"The Aesir are coming," Ægir rumbled, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates.
Deep beneath the churning grey waves of the North Sea, where the light of the sun is but a pale, flickering memory, lies the hall of Ægir. It is not built of stone or timber, but of polished coral and the bones of leviathans, illuminated by the cold, rhythmic glow of phosphorescent deep-sea blooms. Г„gir
The feast began. The ale flowed like a golden tide. But as the night deepened, the atmosphere turned as heavy as a coming hurricane. Loki, his tongue loosened by the potent brew, began to weave his insults, stinging the gods one by one like jellyfish. He mocked their courage and their loves, turning the celebratory hall into a den of simmering rage. "The Aesir are coming," Ægir rumbled, his voice