elf, pointing to a black rock pedestal surrounded by frost flowers. "The Hanging Gardens. The domain of Alfheim's Terror."
Jormund gritted his teeth and prepared himself. He expected to see a colossal shadow emerge, wings capable of covering the sky, fangs as long as swords. He summoned all his Anomaly energy, ready to fight the most epic battle of his life.
But on the pedestal, he saw only a small golden figure, barely eight inches tall, quietly nibbling on a shard of crystal.
The "Beast" turned its head toward him. It had large, intelligent eyes and a tail that flicked the air with regal slowness.
"Is... that it?" Jormund blurted out, his voice betraying his utter confusion.
The elf behind him hid his face in his hands, trembling with what looked like fear... or suppressed laughter.