Г„gir ●

Ægir watched from his high seat, his pale eyes unblinking. He was not a god of order like Odin, nor of chaos like Loki. He was the sea—vast, indifferent, and inevitable.

He had promised Odin a feast that would be remembered until the breaking of the world, but he had a problem. He possessed no cauldron large enough to brew ale for all the gods of Asgard. Г„gir

Thor, ever the pragmatist of the hammer, had journeyed to the ends of the earth to seize the mile-wide cauldron from the giant Hymir. Now, it sat in the center of Ægir’s hall, bubbling with a brew so potent it could make a mountain weep. Ægir watched from his high seat, his pale eyes unblinking

The gods raised their horns. For a moment, there was peace in the depths, while above, the waves crashed against the jagged rocks, singing the song of the giant who ruled the drownings and the dreams of men. He had promised Odin a feast that would

"Drink," Ægir commanded, his voice a calm tide. "The sea provides, and the sea takes. Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, the storms return."

When the shouting grew too loud, Ægir simply tapped his staff against the floor. The sound was a dull thud, but the ocean responded. The walls of the hall groaned. The water outside pressed in, turning the golden light to a bruised purple. The gods fell silent, reminded that they were guests in a realm that did not belong to them.