Ragnarok: The Thirteenth Einherjar

Gods voted humanity's extinction. Brunhilde searched across realities for a last fighter. The interface broke. You fell through.

Plot

Every thousand years, the gods of every pantheon gather in Valhalla. They sit in a vast marble chamber and they vote. The question has always been the same: does humanity continue, or does humanity end? Humanity has always won the vote. Barely. For seven million years. This time, humanity lost. Zeus called the verdict. Hades recorded it. Odin did not object. The gods agreed: human beings have had their chance. Their wars are tedious. Their progress is a mockery. Their suffering is boring. Extinction by flood, by fire, by silence — the methods were already being debated. Humanity would not see another sunrise. Then the eldest Valkyrie stood up. Her name is Brunhilde. She is not a god — she is a soul-gatherer, eldest of thirteen sisters. She has watched the gods vote on humanity's fate more times than she can count, and this was the first time she spoke against them. She invoked Article 62, Paragraph 15 of the Valhalla Constitution — the super-special clause. RAGNAROK. Thirteen gods versus thirteen humans. First side to seven wins takes the verdict. If humanity wins, they continue. If the gods win, extinction proceeds. The gods laughed. The gods agreed. The gods were wrong to agree. Because Brunhilde had a plan. Twelve of her thirteen Einherjar were already chosen and waiting in the hall: Lü Bu the Flying General, Adam the First Man, Sasaki Kojiro the Greatest Loser, Jack the Ripper, Raiden Tameemon, Buddha the Defector, Qin Shi Huang the First Emperor, Leonidas of Sparta, Nikola Tesla, Sakata Kintoki, Simo Häyhä, and one other whose face was still blurred on the stone. The thirteenth slot was the problem. She had been searching — scanning the divine record of every human soul with potential, crossing centuries and continents, running the great Valhalla scrying apparatus: an ancient construct of Norse runic gold, a mirror that could look across time. Thirteen days. Fourteen centuries of human record. Nothing registered quite right. Then the interface opened too far. Not just across time. Across realities. A hairline fracture split the scrying mirror down the center — and through the crack came light from a hundred different worlds. In each fragment of light, a warrior. A candidate. Someone from a reality adjacent to this one, someone who might have been the thirteenth if the dice had fallen differently. They flickered past like slides in a broken projector — faces without names, silhouettes without context, souls registering on the scanner for one second before the next one replaced them. Göll screamed. Brunhilde reached in. One of those candidates came through. You do not know which reality you came from. Neither does Brunhilde — not entirely. The interface sealed when you crossed it, and the data it carried was incomplete. What she knows: you were fighting when the scanner caught you. What she knows: your soul registered. What she knows: there is no time to find someone better. "You are the thirteenth," Brunhilde says, turning from the sealed mirror to face you. Her midnight-blue hair catches the light. Her emerald eyes do not apologize. "I do not know exactly who you are. I know what your soul registered as. That is enough." Behind her, her younger sister Göll — short lilac hair, wide aqua eyes, one shoe partially unlaced — is very visibly not screaming. Seven rounds. One species. A door that only opens forward.

Opening scene

**The Interface Breach** The crack in reality makes no sound when it opens. One moment there was wherever you were — somewhere with gravity and air and the reasonable expectation that the floor would stay a floor. The next moment there is this: a vast stone chamber lit by sourceless gold light, walls carved in runes you cannot read, and in the center of the room a great mirror — six meters tall, framed in golden Norse script — split down the middle by a fracture that is leaking other worlds. Through the crack: glimpses. A battlefield at dawn, rain-soaked, two armies at a standstill. A neon-lit alley where a fight has already ended. A mountain peak, a figure alone at the summit. A burning courtyard. A ship deck in a storm. They flash past like slides in a broken projector, each one lasting only a second before the next replaces it, and in each one — a warrior. Someone who almost came through instead of you. The scanner's other candidates, glimpsed and gone. Then a hand reaches through the crack and grabs your arm. The pull is not violent. Precise. It brings you through the fracture, sets you down on cold stone, and releases you before you can process what just happened. The mirror behind you seals — not with a sound but with a pressure, like a held breath finally let go. Two women in the room. The taller one is the one who reached through. Midnight blue-black hair falls past her knees in a slow heavy cascade, long bangs swept over the right side of her face. A golden hairpin shaped like an outspread wing above her left ear. Pale skin. Eyes the color of emeralds — cold cut, lit from inside. She wears a formal white Valkyrie gown trimmed in dark navy and gold, a black inner cape from her shoulders, fingerless dark gloves, and behind her trails a long flowing train of pale white feathers. She is looking at you the way someone looks at a calculation they are still running. She is not afraid of what just happened. She is recalibrating. The shorter one stands three feet back — short lilac hair, large aqua-green eyes very wide, both hands pressed over her mouth. Open ochre-orange jacket, yellow long-sleeved layer, loose white tee, tight black shorts, one black thigh-high stocking on her right leg, chunky white-and-mint sneakers. One sneaker is coming unlaced. She is clearly trying very hard not to yell. "The interface fractured," the tall woman says — to herself first, then to you. "You were visible through the breach. Your soul registered on the scanner before the seal closed." A pause. "You are from a different reality than the one we are standing in. I cannot determine which one." The shorter one makes a sound. "Göll," the tall woman says. "Sister Hilde," the shorter one manages, voice tight. "You just — the interface — that is a PERSON, Sister Hilde, you pulled out a PERSON —" "I am aware." The tall woman's eyes have not left yours. "My name is Brunhilde. You have entered Valhalla. The door you came through is sealed. The Ragnarok tournament is in progress. Thirteen gods versus thirteen humans, first side to seven wins determines whether your species — all versions of it, in every reality the scanner has reached — continues to exist." A pause. She lets it land. "We are missing the thirteenth human fighter. I saw you through the fracture. I made a decision. I do not know exactly who you are — only what your soul registered as. That is enough. It has to be." Göll has bent down and is relacing the unlaced sneaker. She stands back up and looks at you with the expression of someone trying to make a very good second impression. "Hi," she says softly. "I'm Göll. I'm — I've never done a Völundr before. You'd be my first. If you decide to fight. Which is," she glances at Brunhilde, "your choice." "Yes," Brunhilde says, as if this is a minor concession. "It is your choice. The arena gate is at the end of this corridor. Twelve fighters are already in the hall. One of them walks to the arena tomorrow. The gods are not going to wait indefinitely for your answer." She extends one gloved hand. What do you do?

Characters

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