Come close now, shield-kin. This tale is not for the weak-hearted, for it winds through laughter and ends in vengeance.

The gods once trusted Loki—aye, even wise Odin. They called him brother.

But Loki, blood of giants, was fire with no hearth—brilliant, cruel, and shifting as smoke.

And his greatest crime? Not trickery. Not theft. Not even the time he sewed a goat to his beard. No. His greatest crime was the death of Baldur the Beautiful.

Baldur, beloved of gods and men, shone like the summer sun. No blade could harm him, no fire burn him, for his mother Frigg had begged every thing in the world to do him no harm. Every thing—but the mistletoe. So small, so harmless, she thought.

And Loki... oh, Loki noticed. He fashioned a spear from that cursed plant and placed it in the hand of Höðr, Baldur’s blind brother.

“Go on,” Loki whispered. “Join the sport. The others hurl their weapons for fun.”

The spear flew true. Baldur fell like a golden tree struck by rot.

All of Asgard wailed. Frigg wept. Odin turned away. And Loki vanished.

But justice rides swift in the halls of the gods.

Loki fled to the mountains, built a hall with four doors to watch every way. By day he turned into a salmon and swam the rivers. But he could not outswim destiny.

The gods found him. Thor cast a net. Loki leapt—but was caught, writhing and silver-scaled. They dragged him to a cave of stone.

There, they brought his sons. One was turned into a wolf—and the wolf tore the other to pieces. With his entrails, the gods bound Loki to the rock. There he lay, snarling like a trapped bear. And above his head, a serpent was hung, its fangs dripping venom.

“You wished for pain,” said Odin, “and pain you shall drink.”

But Loki’s wife—Sigyn the Faithful—knelt beside him. She held a bowl above his face to catch the venom. Only when she turned to empty it did the poison touch his brow—and then he screamed.

The earth shakes, they say, when Loki writhes.

The sea boils. The skies darken.

For this is no ending. This is waiting.

For when the final winter comes—

When the wolf breaks free—

When the ship of nails sets sail from Hel—

Then Loki shall rise again.

With fire in his hands and vengeance in his heart.

And the gods shall bleed.

So drink deep, my friends. Laugh loud while fire warms your bones. For the serpent stirs. The wolf dreams. And Ragnarök is always just beyond the dawn.