In a place where neither sky nor earth existed, where even the directions of time had long since lost their meaning, and where reality itself flowed slowly and heavily like an endless ocean of light and shadow weaving together in eternal motion, there stood a hall that no mortal could ever hope to witness, even if they possessed the strength of gods, for it had not been built of stone, nor conjured through magic, nor carved by ancient spells, but had instead been shaped by the will of the immortals themselves, who countless ages ago decided that even gods who ruled pantheons and worlds must sometimes gather in a single place to decide the fate of the universe.
This was the Hall of Pantheons.
Its pillars were not carved from marble or crystal but from the colossal roots of the World Tree — Axis Mundi, a tree so ancient that even the oldest gods could no longer remember when it first began to grow, and those roots stretched endlessly above the heads of the immortals like the vast arteries of the cosmos itself, through which flowed the power that bound together thousands of worlds and millions of realities.
The light in this hall had no source.
It simply existed.
Silent.
Ancient.
Beneath those immeasurable roots stood thrones.
Dozens of thrones.
And each belonged to a pantheon.
Olympus.
Asgard.
Duat.
Svarog's Svarga.
The Celestial Isles of Amaterasu.
And many more, older than the legends mortals had once written into their books without ever understanding even half of what they described.
But today the hall was tense.
Not because of war.
Not because another rift had torn open reality.
Not because another titan had fallen.
But because of a single piece of news.
The silence hung heavy like a mountain.
And then thunder rolled across the hall.
Not like a storm.
Like a step.
At the center of the chamber, a portal of pure lightning suddenly appeared, tearing open the fabric of space itself, and from within it stepped a figure whose presence made even some of the gods slightly lower their heads.
Thor.
God of Thunder.
Son of Odin.
Giant-slayer.
His armor was cracked.
His shoulder was wrapped in dark cloth soaked with blood.
His hammer still glowed with lightning.
But the storm around him was weaker.
And everyone saw it.
The silence grew even heavier.
Upon a high throne of white marble sat Zeus, King of Olympus, his gaze heavy like the sky before a storm as he watched Thor for a long moment, ancient power flickering within his eyes.
"Is it true?" he finally asked.
His voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder across the sea.
"A mortal."
Thor walked slowly toward the center of the hall, each step echoing with dull weight.
"Not just a mortal."
He stopped.
"A Rune Bearer."
The hall erupted into quiet whispers.
And then another voice came from the shadows to the left.
Calm.
Ancient.
"Drakar."
All eyes turned.
Upon a throne of black stone sat Odin.
One eye.
Silver hair.
The spear Gungnir resting in his hand.
His gaze was quiet, but piercing, as though he could see not only the gods within the hall, but the threads of fate itself.
"So… the legends are beginning to become reality."
Zeus leaned forward.
"He wounded you."
Thor smiled.
"Only once."
He touched his shoulder.
"But yes."
Silence fell again.
Then another voice echoed through the hall.
Deep.
Slow.
Like the earth speaking through its roots.
"First Perun."
"Now Thor."
In the shadow of a massive throne sat a god whose presence resembled a mountain of fire and steel.
Svarog.
God of the forge.
Creator of divine weapons.
His eyes burned with quiet flame.
"Interesting."
Several gods turned toward him.
And then another Slavic god spoke.
"Interesting?"
The voice was dark.
Thick.
Like a swamp at night.
Veles.
God of shadows.
Lord of hidden paths beneath the world.
"You call this interesting?"
His eyes gleamed.
"A mortal carries blades forged by your fire."
Now many gods were staring at Svarog.
Then another voice cut through the silence.
Calm.
But dangerous.
"That is true."
Upon a throne of golden light sat Ra.
His body radiated the glow of the sun itself.
"I can feel their power."
His eyes narrowed.
"Those blades were not created for mortals."
Silence.
Then Zeus rose.
Lightning crawled across his arm.
"Svarog."
His voice turned cold.
"How did you allow this?"
The entire hall stared at the god of the forge.
Svarog remained silent for several seconds.
Then he answered.
"They were not stolen."
The silence became absolute.
Even Thor tilted his head slightly.
"What do you mean?"
Svarog did not respond immediately.
His gaze drifted somewhere far away.
As if he were looking beyond pantheons.
Beyond worlds.
"The blades find their owner."
Veles chuckled softly.
"You mean to say…"
His eyes narrowed.
"That you allowed a mortal to take them?"
Svarog looked at him.
"I allowed nothing."
His voice was calm.
"And forbade nothing."
Somewhere in the hall the goddess of death, Morana, whispered quietly:
"This is dangerous."
Dazhbog shook his head.
"If a mortal begins killing gods…"
Ra spoke softly.
"The World Tree will weaken."
And then Odin spoke again.
"Or it will change."
Everyone looked at him.
"What do you mean?" Zeus asked.
Odin smiled faintly.
"Every age has an end."
His eye glimmered.
"And a beginning."
Thor crossed his arms.
"I nearly killed him."
Zeus answered.
"But you didn't."
"He escaped."
Thor looked around the hall.
"With wings."
The hall began whispering again.
Veles spoke quietly.
"The blood of Zmey."
Now every gaze turned toward Svarog.
The god of the forge remained silent.
But deep inside…
the fire in his chest burned brighter.
Because he knew.
The blades were not forged from metal.
But from bone.
And blood.
Of Zmey.
And far from the council of gods, somewhere in the sky above the mortal world, Drakar lay unconscious as his wings slowly faded into the darkness of night.
But the gods were beginning to understand one thing.
The world was changing.
And for the first time in thousands of years…
they were not the ones deciding how.