Muspelheim burned. It always had, and in Surtur's mind, it always would. His realm was an unending inferno, a land where rivers of molten rock carved paths through jagged mountains, where blackened fortresses stood amidst seas of fire, and where his throne—the Throne of Eternal Flame—remained unchallenged for eons.
Here, fire was not just an element; it was the law.
Surtur himself was its god.
A colossus of flame and fury, his molten body radiated heat that could incinerate lesser beings on sight. His Twilight Sword, a blade forged from the destruction of countless realms, rested against the obsidian floor of his citadel. His presence was absolute, his dominion unchallenged.
Until now.
Something unnatural had come to Muspelheim.
A ripple of darkness spread through the firestorm skies. The eternal flames flickered, dimmed, as if something was devouring them from the inside out. The very air grew heavy, thick with an oppressive force that did not belong to this realm.
A low, guttural rumbling echoed across Muspelheim as Surtur turned his gaze to the horizon. From the highest peak of his throne room, he could see the impossible—the fire was losing.
Then they came.
A great chasm of blackness tore open in the sky, swallowing the flames, suffocating them like a great cosmic void. From within, an ocean of shadows spilled forth, writhing, shifting, taking form as an unstoppable army.
At their head stood a lone figure—a warlord clad in living darkness.
Bellion.
The Grand Marshal of the Shadow Army descended upon Muspelheim, his towering form landing lightly upon the scorched earth. His golden eyes gleamed beneath his black helm, his armor—woven from the very fabric of shadow—seemed to move and breathe, devouring the firelight around him.
Behind him, the Legion of the Shadow Monarch marched forward, a tide of specters and warriors clad in armor black as the void. They did not speak. They did not hesitate. They simply obeyed.
Surtur's grip on the Twilight Sword tightened.
"Who dares?" the Fire Lord rumbled, his voice shaking the molten ground. His flames surged higher, turning the battlefield into a maelstrom of heat and fury. "Who dares bring darkness into my realm?"
Bellion stepped forward. His voice was calm. Absolute.
"Surtur, Lord of Muspelheim. You have ruled this land for millennia. But your dominion is at an end."
Surtur laughed, a deep, thunderous sound.
"You speak boldly for a creature of shadows," he said. "But you stand before a god of fire. I have burned entire civilizations to ash. I have battled Odin himself. I have ended worlds."
Bellion's smile was cold. Amused.
"And yet," he said, "you have never faced us."
Then he vanished.
The Wrath of the Fire Lord
Surtur's Twilight Sword came crashing down, splitting the land with a single swing. The force of the blow sent miles of molten rock soaring into the air, a shockwave of pure devastation ripping through the battlefield.
But Bellion was already behind him.
A blackened blade slashed across Surtur's molten flesh, cutting through his fiery body like a knife through silk. A normal weapon would have melted on impact, but Bellion's sword was no ordinary weapon. It was forged from the will of the Shadow Monarch himself, a blade that could sever not just flesh, but essence.
Surtur staggered, a rare thing for a being of his size. He looked down at his wound—his fire was being consumed.
The flames around the wound darkened, black veins of shadow creeping outward, devouring his energy. Surtur growled, slamming a fist of molten rock into the ground, summoning waves of infernal energy that blasted outward, consuming everything in a storm of fire.
Bellion stood firm, his silhouette untouched.
"You rely too much on flame," Bellion said, stepping forward as the fire withered around him. "But flame is finite. Shadow is eternal."
Then he raised a hand.
The Shadow Army moved.
Surtur's legions of fire demons roared and charged, their bodies burning brighter than ever as they hurled themselves at the invaders. Blades of flame clashed against weapons of darkness, the battlefield turning into a brutal war of fire versus shadow.
At first, the demons held their ground.
Then they started falling.
For every fire demon that perished, its corpse did not burn away. Instead, it rose again, wreathed in black flames—a twisted, corrupted shadow of its former self. Surtur watched in horror as his own soldiers turned against him, their allegiance claimed by the Shadow Monarch's will.
"This… this is impossible."
Surtur bellowed, his body expanding, his flames surging to godlike levels. He raised his Twilight Sword to the sky and called upon the Eternal Flame itself, summoning an explosion of pure cosmic fire—the same energy that would one day bring Ragnarok.
Bellion did not move.
The fire consumed everything—his army, the battlefield, even the shadows themselves—reduced to nothing but cinders.
Then the fire began to flicker.
A coldness spread through the air, devouring the flame from the inside out. The Eternal Flame itself shuddered. Surtur's eyes widened.
"No."
Bellion stepped forward, untouched, his golden eyes glowing through the inferno.
"Fire dies, Surtur." His voice was almost gentle. "But the Shadow remains."
And with a gesture, he extinguished Muspelheim's flames.
The Submission of the Fire Giant
Muspelheim was dying.
The once-mighty realm of fire, which had burned since the dawn of creation, was now a graveyard of embers. Its towering volcanoes had gone silent, their molten fury snuffed out. The very air, once thick with heat, had turned cold. A deathly silence loomed over the battlefield, broken only by the distant echoes of the last fire demons being cut down by the relentless shadows.
At the heart of the ruin stood General Bellion.
His jagged black sword dripped with the remnants of the fire-born warriors who had dared to stand against him. Around him, his soldiers moved with precision, their dark forms consuming the last traces of flame as they carved through the remnants of Surtur's army.
And in front of him, Surtur knelt.
Or rather, what remained of him.
The Fire Giant—once a god of destruction—had been robbed of his very essence. His flames, his power, the very thing that defined him—all of it was gone. His once-molten body had cooled into hardened, cracked obsidian, his movements sluggish as if his body no longer understood how to exist without fire. His Twilight Sword, which had once been a beacon of apocalyptic fury, now lay beside him—a dull, lifeless husk.
But Bellion was not done.
"You are weak," Bellion said, his voice like a blade cutting through the silence. He raised his sword, its edges flickering with the abyssal energy that had devoured Muspelheim's fire. "You no longer serve a purpose. You are nothing but a relic of a dead age."
Surtur lifted his gaze, his burning eyes now dim. But even in his weakened state, rage still burned within him. "You… will regret this," he growled. "I am… destruction itself… I cannot… be extinguished…"
Bellion tilted his head, as if amused. "Extinguished?" His sword pulsed with dark energy. "No, Surtur. You will be reborn."
Then, in a flash of black steel, he struck.
The jagged blade pierced through Surtur's massive chest, tearing through his cooled flesh as if it were brittle stone. The Fire Giant's body convulsed, cracks spreading across his form like glass about to shatter. A deep, guttural roar of pain—of defiance—erupted from his throat, shaking what remained of his dying world.
Then the shadows consumed him.
It started at the wound, black tendrils creeping outward, slithering through his body like a plague. His molten core, once the heart of his unstoppable power, faded into darkness. His massive limbs trembled as the last remnants of his fire were devoured.
Surtur let out a final, shuddering breath.
And then
He collapsed.
His enormous, mountain-like form shattered, breaking apart into a swirling storm of black ash and ember. For a moment, Muspelheim was silent, the last echoes of the Fire Giant's death lingering in the cold air.
Then—a new presence emerged.
From the ashes, a figure began to rise.
A towering warrior, draped in abyssal flame, his once-red skin now a deep obsidian black, pulsing with veins of eerie violet energy. His eyes, no longer burning with wild, untamed fire, now glowed with shadow. His form was leaner, his body reforged into something deadlier, something stronger.
Surtur was gone.
In his place, a Shadow Soldier had risen.
Bellion observed his work with satisfaction. He had seen many warriors reborn in the Shadow Monarch's army, but few as majestic as this.
The Fire Giant, now a Warlord of Shadow, stood before him, silent—waiting for orders.
Bellion did not smile, but his voice carried a hint of satisfaction.
"Rise, Surtur the Black Flame. You no longer serve fire. You serve only the Shadow Monarch."
The new Shadow Surtur bowed his head slightly, acknowledging his master.
Bellion turned his gaze to the rest of the ruined realm. Muspelheim belonged to the Shadow Empire now. He raised a hand, signaling to the gathered Frost Giants led by King Laufey.
"Extract everything this world has to offer," Bellion commanded. His voice was cold, absolute. "Not a single ember is to remain."
Laufey and his frostborn warriors grinned as they moved in, their ice-cold touch spreading over the broken land.
Muspelheim — the Realm of Fire had fallen.