"Malekith, how did it go?"
In the pitch-black throne hall of Svartalfheim, the flickering projection of Laufey, King of the Frost Giants, shimred into existence through a communication device, addressing the dark elf seated upon the throne.
"It's regrettable," Malekith said with feigned sympathy. "Like his father, Thanos's son has refused our proposal. For the sake of the Nine Realms Alliance, I had no choice but to send him—along with Odin's daughter, Hela—into the graveyard of our Dark Elf kin."
His voice carried a theatrical lancholy, though the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips betrayed his satisfaction.
In truth, Malekith would rather not provoke the Black Quadrant's Thanos just yet. But the Aether, the Reality Stone, was a point of no compromise. And that so-called "graveyard"? It was less a final resting place and more... a gallows.
Using the Aether's reality-warping power, Malekith had reshaped part of Svartalfheim into a twisted imitation of Hel, the underworld of the dead. Then he summoned legions of long-forgotten Dark Elf spirits from mory—vengeful wraiths of warriors who had fallen in battle. They now lingered there, awaiting fresh victims.
The terrifying nature of the Aether lay in its ability to alter reality—to manifest virtual hellscapes where the boundaries between illusion and substance blurred.
In this place resembling Hel, once your strength ran dry, only one fate awaited: a grueso death, torn apart by vengeful wraiths from wars long past.
Even mortals of supre strength—like Odin himself—could experience energy depletion. How could Lothar and Hela, re youths by comparison, fare any better?
Unless they could shatter the energy field crafted by Malekith, who now wielded the Aether, they were dood to be trapped, consud by despair, and erased from existence.
Over the years, Malekith had consigned countless enemies to this nightmare realm—foes he didn't deem worthy of killing himself. Without exception, they had all turned to ash, nourishing the barren lands of Svartalfheim.
"In that case, it's ti to prepare for the final war," Laufey intoned coldly from his frozen throne.
Thanos, Odin's forr ally, remained far off in the Centaurian star system. His son had already been... dealt with.
This eternal war between the Nine Realms—drawn out and soaked in blood—was finally nearing its conclusion.
"Where... is this?"
Lothar opened his eyes, erging from the suffocating tide of darkness. All around him was ruin. Crumbling walls, broken stone, and long-withered grass stretched endlessly across the desolate expanse—more like a wasteland than a battlefield.
"Lord Lothar, I'm detecting unusual energy readings," reported Woz, ever diligent. A holographic topographical map blood before Lothar's eyes.
"This place... could it be Hel?" said Hela, scanning the surroundings with a frown. Unlike Lothar, she recognized the barren soil beneath their feet. She had studied Nine Realms history since childhood, and this land struck a familiar—alarming—chord.
"Hel?" Lothar echoed.
"One of the Nine Realms," she replied grimly. "The most unique among them... because it is the realm of the dead."
Her expression darkened.
Even the Bifrost of Asgard couldn't access Hel at this stage of the war. And yet Malekith had sohow sent them here with a casual gesture?
Not even her father, Odin, had that kind of power.
There was no way Malekith had surpassed Odin—not in raw strength. If he had, this war would've ended long ago. Sothing else was at work here.
"Realm of the dead?" Lothar repeated, weighing her words. He glanced behind him—The Other still lay unconscious. Their ship had been destroyed in the dark torrent and couldn't be restarted.
"And where are the dead?" Lothar muttered, retrieving the Scepter of the Mind Stone from The Other's limp grasp. The mont it touched his hand, the once-dormant Mind Stone flared to life.
Its glow surged outward—and in its wake, The Other jolted awake.
"You're asking ? I've never been to Hel!" Hela snapped irritably. But then, a blur—a foreign presence—flashed past her line of sight.
What was that!?
Startled, Hela slashed out with her sword—only to strike nothing but air.
"Maybe," a whisper rasped behind her, "you should keep your mouth shut."
The dead had arrived.
Countless wraiths began to rise from all sides, their ghastly forms encircling the trio.
Hela turned, glaring daggers at Lothar. "What the hell did you awaken!?"
"P-Prince Lothar... this—AAAAHHHH!!"
The Other's words dissolved into shrieks as he took in the ocean of undead pressing in on them.
"Silence," Lothar commanded coldly. The Other's screams were imdiately cut short.
"...This isn't right," Hela murmured. "These... these spirits, they're all Dark Elves!"
She recognized their armor—ancient wargear once donned by Malekith's fallen warriors.
Sothing about this felt very, very wrong.
"Asgardians... die!!"
A thunderous battle cry erupted as the spectral army charged, their rage echoing with millennia of hatred. They sward toward Lothar, Hela, and the barely recovered The Other.
"Damn it!"
With a curse, Hela unleashed a barrage of ethereal blades. But they passed harmlessly through the undead—causing not a scratch.
BOOM!
Lothar fired a blast of energy from his fingertips. It tore through the spirits and shattered a distant hill, rocks exploding in all directions.
"Seriously? They regenerate?"
Within seconds, the specters that had been torn apart reford. Lothar's face darkened. He raised both hands, summoning an unrelenting downpour of energy blasts like a storm of lightning—mowing through the charging spirits.
And yet... they returned.
One second later, they reassembled.
Endless. Relentless. Undying.
"These are the Dark Elf soldiers who died under Malekith's rule!" Hela snarled, realizing the trap. "That bastard... he's trying to kill us through sheer attrition!"
She switched tactics, unleashing destructive magic instead. Finally, so results—shattering their ghostly bodies in a way brute force could not.
Unconventional. Dishonorable. But it worked.
"This is a death by exhaustion," she spat. "He's trying to drain us dry."
"Woz. Analyze their energy composition."
"The Other—revive any remaining soldiers who're still down."
Lothar stood like a living artillery platform, unleashing continuous energy salvos while issuing precise commands.
"Yes, Prince Lothar!"
"Woz initiating analysis..."
Ti passed. Lothar's attacks continued to scatter the spirits, who reford again and again. Eventually, the Chitauri forces had regathered around them.
But Woz's analysis brought no comfort.
"It's a unique magical structure," Woz reported. "Not within Lord Lothar's area of expertise."
"Lady Hela," he added, redirecting the data to her.
Woz knew full well—only magic can fight magic.
And as much as Lothar might hate to admit it, in this mont, that truth held absolute.
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