"The wind carries the whispers of gods, but only ravens know what they mean."
The wind howled like an ancient wolf across the jagged peaks of Jotunheim, shrieking through narrow mountain passes and stirring the snow into angry spirals. A storm was building in the west—clouds thick as the breath of dying gods—and with it came a scent that hadn't touched these lands in centuries.
A scent of prophecy.A scent of Odin.
He stood at the edge of a broken cliff, where the mountain crumbled into mist. His single eye pierced the gloom, gleaming like a dying star beneath the hood of his wolfskin cloak. The other socket—empty—burned with secrets untold.
Two ravens circled above him.
Huginn, thought.Muninn, memory.
They did not caw. They simply watched. As they always did.
Beneath him, miles of stone and frost sloped downward into a valley shaped like a wound. And at the center of it all rose Hnitbjörg—a mountain dark and cruel, its belly hollowed and guarded by enchantment older than even the gods. Within that mountain was his prize. His obsession. His doom.
The Mead of Poetry.
It was said that anyone who drank it would speak in tongues that moved nations, seduce queens with a single verse, and shape reality with a whisper. It was said to be brewed from the blood of Kvasir, the wisest being to ever exist. But Odin wasn't here for stories.
He was here for power.
And he was willing to become Bölverk—the worker of evil—to claim it.
The path to Hnitbjörg was not guarded by warriors, but by weather and wilderness. Odin descended from the peak like a shadow come to life, each step slow and careful, his boots crunching over cursed frost and serpent-fanged roots.
He passed trees twisted like mourners. Ice wolves watched from afar, their yellow eyes unblinking. Somewhere in the distance, a frost giant's laughter echoed—a deep, guttural sound that felt like it could crack bone.
He didn't flinch.He was Odin.Even when in disguise.
But the weight of his choice pressed on his back like a second cloak. To steal the mead meant breaking oaths, deceiving guardians, seducing a soul who had never known the cruelty of gods.
Gunnlöð.
He spoke her name only in thought. Even the wind seemed to pause at it.
By nightfall, he reached the farmstead of Baugi, brother of the mead's keeper. Smoke curled from its chimney, and the scent of roasting elk drifted through the trees. A dozen farmhands worked the land—strong, simple folk, unaware of what they guarded. Odin approached like a beggar, clothes dusted in ash, and knocked on the gate.
A woman answered—tall, wide-shouldered, holding a pitchfork like a spear.
"Who are you?"
He lowered his head. "A wanderer," he said, voice gravelled with weariness. "Name's Bölverk. I seek work for food. Shelter. Coin, if you've any to spare."
She eyed him. "We've hands already."
"They won't last," he said, gesturing to the storm forming behind him. "The winter coming won't be kind. You'll need someone who knows the ways of ice and shadow."
Before she could answer, a man stepped forward—bearded, broad-chested, and angry-eyed. Baugi.
"What's this? Another mouth to feed?"
"I bring strength. Skill. And silence," Odin replied.
Baugi stared long, and Odin let the man feel his presence. Not magic. Not power. Just... inevitability.
The kind that gods wore when they were about to change the world.
Within three days, two of Baugi's best laborers were dead—an accident, they said. An avalanche no one saw coming. Only Odin saw it all: the way he had baited them to the cliffside, the gentle whisper of fate he had twisted. Death had been necessary.
The mead would not pour itself.
Now short-handed and desperate, Baugi agreed to Odin's plan.
"We bore through the mountain," Baugi said. "But it's suicide. Suttung won't spare anyone who tries to reach the mead."
Odin smiled faintly. "That's why I go alone."
They began drilling the hole at the mountain's base where ancient stones bore runes long forgotten. Odin worked by night, whispering charms into the rock, twisting the drill with strength that no mortal should have. Baugi watched in awe, but said nothing.
Each night, the hole deepened.Each night, the air grew stranger.
By the seventh night, the tunnel opened—narrow, glowing faintly with magic. Odin knew the scent at once: blood and honey and flame.
The Mead of Poetry was near.
And so was she.
He entered alone.
The passage narrowed as if alive, stone pressing against his shoulders, whispering warnings in forgotten tongues. He pressed onward. Heat rose. Magic thickened. And then...
A cavern opened before him—vast, glittering with veins of red crystal. And at the center, atop a raised altar of black stone, stood Gunnlöð.
She did not turn when he entered. Her hair was silver and braided like a crown. Her body wrapped in furs lined with steel-thread. In one hand, she held a staff carved from dragonbone. In the other, a vial of golden mead.
"You've come far, thief," she said, without looking.
Odin said nothing.
"And yet," she continued, her voice like the quiet before lightning, "you come not as yourself. The One-Eyed God hides behind a false name. Tell me... what would Bölverk trade for the truth?"
She finally turned.
And in that moment—between the flickering torchlight and the weight of her gaze—Odin felt something impossible.
Fear.
Not of death. But of being known.