Listen, warriors, and listen well. For this is the story that ends all stories. This is the tale of Ragnarök—the Doom of the Gods.

Dark omens rippled through the Nine Worlds. First came the Fimbulwinter—three winters in a row, no summer between. Snow upon snow. Hunger and death. Brother raised axe against brother. Families torn apart. The bonds of kinship shattered, and the world grew colder than the ice-giants’ breath.

Far to the east, on a lonely plain, Fenrir strained against his chains. At last, the fetters snapped like twigs in fire. The wolf rose, his jaws stretching wide enough to swallow the sun.

From the sea surged Jörmungandr, the World-Serpent, thrashing waves higher than mountains. Poison dripped from his fangs, fouling sky and earth alike.

Naglfar, the ship of the dead, lifted from its moorings, its planks made from the nails of the unburied. At its helm stood Loki, smiling through scars, leading the giants to war.

The heavens split, and from Muspelheim came Surtr, fire-giant, black as ash, with a sword that blazed brighter than the sun. His flames devoured the stars as he strode.

All met on the plain of Vigrid, wide as the world itself. There gathered gods and giants, men and monsters, light and shadow. The battle was fierce, a storm of steel and shrieking. Each god found their foe.

Odin rode into the jaws of fate upon Sleipnir, his eight-legged steed. He clashed with Fenrir, the wolf of doom. But the beast swallowed him whole, and Allfather fell into darkness.

Vidar, Odin’s silent son, stepped forth. With a mighty boot, he split the wolf’s jaw, and with a thrust he slew Fenrir, avenging his father.

Thor grappled with Jörmungandr. He struck the serpent with Mjölnir, crushing its skull. But the poison filled his lungs, and nine steps he staggered before falling dead.

Týr faced the hound Garmr, guardian of Hel’s gate. They slew each other in a clash of tooth and steel.

Heimdall, bright watchman of Bifröst, met Loki his old foe. They struck, and both fell, blood brothers in death.

Then came Surtr, raising his flaming sword high. He swept it across the sky, and fire consumed the Nine Worlds. Mountains crumbled, seas boiled, the very earth split open. The sun dimmed, the moon shattered. Stars fell like sparks into the endless void.

Wolf breaks free, and serpent’s breath,
Sings the world a song of death.
Father falls to jaws of night,
Thor and bane fall in the fight.

Flame shall sweep both ash and stone,
Giants claim what gods have sown.
End of all, yet not the end,
For through the ash new shoots ascend.

For though the world burned, it was not utterly lost. From the sea rose a new earth, green and fair. Baldr returned from Hel’s hall, shining once more. Líf and Lífthrasir, two mortals, emerged from the world-tree’s shelter to seed humankind anew. And the cycle began again.

Skål for Odin, who fell to the wolf. Skål for Thor, who slew the serpent. Skål for Ragnarök, the twilight that is also dawn.