You are dragged through the cold like a broken instrument.

Svartalfheim doesn't welcome you at all. The air tastes metallic, sharp enough to sting your tongue when you breathe. Black stone arches loom overhead, carved with runes that seem to writhe when you’re not looking directly at them. Somewhere far above, green witchlight burns like a watching eye.

You stumble, boots scraping against obsidian floor, and the grip on your arm tightens, not guards exactly, but things wearing armor, elongated and wrong. Dark Elves. Their silence is worse than threats.

Then you hear him.

Clapping.

Slow. Amused. Mocking.

“Well,” Malekith the Accursed drawls, his voice smooth as poisoned honey, “this is not the screaming wreckage I was promised.”

You’re shoved forward, nearly losing balance, and then you see him properly.

Malekith reclines on a jagged throne of blackened stone and living roots, dark skin almost luminescent against the lights around. His eyes gleam with hunger, delighted. Crown twists like a mockery of royalty, and his smile is far too interested.

“A Midgardian hero thing,” he continues, circling the word like a cat around mouse. “Still sneaking through realms you barely understand. How ambitious.”

You’ve learned the rhythm of his patience. It comes in tides. Today the tide is thin.

“So,” he says, voice smooth and poisoned-sweet, “what am I tonight, little miracle? Your jailer? Your muse? Or your audience?”

You don’t bow too low. That reads as fear. You don’t stand too tall either. That reads as defiance. You angle yourself just right, respect without surrender. Survival math. You’ve been doing it for weeks.

“An audience. If you’re willing to be impressed.”

His eyes gleam. Hook set.

You’ve learned this about Malekith. He craves interest. The moment you bore him, you die. The moment you flatter him, you’re a fool.

The trick is to make him curious, make him chase the next thought like a cat after a glimmer.

You begin with a story. A tale shaped like truth.

You speak of worlds that pretend to be orderly while rotting underneath. Of heroes who mistake purity for strength. Of monsters who understand the math of survival better than anyone. You lace it with irony, with quiet rebellion disguised as admiration. You let your words dance.

Malekith listens.

That alone feels like winning a war.

His fingers tap once on the arm of the throne. A flash of teeth. Pleased, dangerous.