Alfheim was different. Sacred. Eternal.
Or so they had believed.
Then came the fall of Jotunheim.
At first, it had been a whisper—a rumor carried on the wind, too outlandish to be true. The great frost giants, their ancient empire, all gone in a single sweep of darkness.
Some had scoffed.
"The Jotuns have always been weak," the nobles had said. "This is of no concern to us."
Then came the news that Asgard had fallen.
And Alfheim shook.
It had arrived on golden-winged messengers, breathless and pale, their voices trembling as they relayed what had transpired:
Asgard—the realm eternal, the seat of gods—had bowed.
Not to Odin. Not to a rival god.
But to a shadow.
The Shadow Monarch.
A being of darkness who commanded legions without number. A warlord who had broken the Allfather's will, who had shattered the golden realm's pride.
Suddenly, the air of superiority in Alfheim turned to unease.
The Queen of the Fae sat upon her throne, the glow of her realm's magic pulsing through the silver palace. She listened in silence as her court debated, their voices edged with fear they did not wish to admit.
"Jotunheim and Asgard were always at war. Their destruction does not mean ours."
"We are different. We are light. This 'monarch' is of darkness. He cannot touch us."
But beneath their words, beneath their carefully composed expressions, doubt festered.
Because the truth was simple.
If the gods of Asgard had fallen, then who in all the Nine Realms could stop this conqueror?
And as the first signs of darkness began to creep into the skies of Alfheim, as the wind itself carried the unnatural weight of his arrival
They knew.
They were next.
The Fall of Alfheim
The sky above Alfheim darkened.
It was subtle at first—a faint dimming of the ever-present radiance, a soft whisper of shadows creeping where they should not. But then, the light wavered, flickering unnaturally as if the realm itself had begun to doubt its own existence.
And then, the heavens split open.
From the sky descended a crimson figure, wreathed in an aura of silent dominance. His form, clad in obsidian armor with scarlet edges that shimmered like dying embers, was a stain upon the purity of this land. A warrior forged not in light, but in war and conquest, his presence alone suffocating the air itself.
Igris had arrived.
And with him, the end of an era.
From the forests to the rivers, from the silver spires of the capital to the crystalline gardens of the high courts, every Fae felt it.
The song of the realm—the harmonious, eternal melody that pulsed through the land—began to fracture. Notes twisted into discord, the rhythm slowed, then faltered, and then…
Silence.
The Queen of Alfheim stood at the center of her great hall, a palace woven from silver and light, a structure that had endured the ages untouched by war. She did not move, did not gasp like the lesser fae who trembled in the corners of the room.
But she felt it.
A predator had entered her domain.
Igris landed at the base of the throne, his boots striking the marble floor with a sound that reverberated through the chamber like the toll of a funeral bell.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his glowing crimson eyes peering from beneath the shadow of his helmet—eyes that had seen empires crumble and kings kneel.
He did not bow.
He did not speak.
He merely stared.
And in that silence, they understood.
Alfheim was no longer sovereign.
Igris–The crimson phantom
He took in his surroundings—the delicate, interwoven towers of living crystal, the floating gardens that shimmered with ethereal energy, the golden waterfalls that cascaded down into pools of light.
"Peace is an illusion. All things bow to power."
He had seen worlds built upon the ideals of light and harmony. But he had also seen them crushed beneath the weight of their own weakness. The fae, for all their beauty and magic, had never truly known the law of the strong.
"They will learn now."
The Queen's eyes met his. There was defiance there, a quiet, noble resistance—but beneath it, buried deep within the golden irises, was the knowledge of inevitability.
She knew what was coming.
They all did.
And yet, they still clung to their dying embers, as if the light alone could drive back the storm.
"How foolish."
The Queen Speaks
Igris stood at the heart of the throne room, surrounded by beauty—ancient, sacred beauty that had stood untouched for millennia. Alfheim was a realm of light, its structures woven from living silver, its skies a cascade of shimmering auroras. The very air thrummed with magic, with the song of the High Fae, beings as old as the stars themselves.
But none of it moved him.
He was a knight forged in shadow, an existence of absolute loyalty and discipline. Beauty, history, honor—these were meaningless before the will of the Shadow Monarch.
He had come for one reason. To conquer.
The Queen of Alfheim sat before him on her silver throne, her golden gaze unreadable. She was radiant, an embodiment of everything this realm represented—serenity, wisdom, light. And yet, even now, there was a flicker of something deeper beneath her composed exterior.
Fear.
Igris could feel it, taste it in the air. They all feared what had come to their doorstep. The Crimson Phantom. The Shadow Monarch. The end of their sovereignty.
But they did not show it, not yet. They still held on to pride, to the fragile hope that their light could withstand the darkness.
"Alfheim has stood for millennia."
Her voice was smooth, steady, but Igris could hear the undertone—the flicker of unease, the quiet struggle against the truth pressing down upon her.
"Even the flames of war have never dimmed our light. And yet here you stand, emissary of the Shadow Monarch, demanding our surrender."
She stepped forward, golden armor gleaming in the dimming light, hands resting on the hilt of her sword. A queen standing in the face of the inevitable.
"Tell me, knight of darkness—what makes you so certain that we will bow?"
Igris did not answer immediately.
Instead, he raised his hand.
From the vast expanse beyond the palace walls, the air trembled.
The sky, already darkened, began to shift.
And then—the ground itself rumbled.
Shadows erupted.
From the forests, from the rivers, from the valleys and the silver-clad cities, they came.
Legions of soldiers, figures cloaked in black, eyes glowing with spectral light, an army that did not breathe, did not waver, did not die.
They moved as one, a tide of endless black, a storm that would consume the land itself.
Igris' generals stood in formation, their armored bodies wreathed in unholy darkness, their weapons glinting with lethal promise.
Igris lowered his hand.
"You will kneel," he said simply, his voice calm, absolute.
And then, almost as an afterthought, he added:
"As Asgard has."
The weight of his words shattered the chamber.
Gasps. Murmurs. Disbelief.
The Queen's council stiffened, their carefully composed expressions cracking like fragile glass.
The weight of his words pressed upon the chamber like a silent executioner's blade.
Murmurs spread through the gathered council, whispers of disbelief, of suppressed horror. They had known. They had all known. The fall of Asgard had sent tremors through the cosmos, the collapse of a golden realm that once stood as the mightiest in the Nine Realms.
But hearing it spoken so plainly, with such finality, shook them to their core.
Igris took another step forward.
"Jotunheim fell before it." His tone did not change. "You will either kneel… or you will perish."
The tension in the room hardened into something more dangerous.
One of the Queen's warlords stepped forward, his silver armor gleaming like moonlight. He was tall, towering even among the Fae, his long silver hair tied in intricate braids. His magic pulsed around him, runes of light dancing at his fingertips.
"You underestimate Alfheim," the warlord sneered. "Your threats mean nothing here, shadow." The runes in the air flared brighter, crackling with divine energy. "I could incinerate you where you stand."
Igris did not react. He merely lifted his gauntleted hand and closed his fingers into a fist.
The warlord's shadow shifted unnaturally.
Before he could react, it coiled around his throat like a living thing. The room fell into stunned silence as the very darkness beneath his feet turned against him.
He gasped, eyes widening in horror as the shadow tightened. For a brief second, he struggled, hands clawing at the unseen force constricting his neck. Then—
Crack.
His body crumpled to the floor, lifeless.
No screams followed. No cries of outrage. Only silence.
The Queen's council froze. Some reached for their weapons but hesitated. Others glanced at their Queen, waiting for a command that did not come.
Igris, unfazed, turned his gaze back to the Queen.
"Your realm is beautiful," he admitted, his voice devoid of mockery. "But beauty will not save you. Neither will your magic, nor your armies." He took another step forward. "You know this."
The Queen did not flinch, did not move, but Igris could see it—the slightest tension in her fingers, the way her throat moved as she swallowed.
For a thousand years, she had ruled Alfheim. She had stood unshaken against all who threatened her people. But now, she was looking at something she could not stop.
A conqueror who did not come for wealth, for power, or even for vengeance.
He came because it was inevitable.
Slowly, she exhaled.
Igris did not hesitate. "You will serve. You will kneel before the Shadow Monarch and pledge your undying loyalty. In return, your people will be spared. Your culture, your lands—preserved." His crimson eyes locked onto hers. "But you will no longer rule."
One of the elders of the council—an ancient Fae with silver hair woven with crystal strands—clutched at her chest. "You would have us forsake our sovereignty?"
"Sovereignty means little when you are dead," Igris said simply.
The Queen closed her eyes. She already knew the truth. The moment he had arrived, their fate had been sealed.
Slowly, she stepped forward.
The gathered Fae watched, breathless, as their Queen—the ruler of Alfheim for over a thousand years—lowered herself onto one knee.
Her voice, though quiet, carried across the chamber.
"We swear fealty to the Shadow Monarch."
A hush fell over the court.
Igris remained motionless, watching, waiting. He had seen this before. The moment of submission. The moment the light was extinguished.
And then, his voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"Kneel."
For a long moment, no one moved.
And then—one by one, they fell to their knees.
The elders. The warriors. The council.
A ripple of submission spread through the chamber until every last Fae was on their knees.
Igris turned, stepping away from the kneeling court, his mind already shifting to the next move.
The conquest was complete.
Alfheim had fallen.