A/N: I actually got such insightful comments yesterday that I'm happy to take their advice and close the voting as of now. Paper Tiger will remain ship-less. Thanks for your feedback! I'll delete my question so as not to prompt future responses. Now, on to the good stuff:

/

This is how the war begins:

The solar door swings open.

I switch off my speaker, cutting short Thor's yell.

"Forgive our intrusion, Your Majesty Odin-King," says the lead warrior. He is broader across the shoulders than my not-brother, dressed in warded mail and leather. "Sir. Our spies on Vorsgard have given us false information. Our princess fears that there is to be an attack on Asgard. Please allow me to escort you to safety in your War Tower, where I will explain the situation as she has told me."

Clever. This isn't Smirna's breed of lie. Whoever else has orchestrated this little charade is exactly along my wavelength; I understand every facet in her or his plan as if it is my own. They will escort me into the hall, surrounding me as guards: two ahead, two behind, two at my side. The dagger will come from the guard positioned behind me on my right. Thanks to his missing right eye Odin would have to turn around to face his attacker, which will leave him vulnerable to the warrior at his left. All the worse because the armor I'm wearing—Odin Allfather's personal fitted astrium armor—is, like its owner, an illusion.

I make the Allfather grunt his approval and say, with his most bullheaded sneer, "Princess Smirna is taking honors that do not belong to her. You will walk behind me as is suitable to your rank as off-worlders. I will not be seen brought to my own war council surrounded by Elves." In other words, Please, please, please stab me in the kidney and don't catch on that I know what you're up to.

My assassins step back that I may climb to my feet. The young Alfr mage attaches himself to my right side in an ill-timed bid to make himself seem important; I shoo him away with a "You are dismissed. I have no more need for your services" and he sulks from the solar.

"Your Majesty?" their leader beckons for me to go on ahead, after the mage.

I brush my hands down Odin's supposed astrium armor and smooth his imaginary robes of office. I make sure to keep my expression annoyingly superior while I slip a hand behind my back and conjure six throwing knives.

The assassins wait for me to make myself presentable for my ancestors.

They aren't going to wait for the hall. Little lines of tension in smooth handsome faces, watchful eyes—the way none shift on his or her feet or break close quarters—tell me I'm never going to make that far.

"Thank you," I say, when I have shoved the knives up my sleeves. I incline my head.

Hand still extended toward the door, the lead warrior says nothing in response.

I feel nothing. My skin is numb. My thoughts evaporate.

I step for the door on feet lighter than air. Two steps brings me even with him. Three, and I've entered their circle. Four, I'm surrounded. I sense movement behind and to my right, where Odin is blind. Five, I flip sideways as a blow smashes the place where my head was.

The Lead Warrior shouts alarm. His assassins draw arms: three axes, two daggers, and a mace. They come for me all at once. I conjure seven doubles and palm a throwing knife as magic sears the fizzing air.

The Alfr press forward, killing my clones. An ax splits an illusion's head bare inches from my own skull, missing me by chance. I duck on reflex. The clones cover for me as I sight the warrior opposite through this bristling charade and let fly. My strike takes the Alfr in his throat, above his coif.

A boot swipes the back of my knees. When the floor punches my ribs I roll left, hear another ax split the marble floor—and am hefted to my feet by my neck and tossed into the bookshelf. My grasping fingers snag a heavy bookspine.

I slam the leather-bound tome into an oncoming dagger, knocking the Alfr's arm askew. A follow-up swing crushes his nose. I hear bones pop, blood or spittle spurts across my cheek. Freed, I bash the ax head aside and put a knife in its owner. A kick to the spine sends me down again. I catch myself on my forearms, kick onto my side in time to get a mace in my teeth.

My vision turns yellow. White heat flowers in my jaw. My throat fills with copper.

Unable to see past spinning stars and tears, I fling illusionary knives at the warriors above me. I feel a space open up; put both heels in Mace's armored stomach and use the rebound to roll upright.

The solar sways.

Wet warmth pools down my chin, dribbles onto my hands.

The big leader advances on me with his ax glowing sulfurous orange by the scopes' witchlight. I draw up more clones—five, seven, twelve—to separate us. The clones rush them, screaming; he tears through my illusions in a lazy swat.

Elves are used to magic.

The blood in my throat turns to ice.

I fling my remaining knives.

The ax flips around to send them scattering in all directions.

I conjure more as the assassins block me in—I step backward and crack my shoulder in a corner between wall and window.

Trapped.

The ax swings black.

There is no parting jab, no victory speech; my death is to be as unfeeling and unmourned as the unwanted infant left to die in Jotunheim's wastes.

Dishonor. Again, dishonor. Insane mirth bubbles up from my warped soul.

A last dam breaks; I turn myself invisible and drop.

The ax passes over my head.

The assassins falter, hesitating. What irredeemable honorless coward makes himself invisible during a fight? Valhalla awaits they who die with sword in hand. What creature am I?

A murderer. A madman. Yes, and a coward.

I catch the Alfr leader in his fancy chestplate. Warded steel shatters my magic where it touches, but I'm already bringing a knife up and let momentum carry me forward as auroras burn my arms back into visibility and then Odin's ornate sleeves into my unlovely, bloodstained biosuit. My knife explodes into the Elf's throat. I twist and wrench left. Gold-white ichor flows down the warded armor to join the red spattering my unwrinkling hands.

A blow to the shoulder knocks me around. Mace-Wielder puts his weapon through my stomach, then cracks my jaw when I double over. The solar flickers at the end of a long green-rimed tube. The floor slops under my rubbery feet.

Consciousness sails away. I'm drowning.

Pain-slowed moments fuse into seconds, which pass by in a quiet haze. When my body heals enough that the viper nest wreathing my insides melts to ordinary sick pain, I open my eyes. The four remaining assassins have not advanced.

"You." Mace-Wielder lower his weapon. "When?"

Something wriggles back into place inside my abdomen. Wetness surges up my throat. I spit out bloody bile.

The Alfr examines me from a distance, not unkindly. "I am sorry, Your Majesty. You should have said." He gives me a nod, and turns on his heel. The other follows.

I rock my head sideways against the cold soothing window. Sunrise is a yellow blister on the horizon. Dark buildings give me enough reflection yet that I can see myself mirrored in the glass: here is the thing under my Odin-Mask, a Nameless Aesir-shape covered in its own blood.

Your Majesty? Loki?

I can't risk being found.

I push away from the window and prowl into the corridor. My strength returns by increments; by the time I've spotted the assassins heading right I am able to walk without limping. None are facing me. I bury knives in their skulls.

Once I recover my weapons from the Alfr in the corridor and in Odin's solar, I recast my Odin-Mask and take the stairs to the royal landing. From there I can check on Frigga and make my way to the War Council. We need to move fast.

Outside in the landing I can hear the general alarm. Deep ringing bells echo a terrible pulse through the city. Below, the thousands who live in Asgard flee for the palace. Above, morning broils in under a low cloudbank—and silhouetted against the clouds—

My legs stop working. I stagger to a stop on the marble landing, cold from my scalp to my heels.

The entire Chitauri fleet spreads out in attack formation.

What passes next is grand scale carnage. The palace shield raises minutes after I reach the war council, but I have a front-row view through the window as the city trapped outside face a Ragnarok unaided. Asgard's weightless domes, glittering spires, and myriad buildings come crashing down in smoke and shrapnel under the Leviathans. Those who are not crushed are picked off by the Chitauri.

This is New York.

This is New York, without the Avengers.

Let every old man, woman, and child pick up swords, Odin would say to those who have reached the palace. Let your sons, husbands, fathers not return to find you murdered like goats in pen. The shield won't hold forever.

"Lord Aumdyn," I command, instead, "we need our dark energy generators back to working order."

"What are you bringing into Asgard?" Thor almost spits through his display.

I give his one-way image a blank look.

Aumdyn says, "Your Majesty—"

"Did you or did you not hear me?" I demand. "Drop the Black Tower's quarantine. Summon Ilda and any other magicians familiar with the generators. Now." The spy will have evacuated with Smirna's court. The Black Tower is not a security leak any more.

Thor has a fit while my War Leader snaps orders. "What are you bringing into Asgard?"

"You, idiot! In case you haven't noticed, the Elves turned on us the moment their information lured every damn warrior in Asgard away from the city. We are completely defenseless!"

"Not defenseless," Tyr chides. "Odin, my blood-brother, you are not yourself today. Have you arms left? And living hearts to wield them?"

Suicide. Death by valor.

The old men in Red Council grimly set their jaws. Lord Aumdyn bows his head.

"When the shield comes down," I say, slowly, "we will hold off the Chitauri for as long as we can. We must buy time for the magicians to get our generators working. Thor, I want the fleet and ground forces in position for teleportation."

"Any deaths in Asgard," Thor growls, "I will hold you to as personally responsible and hunt you like a beast."

Blood rushes from my head.

He knows.

If I cut the feed he will tell Tyr who I am. If I don't cut the feed, he'll tell the council chamber.

There's nothing else for it.

I adopt a smirk that tastes like bile and force my voice into mild amusement. "Are you referring to the mortal? Because she is here with me now."

Wordless rage echoes across his tracker.

I say, "I suggest you and I concentrate on saving our city, and worry about outing truths after I recall your army. I need you to smash the Chitauri for me; incidentally, they want me dead as well. So keep quiet, hang tight, and you and your fragile lover will be reunited soon enough."

Thor is garish white. He's quivering but—thank the Nine—mute.

I order a court attendant in sotto voice, "Please find the mortal woman Jane Foster and bring her to this council chamber."

"Yes, Sire."

Aumdyn says, "Black Tower en route to dark energy subchamber."

"Good. Reroute two Einherjar warbands to provide escort. I don't expect the Elves left any nasty surprises in—"

Aumdyn is shaking his head. "Sir. The Einherjar were outside when I raised the shield. "

The loss is a physical blow, driving breath from my lungs. Asgard's elite guards are no more. "Who have I got left? Royal guards. Send Nindr's warband and the men who were stationed at the weapons vault—where have they been transferred?"

"Vorsgard," Aumdyn says.

Of course. The vault guards had an honor debt to pay.

"Nindr will escort the sorceresses," I command. "This is our first priority."

Aumdyn mutters his respects and busies himself relaying my will.

"Sir," Councilor Yri is returned, and with him the True Spear Gungnir. I take the King's weapon in both hands, aware that this is likely the last time I will hold it. The enchanted metal is smooth. Cold. Beautiful. Important. I wish I had time to relish the occasion.

"Our Queen is in the royal suite," Yri tells me.

I say, "How many total inside the shield?"

"I have not heard."

There are four million souls living in Asgard. Fifty thousand are safe on Vorsgard. The palace employs another three thousand. There are gates and emergency evacuation areas inside the shield, yes, but how many were reached in time?

Even if we'd had forewarning, the areas cannot hold everyone.

I pace to Lord Aumdyn's side. The grisly images on his scopes blare out rubble lacerated with smoke and plasma fire. "How many are evacuated under the shield?" I don't recognize my own voice: it's too young.

Aumdyn scrabbles at his instruments.

My eye is caught by the display at my right, where people stagger from a collapsed house. They are shot down in the street. Above that, a Leviathan winds unchecked through the market district. Its habrium armor slices rock, toppling buildings and towers. Above that, people hide under a collapsed bridge. Dust coats the view in a brown swamp. The people have shirts over their faces.

Lord Aumdyn explodes to his feet and shoves his instruments away.

"How many—?"

He bangs a fist on his desk. His long gold-wrapped hair hangs around his face in limp ringlets. When he sags into his chair, his knuckles leave bloody trails on the hardwood.

"My lord?"

Aumdyn glances sideways at me.

"How many are inside the shield?" Tyr echoes.

"Thirty-five hundred," Aumdyn says, face in his hands. "Counting the palace staff and officials."

The top left display shows our palace shield burning bright. The Leviathans circle it, ripping out the surrounding city without trying to breach the forcefield. Yet.

Take the head, and the beast dies.

The Leviathans' armor will corrupt the forcefield. Enough corruption and we'll have to lower the shield ourselves or suffer its collapse and the negative surge that will accompany a magical implosion. Lethal. Unless we can fix the generators before that happens, this is how the war will end: Asgard's palace shattering with us inside.

What are they waiting for?

And just like that, my view of the picture inverts itself. Lights pop behind my eyes. The Red Chamber is too bright. Aumdyn is too close, the displays too garish and too fluid.

"Cowards," Aumdyn seethes. "Will they spare the palace? Do they fear our shield?"

I say, "The two Leviathans are not circling us for attack. They are keeping a perimeter to isolate the city. They can afford to save us for last, because the goal is not the palace. This is genocide."

"Fates defend us," Aumdyn sputters.

Thor hisses, "Show me. Reverse a divining scope. Let me see what is happening."

We need to get more people inside the shield. The spy told Smirna how to hit Asgard, what defenses we had, how to annihilate the population. They knew we would lead the resistance against Thanos, so they wanted to crush us before the war began. I say, "There is a tunnel that leads from the palace to the city."

"No!" Thor says. "He is—"

I switch off the audio pickup on his feed.

"Send me a warband from the Black Tower Guard," I command. "I will get as many people as I can. In the meantime, pull everyone inside to a defensible location. Arm—"

"Sire," Tyr interrupts. "You are needed in the War Council Chamber."

"This tunnel is known only to the royal family." Gungnir is slippery in my hands. "It must be me. Lord Aumdyn, assign me as many guards as you can. Don't pull from Nindr's men. As soon as those generators are working I need you to recall our army from Vorsgard. Arm the populace. Position nonessential persons at weak points in the palace. If the shield comes down before we have a fleet, they will be the last barrier between you and the Chitauri."

"Yes, sir." Aumdyn salutes.

"Thor," I add, "listen to me. You are in charge. When I turn on your pickup, you will command Overwatch. Lord Aumdyn, report to him. Keep him updated."

It's a hell of a gamble. When I switch on his pickup, his first words could be Seize the imposture. I'm betting my life I know Thor well enough that he won't do it.

I open his feed.

Thor snarls, "Where is Jane Foster?"

I resist smirking. "I don't know. I only sent for her after I told you I had her." His image gnashes its teeth. I can hear a vessel pop. "Lord Aumdyn, when Lady Jane arrives you will act as her guardian. Protect her with your life until Prince Thor returns."

Thor's color returns all at once. He's shaking with it, hands fisted at his side.

I flee the Council Chamber before my not-brother can make up his mind whether to have me killed. Whatever Thor does next my first goal is the same: get to my private suite and arm myself.

Heart thudding behind my teeth, I race through corridors vibrating with battle and alarm. My suite veers ahead. I burst through the doors and tear open the private compartment behind my abandoned dressing chamber and whisper a command. My battle armor affixes itself over the biosuit in shifting astrium plate. My battle helmet is waiting on its stand, but after debating I leave it behind. If my Odin-Mask fails, it's no good making myself more recognizable than I have to be. A solid blow to the head or another plasma blast and I'll be sliding across the ground as a wretch with the wrong face—better than being a wretch in Prince Loki's fanged helmet.

My invisible bag is behind the arms rack. I pry it free and pull out my Gauntlet. The gold sighs over my right hand, slithering to encase my skin as soft and close as liquid. The plates weave together into a perfect fit. I flex my fingers and the Gauntlet moves with me, as if the creator meant this weapon just for Laufey's son. I cast an experimental Strike hex—

Nothing happens.

The enchanted gold prevents my right hand from casting magic. I suppose that's a good thing. Nothing like a nice backfire to make combat interesting.

Using my left, I cast an invisibility charm over the Gauntlet. The bag itself goes into my Place of Storing that I may conjure it at will.

My Black Tower warband meets me in Bor's Square. Lady Euyn salutes but I hold up a hand before she or her seven witches come any closer.

"Forgive me, my lady," I say. "Are you being tracked by the Red Council?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Will you please ask Lord Aumdyn to give you connection to Prince Thor?" I give her a question to ask him, and wait while she and Aumdyn confer.

"What has happened?" Thor grouses without emotion.

"I am requesting clarification of my orders," Euyn says.

Thor hesitates for so long that I wonder if the connection has broken. " . . . What has he done?"

"I wish to be sure that I understand my orders correctly."

"You are to escort . . . the king . . ." I hear him choke on that word, and rejoice, ". . . to the royal tunnel and assist evacuating the public to safety beneath the palace shield. You will alert me if . . . my father . . . does anything strange. The Chitauri posses weapons for mind-control." Ah, clever. Good for him.

Euyn thanks my not-brother.

So do I, in private.

Some horrible twenty minutes later we are outside the shield and I'm crouched behind fallen statue looking at open sky through a hole in the ground. Blood and dust coats my entire body in black paste. Six witches and eighteen evacuees crowd behind me, clinging to this damn toppled effigy of Odin with his spear to a kneeling Laufey's throat. There are twenty Chitauri warriors patrolling the cracked street between us and a rocky heap that used to be the public library.

The hole is hypnotic. There is nothing under Asgard but cold blue sky.

Vertigo seizes my legs.

I pull back from the fissure, breathing fast.

I say, "Aumdyn is reading fifty survivors somewhere inside. Lady Euyn, prepare to have your witches cast another Seek spell when we have reached the gates. All the rest of you—" the battered, trembling evacuees— "stay here. Lie down and pretend to be dead. Lady Euyn, can your witches make an illusion that they are covered with gore?" I'd rather make them invisible, but I'm guessing the sorceresses haven't started dabbling in black magic since my suicide. I don't dare cast any magic myself—when this is over I will have to research how to change my aura's color.

"Your majesty?" says a grubby, bloodstained boy while his fellow survivors make friends with the street. "I would be honored to go with you."

He looks about seventeen, toned from a few years in War Academy that his parents may have sold themselves into thralldom to afford.

I conjure an extra throwing knife. What the hell. "You may. Take this and stay behind me. My Lady, you will lead three witches to the east entrance and check the upper level while I and—What is your name?" the boy spits it out in a rush— "Feggvinn son of Vauleinn take the west and search the ground level. Go now. We will follow when you are clear." We leave two witches to protect the others. Once the four are gone and the two have their backs to us, I cast invisibility spells upon Feggvinn and I.

We reach the library without problem. The stone door is buried behind a neighboring building's fallen rooftop, which requires a silencing spell and our combined strength to clear. Inside, the air is choking. Dust and dirt have crammed every cracked surface, filling the collapsed walls with scattered rubble and loose pages. Airborne particles spiral around us thick as soup. Two filtering charms solve that. Ahead, the particles sway left through the ruins—a tattle-tale wake from someone else's passage.

I drop our invisibility, in case we find survivors. I tighten my grip on Gungnir, in case we don't.

Turning left leads us to an immense spiral staircase. Torn wall-prints shadow the ascent with illustrations from famous historical moments but, while creeping through a half-light with a one-sided war shaking the ground outside the glorious Conquest looks like fear and murder. The staircase wall is littered with deep alcoves, each a glassed-off diorama that is spiteful for its loving worship of all things victorious. What mockery.

I'm almost to the second landing when Feggvinn calls out, "Sire!"

A plasma bolt lances from the diorama to his left. The bolt sears into his right side, sending Feggvin backward to smash his head on the steps. I race after him, and reach him at the same time the ground jerks sideways.

The stairs smack my knees so hard I gag. I grab the rail for support before I can fly from the edge. Feggvinn rolls away, leaving red burned into the granite. I cling to Gungnir for everything my life isn't worth while the rail twists under my hands like a living serpent. A bone-cracking roar fills my skull. The library jitters in its broken seams. Glass shatters. The dioramas explode. I cast a shield over Feggvinn and myself as glass rips past.

The shaking stops. I stagger upright.

Another plasma bolt sprays from the alcove. I deflect with Gungnir and send an energy blast in return. Orange fire lights up the diorama into a heinous devils' sabbath, but amongst the distorted silhouettes is a skull-like reptilian face. The Chitauri sights on my head.

Pure heat slicks my limbs.

It pulls the trigger. I shift my grip, step left and bat aside its volley. Step forward, block. Step, parry. Step. It sees me coming and so will the others but I don't give a damn. Plasma ricochets in blazing light. Gungnir sings in my hands as I draw back, grip the spear's hindmost end, and smash the creature to the floor. A followthrough strike splits its neck. I trigger a second energy blast—

Blood soaks my legs.

I return to the stairs with a little more of me than I had before.

Feggvinn is on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest. Vomit pools under his head. His breathing a deep, gasping race for air. I ease down beside him, checking his pulse and his injuries. His shirt is burned away. His right side is blistered with healing scar tissue, vaporized into furrows along his abdomen. He opens his eyes.

"I think . . . think . . ." the child stares at nothing. His mouth quivers. "I'm dying."

"Stay flat." I unfasten Odin's cape and tuck it around him. Ancient memory flutters in my chest. I don't want to think about my farm.

Feggvinn's breathing hitches. "I don't want to die." He sounds ten years younger than he is.

I enchant the cape to produce heat, pat his shoulder. Wipe the hair from his eyes. His forehead is clammy. "Good. You're not dying. You're in shock. Do you remember when War Academy told you about shock? They like to lecture in between all that more interesting fighting, don't they. Here, this will keep you warm. Stay on your side in case you feel sick again. I will return in a few minutes and then we will go back to the palace. Have you ever been to the palace? It's really something to see. There are halls as big as War Academy's training field. Imagine that. Will you do me a favor? Can you tell me what color your eyes are? Feggvinn? What color are your eyes?"

"Grey?" he whines.

"There. See? You're all right." In the same calm, nonchalant tone I say, "Now . . . can you tell me if you are left- or right-handed?"

"Right?"

I make sure my expression is empty, and give the cape a final check. "I'll be back soon. You won't even notice I'm gone. Then we'll find your parents, sound good?"

There are footsteps on the stairs above me. I conjure a shield over my ward and pick up Gungnir, feeling my pulse accelerate into a single un-Aesir burn. Sleepless nights and a hijacked nervous system make a switch in my brain from cowering to trembling bloodlust. A grin almost wrenches my face in half. My dry lower lip tears.

The Chitauri don't speak.

I point Gungnir at them. "I am going to name all of you. You all have names, because I say so. All. All of you." This is the most terrible insult I can imagine. I almost can't get the words out through the grin. My face is locked tight.

I charge up the stairs as they open fire.

Gungnir deflects. What Gungnir can't deflect I catch and toss aside with crackling green flames. I flip Gungnir into my left hand and aim my right—with the Gauntlet—at the swarm.

Nothing happens.

I dodge a shot that would have burst my right leg. I redirect power into my right hand. The Gauntlet does not sweep them aside. I flail my fingers. The swarm doesn't implode or turn into incontinent kittens. I wave my arm.

I can't get the Gauntlet to work.

The Chitauri spread out, moving to shoot me from too many angles to deflect at once. I clone Odin and use his cover to make myself invisible. While the swarm annihilates my clones into green auroras, I leap the remaining stairs to land behind them on the third story. The granite cracks under my boots. The Chitauri nearest to me wheel and fire at the sound. I put my spear through its chestplate.

"Ulif," I say. I jerk Gungnir free and knock the Chitauri's rifle aside while it staggers. There's one on my right whose aim is on target—I conjure an Odin clone behind it and snick the spearhead through its helmet when it turns. "Ithir." Fjall I strike down with an overhead swing. I sweep Bannhik's legs out from under it and fire an energy blast into its faceplate, flip sideways and back to avoid being shot by six targeted bolts and roll aside after lancing Fjall. I conjure another clone to grapple with Svarthifar, who shoots Aieghur by mistake when the clone dissolves. Oops. No hard feelings, right?

The Chitauri learn from that mistake too fast for my liking. As one they holster their rifles in exchange for edged weapons. The fight continues with a more intricate dance. I aim for soft tissue and use my throwing knives when I can; being surrounded by a circular hand-to-hand brigade is the exact opposite of being surrounded by a circular firing squad.

By sheer luck a Chitauri blade sinks into my right arm, above the vambrace. My invisibility evaporates in green. I ball up my right fist and punch the Chitauri with the worthless Gauntlet. A knife plows into my ribs and is turned aside by my armor, under Odin's illusionary armor. The swarm closes.

Sharp white pain rips into my right thigh. I lash out with Gungir, trying to regain space. Many hands with many cutting things grab for me, wrench me around. They won't let go. If they release me to draw firearms I will hide in my invisibility, so they don't let go.

Hands grab my hair—my real hair under two illusions. I drop Gungnir to grab my knives; the spear and my magic is useless this close. I beat aside a Chitauri trying to cut my throat and return the favor. Blades push through my clothing, hunting for places where there is not protective astrium. Many eyes watch me with depthless intent. My bronzed armor shields my ribcage from all sides but there are gaps over my pectorals—a dagger plunges in and a supernova goes off in my

—They've put me back in my cell, I notice. I'm not sure how long I've been lying here on my side. Long enough that my right arm is numb and I've got those achey pricklings in my fingertips. I can't remember when that started. I roll onto my back and wait for feeling return.

I laugh. What am I doing?

It's hilarious. I'm an idiot. I am so so foolish.

I tip myself onto my side again, trying to fall so that I can either go back to killing my arm or killing the nerves, and either way that's going to turn out in my favor. I don't know if they know that I can hurt myself like this. It's worth a shot.

I don't want to be here any more.

Make this go away. I'm in Asgard. I'm really in Asgard. Just slip away. It's so close I can taste it, just through the black on the other side of the veil in my head, and I can be back and none of this has to

—Pain radiates through my core in a long mind-shattering scream. I feel myself returning before I can see it. I drop my knife to pull the dagger from my chest, and put it through the creature's left eye. When vision surfaces all the way I'm looking out through a black tunnel at a dozen Chitauri.

The ground lurches under my feet. The creatures and I stagger as another oppressive roar eviscerates my ears. The sound is so massive I can feel it passing through me in great crushing waves, trying to shaking me from the realm. Debris plunges from the broken ceiling. I drag an arm over my face as stone crashes around us. A few Chitauri scream. The floor skitters, leaps, smashes me down too and I scrabble to protect my head. My stomach inverts. Equilibrium reorients to some nauseous Helheim outside my body and I'm rolling, scraping my bare face and bruising ribs inside armor and granite. I hear Gungnir clan! clang! down the stairs. I open my eyes to find the entire world tilting before me.

I punch my Gauntleted fingers through the floor.

I slam to a stop, lying flat on my chest on a surface that is neither wall or ground. My wounds snarl black pain. I open my eyes but some horrible angle dizzies my head. I realize I'm trying to look down horizontal stairs. Bile surges up my throat. I gulp wetly. Squeeze my eyes shut until I can look again without getting sick.

Dust and rock fountain past. The filtering charm gives me a clear bubble around my face; I hear rough gagging above and to my right.

Svarthifar. Possibly. I can't tell them apart.

The Chitauri buries its ugly head in its arms. It's wrapped itself around the railing, making little choking sounds as the public library oozes over us. It's lost its rifle and its knife. It's defenseless, a sad sack of blood and bone, huddled against a cosmos gone mad.

I sling my free hand up to grip my personal handhold, and grab the railing with my right. The wound hurts less, now, knitting itself together even as I pull myself up hand over hand. The Chitauri sees me too late—or, it sees me and there's not a damn thing it can do to save itself.

I throw out my right hand for Gungnir. The enchanted spear thumps against my palm. The Chitauri peers down at me through the wave of grit, rancid eyes glittering in the dull light. I watch it for a good long while, wanting to take as long as they did, memorizing every crackling thrill down my arm as a fresh lover. I want to steal every last emotion from its hideous face. I want to see it know how it feels to live without hope. I want to drop my Odin-Mask. I want it to know who's killed it.

But that would be suicide.

Throwing Gungnir is almost an afterthought compared with that—that beautiful, perfect moment before death seizes it.

I summon the spear back to my hand, and climb down the stairs to where Feggvinn is clinging to a headless diorama figure. I pick him up and we leave the demolished library to find Asgard's floating landmass in pieces across the muddy brown sky.

Above us, around us, under us: The pieces drift apart like old leaves in a current. The palace's orange shield gleams from an island ten miles away. Our island, the library's island, is one of the bigger pieces. Artificial gravity keeps ours intact. Others crumble as I watch.

The Black Tower Guard find me moments after. I've exited the library's remains. They help me into a shelter under Laufey-and-Odin's shadow. Some time later a palace chariot lands on the statue's far side, and the Guard, refugees, Feggvinn and I are gathered back under the palace's shield through the royal tunnel.

The generators are working, at last.

So are the Leviathans, at smashing the islands and breaking the shield.

Thor has ordered Lord Aumdyn to override my command at using the generators to summon our army and instead use them to evacuate the palace to Vanaheim, which has prompted a massive shouting match with Tyr. Odin's symbiote is threatening to remove titles and arrest any man who thinks to flee for his life rather than defend our fathers' homeland.

"Asgard is lost," Thor says. The space after his words reverberate in us, among us.

Tyr starts to protest.

Thor overrides him. "These Chitauri fight like Loki. They will not stop attacking the palace if we return to challenge them. They will keep us distracted with other enemies while they finish their cowardly, backhanded mission. Their goal is not to defeat us. Do you hear me, Chieftain? They want to destroy us and they are in position to do that.

"Your Majesty," my not-brother snaps, which must be easier to say than father. "You know what I say is truth. Asgard must be evacuated."

"I will not run while the Unnamed Scourge's army takes the realm," Tyr shouts. "Odin—!"

"I am with Thor," I say. "He's right. Evacuate the palace to Vanaheim."

This is how the war ends.