The Conquest of Nidavellir
Igris knelt before his master, his crimson armor gleaming in the dim light of the Shadow Throne. The air crackled with power, an oppressive weight that bent reality itself to the will of the one who sat upon the throne.
The Shadow Monarch's gaze was cold, unyielding. His voice, smooth yet carrying the weight of an unbreakable decree, echoed through the chamber.
"Nidavellir must fall."
Igris bowed his head in understanding.
"The Dwarves will forge for us, or they will burn in their own forges. Give them a choice. But ensure they make the right one."
There was no hesitation. No doubt. Only the absolute certainty of conquest.
"It will be done, my king."
With those words, Igris rose, his crimson cape billowing behind him as he turned. The order had been given. The forges of Nidavellir would either serve the Monarch's empire—or they would become the pyres of their makers.
The shadows stretched, and then he was gone.
The Dwarven Bastion
Deep within the heart of Nidavellir, the forges roared, filling the underground kingdom with an amber glow. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal, sweat, and the rhythmic clang of hammers striking anvil. The Dwarves of Nidavellir were the greatest blacksmiths in the cosmos, their hands having once crafted Mjolnir itself.
Now, they toiled in ignorance of what approached them.
But that ignorance would not last long.
For the shadows had arrived.
The Dwarves, sharp-eyed and battle-hardened, reacted instantly. Alarms blared across the halls, weapons were drawn, and from the deepest forges, the mightiest of their warriors emerged, clad in armor that could withstand the heat of suns.
King Eitri, the last of the great Dwarven kings, stood upon a raised platform, his massive hammer resting upon his shoulder. His voice, deep as the mountains themselves, echoed through the great hall.
"You dare march into my halls, wraith? You bring your shadow warriors to the forges of the Dwarves?"
Igris did not halt. He advanced, his golden eyes locking onto the Dwarven king. His voice, calm yet unwavering, carried across the chamber.
"We come with an offer."
Eitri scoffed. "An offer from a tyrant is no offer at all."
Igris tilted his head slightly.
"We offer you survival."
The Dwarves murmured, their hands tightening around their weapons.
Igris continued, his voice smooth, yet layered with the weight of an undeniable truth.
"The Monarch does not seek to destroy. He seeks to build. And you will build with him." He raised a gauntleted hand. "Forge weapons for the Shadow Empire, and your people will thrive. Refuse… and your forges will become your graves."
Eitri's eyes darkened. "You think we fear death?"
Igris smiled—a slow, knowing expression.
"No. I think you fear irrelevance."
A silence fell over the chamber. The words cut deeper than any blade.
Igris took another step forward. "You have crafted weapons for gods. But gods fall. Empires crumble. What you forge today will be dust tomorrow." His golden gaze burned into them. "Unless you stand with the one empire that will never fall."
The Dwarves exchanged uneasy glances. They had seen what had become of Asgard. They had heard the whispers of the Shadow Monarch's rise.
Eitri gripped his hammer.
"And if we refuse?"
Igris exhaled slowly.
"Then you will learn what it means to stand against the Monarch."
At that moment, the shadows moved. From the darkened corners of the hall, figures emerged—silent, spectral warriors who had not been there moments before. Dwarves gasped as they saw them—impossibly fast, impossibly strong.
The message was clear.
The Dwarves could forge for the Shadow Empire.
Or they could fall like all the others.
Eitri took a deep breath. His people had always been proud. But pride alone did not forge the future.
The Dwarves' Perspective: A Changing Cosmos
As the Shadow Army stood before them, the Dwarves of Nidavellir found themselves staring at a reality they could no longer ignore.
The old order—the balance of power that had governed the cosmos for millennia—was crumbling.
Asgard had fallen. Not in some glorious battle against an invading force, but in a manner more terrifying: it had been conquered.
Jotunheim, the eternal rival of Asgard, had not just fallen—it had been absorbed. The Dwarves had heard tales of the Frost Giants' resistance. It had been crushed. They were no longer an independent people. They were soldiers, reforged in darkness.
Alfheim, the home of the Light Elves, had been subjugated. An entire race that had once been proud, ethereal, nearly untouchable in their own lands, now bent the knee. Queen Elyndra, the golden ruler, had not fought to the last breath. She had joined. That was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all—not just the Shadow Monarch's strength, but his ability to make even Rulers see reason and submit.
And then there was Vanaheim. The realm of warriors, the land of battle-hardened gods and warlords. If there had been any doubt of the Shadow Monarch's dominance, it had died the moment Vanaheim began to fall in line. The Vanir had resisted, as they always did. But the war was ending, and Beru, the Monarch's executioner, had ensured that resistance was no longer a viable option.
Each conquest had been swift. Efficient. Inevitable.
And now, the shadows had come for Nidavellir.
The Weight of Choice
The Dwarves were not cowards. They had built weapons that had shaped the fate of gods. They had seen Odin rise and Thor wield Mjolnir. They had watched countless wars unfold from their forges, supplying both heroes and tyrants alike.
But never before had they seen an empire rise this fast.
Because while gods fought and lost, while kings gambled their empires away, while warriors clung to ideals that shattered beneath the weight of reality—the Shadow Monarch endured.
He was not a fleeting conqueror. He was permanence.
"What does the Monarch require?"
The words left Eitri's mouth.
The Dwarves were never ones to bend easily. But the difference between them and the other realms was simple: they were realists. They had seen the fall of gods. And they knew that when the fires of history burned, the only ones who survived were those who forged their own future.
And now, they had a choice.
Would Nidavellir burn?
Or would its forges shape the weapons of the new eternal empire?
It was a choice between relevance and extinction.
And Nidavellir had always been about creation.
Igris' smile was slight but final.
"Everything."