Alexios Thalassinos sat upon his throne of marble and bronze, hewn from the ruins of an ancient temple and reforged with the divine essence of the gods he had slain. The throne room was open to the horizon, and from its high vantage above Nafplio, he watched the land—his land—flourish in peace and prosperity.
The olive groves shimmered with silver leaves. Vineyards swelled with sweet fruit. Rivers flowed with crystalline clarity, and the air itself smelled of blooming thyme and sun-warmed stone. This was no coincidence. The passive authority he had usurped from Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, now laced the soil of Southern Greece. It amplified fertility, wove wealth into the land, and turned humble farmlands into mythic pastures. His territory thrived like a second Eden beneath his gaze.
And all knew why.
A Campione reigned here.
Alexios did not simply sit. He presided. Draped in a traditional white chlamys bordered with gold thread, his toga clung to a form carved by battle and divine might. His physique, dense and compact like a forged weapon, exuded power even in stillness. The lion-headed gauntlets of Hercules rested at his side, silent but never dormant.
The air shifted with purpose as his subordinates ushered in the delegation from the Bronze-Black Cross, one of the great European magical associations—descendants of the Templar Orders, devout in oaths and clad in ceremonial attire infused with sacred runes. Their leader, a composed woman in black-and-bronze armor adorned with an eight-pointed cross, bowed low before the throne.
He did not speak immediately. The silence was not heavy—it was regal. Natural authority hung about him like a mantle of stars.
"Speak," he said finally, emerald eyes alight with controlled curiosity. "Is this about my younger brother?"
The knights exchanged glances, unsurprised. Of course he would know. All Campione feel it when another is born—a tug in the tapestry of fate, the birthcry of another monster who has slain a god.
They nodded. "Yes, Lord Thalassinos. The Sixth Campione."
Alexios leaned slightly forward. A quiet, proud smile broke the stillness of his chiseled expression.
"His name is Salvatore Doni," the templar began. "Born in Italy. Once a failed Templar Knight—he could not store mana, and so could not wield magic. But his swordsmanship… is beyond divine. Saint Raffaello stated he mastered her sacred arts in under a month. Even the great Luo Hao compares his sword to her own."
The temple hall quieted with a reverent pause.
Alexios chuckled. "A brother of the blade, then."
"Indeed. After living as a mercenary, Doni was possessed by the divine spirit of St. George, who thirsted to hunt a god. This led him to Ireland, where he eventually found the gates to the Fairy Realm. There, the god Nuadha emerged… and in a duel, Salvatore Doni slew him, casting off the spirit and taking his place as the new godslayer."
"A heretical genius," she added, with a mixture of awe and caution.
Alexios rose slightly, light catching the golden lion embroidery on his chlamys. He looked down at the floor for a moment, his voice laced with something fond and dangerous.
"Good. The world needs wolves."
Then, he looked up again, the mirth vanishing like a stormcloud parting. "Why have you come to me, then? You bring tales of blood and birth, but I feel this is not all."
The delegation leader nodded solemnly.
"There has been a sighting. A Heretic God, manifesting in Norway. Omens darken the skies. Lightning without storm. Trees bleeding sap. Mortals hearing voices in dreams. All point to the Norse Pantheon."
Alexios' eyes sharpened, like drawn blades. "Interesting."
"We came to you," she continued, "because some of your kin are… dangerous to approach. Others are elusive. But you—you maintain order. And you are the only one with a territory stable enough to mobilize."
A long silence stretched. Then Alexios turned his back to them and faced his lands once more, his toga brushing the steps like flowing parchment.
"Leave the information with my subordinates. I'll handle it."
The templars bowed deeply and retreated with gratitude.
Behind him, his assistant approached—a gifted sorceress draped in sea-blue robes etched with runes of protection and prophecy. Her eyes shimmered like moonlight on water.
"Lady Nyra," he said without turning, "sift through their reports. I want a confirmed location within the hour."
She bowed silently and vanished in a flicker of blue light.
Alone once more, Alexios gazed across the hills. Wind stirred his hair. The scent of thyme returned to the breeze.
A pulse of excitement surged in his chest.
A Norse god. One of the stormwalkers. The berserkers. The ancient ones who drank mead from skulls and shouted thunder into the skies.
He rolled his shoulders, and the ground subtly trembled beneath his feet.
"So," he whispered with a faint smile. "Which one of you has come out to play?"
-----
The candlelight flickered within the tower of sorcery that rose beside the Palace of Nafplio like a silver needle reaching toward the heavens. Beneath its dome, spells and secrets hummed like trapped lightning.
Lady Nyra of the Azure Veil, High Sorceress of Alexios' court, stood over a glowing crystal basin, her hands weaving intricate sigils through the air. Around her, a circle of lesser mages and witches murmured chants in ancient tongues—Greek, Latin, Enochian, and even scattered words of Norse and Gaelic origin.
Threads of magic flowed into the basin like rivers feeding a well.
"Focus the scrying lens on the Ley Cross at Trondheim," Nyra instructed. "It's the strongest node in Norway. If a Heretic God has walked near it, the land will remember."
One of the younger witches—her copper hair bound in braids of charms—shivered. "I feel it. The land's crying out… like it's remembering a battlefield."
The basin surged with light and flashed a vision into the chamber:
Storm clouds spiraled unnaturally above snow-laden fjords.
Statues cracked.
Crows flew in spirals above blood-stained soil.
And carved upon a runestone—fresh, where no man had carved it—was a single name etched in divine fire:
Tyr.
Gasps rippled through the gathered magi. Nyra's jaw tightened as she read the runes aloud.
"Tyr… the One-Handed God. Lord of War and Sacrifice. The Oathbinder."
A high mage, one of the old scholars, rubbed his beard anxiously. "He is no trickster like Loki, nor wild like Thor. He is a god of duty and unbreakable purpose. If he has descended… then something grave is coming."
Nyra dismissed the circle with a wave, taking the vision and binding it into a scroll of starlight. Her footsteps echoed through the palace as she made her way to the throne hall, where Alexios still stood with his arms crossed behind his back, his eyes drinking in the horizon.
"My king," she said, her voice gentle but clear.
He turned, expression sharpening with curiosity. "You have something."
She bowed slightly. "Yes. The god is named Tyr, son of Odin. God of law, war, and sacrifice. One of the oldest and most steadfast of the Aesir. Sightings place him near Trondheim, where the veil between realms is thin."
Alexios let out a low breath like a lion waking from slumber. "Tyr..."
His grin widened. "Now that's a name worthy of my blade."
Nyra stepped forward. "He is not one for chaos or destruction without cause. His presence likely means something greater is in motion."
"All the better," Alexios replied. "A storm is a storm, whether for glory or duty. Either way, it bleeds when you strike it."
He stepped down from the throne, every motion fluid and effortless, a predator fully aware of his place atop the chain.
"Prepare for my departure," he commanded. "Send word to the border guard. If anything divine stirs while I'm gone, seal the territory and call me back with a divine beacon."
She nodded. "Of course. Will you travel by Tempest Chariot?"
He gave her a wry smile. "No. I think I'll take something a little more... regal."
With a single word spoken in the ancient Sumerian tongue—"Ziggurrat."—the air cracked open like golden glass.
And from that breach in space-time, Vimana descended.
A marvel beyond mortal comprehension, Vimana was no mere flying machine—it was a golden and emerald ark, forged from a high-tech alloy that gleamed like liquid sunlight. Its polished surface was laced with rutilated quartz veins, glowing with divine circuitry that pulsed to the beat of the sun itself.
The ark hovered effortlessly, humming with power. Along its underbelly were lines of script in lost languages—Sanskrit, Sumerian, Babylonian, Phoenician—etched into panels of radiant orichalcum. The cockpit pulsed with life, fed by a solar heartstone that shimmered within a transparent prism: a sun-forged rutilated quartz, constantly refueling itself through sunlight and alchemical mercury combustion.
At its core was the pilot's throne, gold-trimmed and wide enough to sit a demiurge. It was wired with thought-reactive glyphs—the controls operated not by hand, but by will alone. Behind it stood a retracted control column, its ancient purpose rendered obsolete by the perfection of its new master.
Alexios approached the divine ark, his every step bathed in golden light. The air warped subtly around him, his Authority humming in sync with the ancient machine, as if Vimana recognized him as king.
Nyra stepped forward, holding out a staff-like relic infused with shielding charms.
"You may encounter resistance… Norse magic is primal and stubborn. And Tyr is not a god who fights without cause. Be cautious."
Alexios gave her a small, rare smile—only for her. Then, without warning, he kissed her. Firm. Fierce. Certain.
"I'll return with the storm broken behind me."
He turned, ascended the ramp, and seated himself upon the throne. The second he sat, Vimana pulsed with activation—the runes along its flanks igniting like a burning constellation.
The Ark shuddered once… and vanished.
Not into the sky—into thought itself.
With a burst of light and a sharp boom that left ripples in the clouds, Vimana broke the boundaries of physics, traveling not at supersonic speeds… but at the speed of thought, piercing through wind, cloud, space and time itself.
From the outside, all the people of his court saw was a comet of molten gold and green shooting toward the north, carving through the heavens like a spear hurled by Helios himself.
Nyra placed a hand over her heart, her voice a whisper:
"And thus rides the Warlord of Earth... toward Ragnarok."