Svartalfheim had always been a land of shadows and silence. Its people, the dark elves, had thrived in secrecy, emerging only when their enemies least expected it. But now, the shadows they had once controlled felt different—darker, deeper, and no longer theirs to command.
News had traveled fast. Faster than the dark elves would have liked.
They had watched from the darkness as the realms fell one by one.
Asgard, the Great Realm, Had Fallen.
The gods, once untouchable, had bowed before the Shadow Monarch. The great Odin himself had vanished into the depths of the Monarch's growing legend. And now, Asgard's golden halls stood under new rule, their banners replaced by the sigil of an empire unlike any the universe had seen before.
The Asgardians, proud and mighty, had fought. They had been broken. And then, those who survived had either sworn loyalty or vanished like dust in the wind.
Jotunheim Was No More.
The land of the frost giants had been silenced. Their mighty king, Laufey, once feared across the Nine Realms, was now nothing more than a shadow of his former self—literally. Reborn as a general of the Monarch's army, Laufey had turned his own people against themselves, overseeing the subjugation of Jotunheim with the same merciless efficiency that had once made him a warlord.
The frost giants had learned what true cold felt like—not the ice of their homeland, but the cold hand of death that now gripped their world.
Alfheim Had Not Even Bothered Fighting.
The light elves, so attuned to the flow of power, had knelt before the Shadow Monarch without raising a single blade.
They were not fools. They had seen what happened to Jotunheim. They had heard the whispers of Asgard's destruction.
Instead of war, they had offered their loyalty, their magic, and their world to the growing empire. It was not cowardice—it was survival.
Vanaheim's Massacre Had Been a Warning.
General Beru, the Monarch's golden-eyed executioner, had descended upon their forests like a plague of death.
The warriors of Vanaheim had fought bravely—but bravery meant nothing when your enemy was something that did not die. When the wounded rose again. When the battlefield itself became your enemy.
Vanaheim had tried to resist. It had bled for its defiance. And now, its people had been either purged or reforged into the Monarch's ever-expanding empire.
Nidavellir Had Surrendered Without a Single Battle.
The dwarves, masters of forging and warcraft, had taken one look at General Igris and made their decision.
They were not warriors. They were craftsmen. And craftsmen had no place on a battlefield where even the dead fought against them.
They had not fought.
They had not hesitated.
They had simply knelt.
And now, the forges of Nidavellir belonged to the Shadow Monarch, their greatest creations soon to be turned against anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
The Council of the Dark Elves
Haradhlor, the last great city of the dark elves, had never been so silent.
The warlords of Svartalfheim gathered in the great underground chamber, their silver eyes flickering with uncertainty. These were not cowards. These were the last true leaders of their people—the ones who had survived the fall of their once-mighty empire, the ones who had outlasted Asgard's wrath, the ones who had always found a way to adapt and survive.
But now?
Now, they faced something they could not manipulate.
"First Asgard, then Jotunheim, then Alfheim… and now, Vanaheim is all but gone," one warlord muttered, his voice filled with dread.
Another, his hands clenched into fists, spat on the ground. "And the dwarves… the dwarves surrendered without a fight."
"It is not weakness." An elder among them, his face lined with scars from battles long past, spoke with quiet certainty. "It is understanding. The dwarves saw what we are only now willing to admit."
"We must vanish into the shadows," one elder hissed, his voice trembling. "The Shadow Monarch cannot be fought."
Another slammed his fist against the obsidian table. "We are not cowards like the light elves! We do not kneel!"
"And yet," a cold voice replied, "we are not standing either."
Silence fell over the room.
Because they all knew exactly what he meant.
There Is No Fighting the Shadow Monarch.
Not when the dead did not stay dead.
Not when the monsters at his command never tired, never feared, never broke.
The old ways of war did not apply to him. He was not a king. Not a god. Not a conqueror they could assassinate or outmaneuver.
He was inevitable.
He was a force that rewrote the laws of battle itself.
And now, his army was coming for them.
Beru's Warning
The gates of Haradhlor shattered as a force beyond comprehension tore through them.
Beru stepped forward, golden eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Dark elves," he hissed, his voice layered with something inhuman. "You are the last ones left. The last fools who believe the Monarch's will is something to question."
His mandibles clicked, and for a brief moment, he simply… smiled.
It was a smile that sent a chill down the spines of the warlords.
"You are hunters, yes? You stalk the weak, you strike from the shadows." Beru took another step forward. "But tell me… when the shadows themselves turn against you… where will you run?"
No one answered.
Because there was no answer.
Beru's wings twitched. His claws flexed. He let out a chittering laugh, deep and amused.
"The Monarch has given you a choice," he finally said, voice turning cold. "Serve… or be erased from history."
A warlord, one of the last defiant ones, stepped forward. His hands trembled, but his voice held a final trace of dark elven pride.
"And if we refuse?"
Beru tilted his head.
A moment later, the warlord screamed as an unseen force ripped his arms from his body.
Blood sprayed across the ground. The dark elf collapsed, twitching, choking on his own agony.
Beru simply chuckled.
"You misunderstand," he whispered. "This is not a negotiation."
He bent down, his insectoid fingers plunging into the warlord's chest, past ribs, past flesh—into his beating heart.
A moment later, he tore it out, still pulsing in his grasp.
Beru laughed, the sound inhuman, cold, amused.
The body collapsed in a heap.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The dark elves knew.
There would be no rebellion. No heroic last stand.
One by one, the warlords fell to their knees.
Svartalfheim would not burn.
It would serve.