The night air grew colder still as Morven the Sable approached the portal's yawning arch. He raised his slender, bone-black staff and intoned the ancient words that unlocked the veil between worlds.
"Djúpr norður, leyndar dyr, opnist mér í Helheim"
A shuddering pulse radiated from the iron frame and the air rippled like disturbed water. The sorcerer stepped through, and the world of light vanished.
He emerged upon a barren plain of cracked obsidian where bitter winds carried the stench of decay. Here lay the first warning of Helheim's dire dominion.
In the distance a colossal horn of tarnished bronze rose from the frozen earth. Its surface was etched with runes that pulsed faintly under a sickly sky. This was Gjallarhorn, its cavernous mouth forever silent yet whispering promises of apocalypse to any who dared approach.
Beyond the horn stretched the banks of a wide, sluggish river whose waters flowed black as oil. Upon its surface danced phantoms of pale light. This was Gjöll, the river of severance, whose current bore the souls of the living toward their final rest. At its edge stood Morven, staff tapping the ground as if to steady himself against the weight of sorrow that pressed upon his soul.
On the opposite shore glimmered a realm shrouded in frost and pallid mist. This was Niflheim, the frozen borderland, where jagged glaciers stretched to an iron horizon. Ethereal mists roiled at the glaciers' feet and the air tasted of ancient winters. No warmth of sun nor comfort of hearth existed here. Even the wind howled like a wounded beast, carrying the tormented laments of the lost.
A sudden rumble shook the ground. From a fissure at the base of a distant cliff, a hundred undead rose, their bodies shrouded in rags of bone and sinew. Draugr, they were called—restless revenants doomed to haunt these wastes.
Their eyes glowed dull amber, endless hunger etched upon hollow cheeks. They advanced in slavering ranks, but Morven's staff flared with violet flame and the undead recoiled before him. He crushed their attack with a whispered curse and pressed on.
At the heart of the plain stood the gates of Helheim, twin pillars of living ice towering into the dark sky. Between them lay a massive iron portcullis carved with the likeness of a monstrous hound. This was Garm, the guardian beast whose silent growl seemed to echo in the very marrow of the bones. Its eyes burned like embers and its teeth dripped with frozen gore. Morven passed under its watchful glare, staff held high, and the gates swung open of their own accord.
Across the threshold lay the Bridge of the Damned, a slender causeway of wrought iron that spanned a chasm of bottomless gloom. Below the bridge the wind whistled through the abyss and the distant groans of forested roots could be heard. Morven crossed the bridge without hesitation, each step ringing like a tolling bell in the hush of eternity.
Beyond the bridge rose a vast citadel of black basalt, its walls enwreathed in frost that glittered like starlight. Within its ramparts lay the Treasury of Hel, a hall said to hold the riches of every soul who entered Helheim. In Morven's mind flickered visions of golden chalices and gemstone crowns, yet he walked past without a glance, his purpose singular.
In the heart of the citadel waited Hel, goddess of death, enthroned upon a dais of roots and shattered stone. Half her face was radiant and pallid; the other half was cadaverous, flesh drawn tight over grinning bone.
Her hair was a tangle of silken black that writhed like living serpents. One side of her face shone with a pale, almost radiant glow. The other was darkened and decayed, flesh pulled taut over grinning bone. Her eyes were two pools of endless night. Around her prowled the Wolves of Helheim, fur matted with frost, eyes like dying embers. High above, through a shattered skylight, Morven glimpsed Nidhöggr, the draconic wyrm that gnawed at Yggdrasil's roots, its scales dark as night and breathed foul with brimstone.
Hel's voice drifted like smoke. "Sorcerer, why trespassest thou upon my realm?"
Morven bowed, staff planted firmly. "I seek the power to defy Fate herself—an unborn life ripped from the jaws of despair."
She leaned forward, wings of shadow rippling behind her. "To challenge the cycle of life and death? Beware, mortal. The struggle between light and darkness is eternal. Good and evil war without end. To steal from the underworld invites a reckoning. Doest thou understand the cost?"
Morven met her hollow stare with unflinching resolve. "I care not for consequence.
Hel's eyes flickered as flames of power danced across her spectral form. "Then hear my price. For every life granted, a soul must be surrendered. Thy miracle must perish at its fifteenth year—no, its twenty-fifth—lest the cycle of life and death unravel entirely."
A hush fell. Morven's heart thundered. "I accept."
She extended one bony hand and intoned in ancient Latin:
"Securus iace, lux et umbra, liberatio et vinculum—deduc infantem ad viginti quinquennium."
"Rest assured, light and shadow, deliverance and bond—grant the child unto twenty-five years."
The torches along the walls flared as though ignited by unseen breath. The dead outside howled in unison. The wolves growled, and Garm's distant howl replied. All of Helheim seemed to hold its breath.
Hel inclosed the dragonbone model within a silver casket bound by runes. "Bring me the rose of fidelity and the tear of true love within three nights at the hour of midnight. Then shall this pact be sealed."
Return I shall, with the rose of fidelity and the tear of true love, that this magic may be wrought."
At his words, the torches along the hall blazed with cold blue fire. The air thrummed like a heartbeat. From the darkness emerged the Dead, once more drawn to his mortal warmth, their bloodshot eyes glistening with hunger. They lunged for him, desperate to cling to life's final ember.
Their whispers filled the hall with a chorus of regret: "We were denied our rest…" "We yearn for release…" "Grant us the solace of oblivion…" Morven raised his staff and intoned a warding charm. "Vargr öflugur, draga burt sálir!" The spirits shrieked as if rent in two, scattering like ash on the wind.
Morven bowed once more and retraced his steps: past Niflheim's glaciers, across Gjöll's currents, beneath Gjallarhorn's silent watch, until the portal's frame shimmered once more.