At the roots of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, the Norns sat by the Well of Urd, their hands weaving the tapestry of fate. Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld—Past, Present, and Future. For eons uncounted, their work had been steady, unbroken, as they spun the threads of gods and men alike. Fate, once woven, was unchangeable. Their hands dictated the course of existence itself.

Until today.

Skuld felt it first. A tremor. Small, like the faintest ripple across still water. Her fingers twitched as she gripped the threads of the future, the usual certainty of her task faltering. The strands shifted, writhed, as if alive.

“No...” Skuld’s voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand years. She pulled harder, trying to force the threads back into place, but they slipped from her grasp, defying her.

Beside her, Verdandi frowned, her own hands moving slower, the present slipping from her hold. The tapestry that had always flowed with the steady rhythm of now suddenly twisted. The here and now, once knowable, now bent and buckled in ways it should not.

“Skuld,” Verdandi’s voice was tight, her eyes never leaving the threads dancing in her hands. “What is this? I can’t hold them—”

“The future is gone!” Skuld snapped, her voice breaking. She tore at the strands, desperate to restore order, but her hands moved in futility. “It’s slipping. The future... I can’t see it. I can’t see anything.” Her gaze fell to the empty void where the future had always been—a vast, unknowable darkness.

Urd, the eldest, had remained silent. Her gnarled hands worked the loom as they had for longer than the world itself, weaving the past into existence, steady, unyielding. The past, unlike the future, was fixed. Immutable. She had never questioned it.

Until now.

Urd’s fingers slowed. The threads that had always been firm and unbreakable felt... loose. Slipping. She tugged at one, and it snapped—clean, without warning. The past, the very foundation of all things, was unraveling. Her breath caught in her throat.

“No...” Urd muttered, her voice thick with disbelief. “The past cannot change. It is fixed. It is... certain.” But her words were hollow. Another thread snapped, then another, until her hands were full of broken strands. The past was coming undone as swiftly as the future.

“The fates are breaking!” Skuld’s voice was sharp, filled with a mix of anger and fear. “The future is shattered, Urd! The past is unraveling. Do you not see?” She gestured wildly to the tangle of threads before them.

Urd blinked, staring at the broken loom before her, the weight of what had just happened settling into her bones. “This should not be.” Her voice trembled. “The past is written. It cannot be changed.”

“And yet it has.” Skuld’s voice was tight. “This isn’t Ragnarok. This is... something worse.”

Verdandi gripped the present tightly, her hands shaking. The here and now was no longer stable. It twisted, bent, a living thing that fought her grip. She looked between her sisters, panic creeping into her voice. “What do we do? How do we stop this? If the past and future are undone, what of the present? What of... everything?”

Far above, the sound of footsteps echoed across the Bifrost.

Loki walked with a purpose. There was no mischief in his eyes now, no smirk on his lips. His steps were measured, deliberate, each one sending a ripple through the shimmering bridge beneath him. The gods watched from the far side, their faces grim.

Thor’s hand tightened around Mjölnir, his knuckles white. Odin, the Allfather, stood silent, his one eye gleaming with the knowledge of what should come. But something was wrong. The Gjallarhorn had not sounded. Heimdallr, the eternal Watcher, was gone.

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And still, Loki walked.

The first crack was sharp, sudden. The Bifrost trembled, a spider-web of fractures spreading beneath Loki’s feet. He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering to the sky as if even he had not expected this.

Another crack. Louder. The light of the bridge flickered, its once-solid surface buckling under the strain.

The gods stood frozen, unsure. Without the Gjallarhorn, the end should not have come. And yet, it was here. Ragnarok without a beginning.

The Bifrost shattered.

The sound was like thunder, deafening, as prismatic shards of the bridge exploded into the cosmos, each piece a fragment of the connection between realms. The gods were thrown back, their divine forms scattered across the sky like dying stars. Loki vanished, consumed by the maelstrom of light and chaos he had unleashed.

In the Well of Urd, the Norns stared into the turbulent waters, their reflections distorted and twisted. The weave of fate, once so precise, was now a tangled, broken mess. Nothing remained of the orderly design that had once been.

Urd’s hands hovered over the ruined loom, her face a mask of disbelief. “This is impossible,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “Fate cannot be undone.”

Skuld’s eyes burned with fury. “Then what is this?” she shouted, her hands clenched into fists. “Fate is no longer written. It’s chaos. We must act!”

“And do what?” Verdandi’s voice trembled as she looked between her sisters. “How do we weave what is already destroyed?”

Far below, in the shadowy depths of Yggdrasil, Mimir watched with a knowing smile. His laughter was low, rumbling through the roots of the World Tree, a sound that carried the weight of centuries. He had seen this day coming.

Though even he had not foreseen how deliciously chaotic it would be.

“Fate is no longer bound,” Mimir whispered to the wind, his voice a dark murmur. “Now, the world must stumble through the dark... and make its own fate.”

In the darkened depths beneath the Well of Urd, the Norns whispered among themselves. Fate had broken, and with it, all that had been certain in the Nine Realms. The future was now a swirling, unpredictable storm, and the past—a patchwork of fractured memories, slipping away into chaos. Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld, the timeless weavers, had failed for the first time.

Yet, all was not lost. There remained one hope—a desperate gamble.

Verdandi, her fingers still trembling from the earlier unraveling, broke the silence first. “We’ve failed,” she muttered, the weight of the word hanging between them. “The threads are beyond repair. But...” Her eyes flashed with dangerous resolve. “There are other threads. Other worlds.”

Urd’s hands tightened around the broken threads of the past. “Other worlds?” she repeated, her voice thick with disbelief. “Yggdrasil doesn’t reach beyond. We have no right to pull from those realms.”

“We have no choice,” Skuld said, her voice sharp. “If the threads of this world are shattered, we’ll find new ones. Or Yggdrasil withers. And if the Well runs dry, we cease to exist.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the decision weighing on them like the roots of the World Tree itself.

“Very well,” Urd whispered at last, her voice trembling. “But this is not a task for us alone. Even if we summon heroes from beyond, we’ll need a guide to lead them through the wreckage.”

Verdandi nodded. “Mimir.”

Skuld’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll make this more difficult.”

“We have no choice,” Verdandi replied grimly. “He knows more than even we do. If anyone can guide them, it’s him.”

Reluctantly, Urd lifted her hands above the shattered loom, whispering an incantation. The broken threads of fate shifted once more, slowly, painfully, reaching beyond the Nine Realms—into distant worlds untouched by the fall of Asgard.

***

Far below Yggdrasil, Mimir stirred, his lone eye gleaming with amusement as he watched the Norns’ desperate power ripple through the cosmos. The threads reached beyond, spiraling into the dark void where other worlds slumbered.

“So,” Mimir murmured, dipping his fingers into the dark water of his well. “They finally see the path.”

Figures danced beneath the surface—warriors, sorcerers, monsters—all from distant fates. With a chuckle, Mimir leaned back against the stones. “Come, then. Let’s see if you can mend what’s already broken.”