Chapter 733

Beyond Asgard and the Nine Realms, hidden within a dark fold of space, the Dark Elves’ flagship lay in wait.

Their last attempt to seize the Aether from the Golden Palace had failed at the final moment. Forced to retreat, Malekith had withdrawn his forces to this secluded refuge, where they could wait patiently for another opportunity to strike.

Patience was hardly a problem for the Dark Elves. They had spent countless ages lurking in the shadows of the universe, making them one of the most patient races in existence.

But even the longest-lived species had its exceptions.

Aggram, the Dark Elves’ last remaining Kursed warrior, was becoming increasingly restless.

Part of the problem was the Kursed transformation itself. It heightened aggression, making its victims prone to anger and impatience. More importantly, Aggram knew that the transformation came at a terrible cost. His remaining lifespan had been drastically shortened, and he might not have much longer to live.

Yet it wasn’t his impending death that troubled him.

Aggram was the last Kursed warrior among the Dark Elves. If the perfect moment to strike never came, he might die before the next battle even began. His people would then lose one of their most powerful weapons, making their chances of victory slimmer still.

Compared to the survival of his race, his own life meant very little.

What enraged him was the thought of wasting his remaining days sitting idle in the dark. He wanted a decisive battle. He wanted to spend every last spark of his life fighting for the restoration of his people.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

According to their scouts, every major Asgardian combat force had returned to defend the Golden Palace. Its defenses were now practically impregnable. Attacking under these circumstances would be little better than throwing themselves against a mountain and hoping it fell over.

The Dark Elves had no choice but to remain hidden until Asgard’s vigilance weakened.

It was a miserable situation.

And then Aggram discovered that his king was behaving strangely.

Malekith had never been an idle ruler. He had always been diligent, attentive to his responsibilities, and relentless in pursuing the restoration of the Dark Elves.

Since returning from their failed expedition, however, he had practically abandoned his duties.

Reports went unread. Military affairs went unattended. Instead, the king spent his days practicing dramatic poses, snapping his fingers, tossing handkerchiefs, and studying his reflection in a mirror.

He even practiced his posture and diction, occasionally breaking into peculiar laughter. When he spoke, every sentence seemed to require a carefully controlled rise and fall in pitch, preferably accompanied by a theatrical flourish and a satisfying rhyme.

Aggram watched this transformation with growing despair.

Thor had struck Malekith with lightning during their retreat. At the time, the king had appeared unharmed, but perhaps the electricity had scrambled his brain after all.

Their king had lost his mind.

And things only grew stranger.

The Dark Elves had always cared about their appearance, but Malekith had suffered severe burns to half his face during his confrontation with Thor. The damage was extensive enough to leave him permanently disfigured.

Yet he refused to have the injuries treated.

His explanation had nothing to do with enduring humiliation, concealing his wounds until victory, or restoring his appearance after conquering Asgard.

According to Malekith, the contrast between the blackened and unburned halves of his face represented the duality of good and evil, sorrow and joy.

It was, he declared, a divinely bestowed visage.

Aggram had no idea what to say to that.

Worse, Malekith had begun refusing medicine altogether. Even when injured or ill, he would rather kneel before an idol, burn incense, and mix the resulting ashes with water to drink.

He claimed the concoction could heal wounds, cure disease, strengthen the body, and deepen his connection with his god.

At last, Aggram understood.

His king wasn’t merely losing his mind.

He had fallen into a cult.

And Aggram had a pretty good idea who was responsible.

That strange spellcaster they’d encountered during their previous expedition had spoken with Malekith shortly before the king’s behavior began to change. Before that conversation, Malekith had been perfectly normal. Afterward, his sanity had deteriorated by the day.

Now he was drinking incense ash and worshiping some bizarre idol.

Whatever that spellcaster had done, Aggram intended to blame him for it.

Today, Aggram had come to see Malekith about their next move. It was supposed to be a routine request for permission to engage the enemy.

The moment he entered the king’s chamber, however, he was greeted by a familiar and deeply depressing sight.

Malekith sat cross-legged on the floor with his back to the door, his hands resting in a meditative pose. Thin streams of incense smoke curled upward before him.

Aggram sighed.

He was almost accustomed to this nonsense by now, but one detail still bothered him.

They were aboard a starship.

Malekith was burning incense on a spacecraft, completely disregarding the fire-safety regulations he himself had established.

Apparently, being king meant never having to follow your own rules.

Aggram approached quietly and finally saw the object of Malekith’s devotion.

The idol had been crafted by the king himself as an expression of his faith.

Strangely enough, it did seem to possess something unusual about it.

Aggram had seen the statue many times. He still couldn’t look directly at it without feeling an inexplicable chill creep through him.

Its body resembled a great feline, something between a lion and a monstrous cat. A pair of dark wings extended from its back, formed from countless twisting tentacles. Its head was vaguely humanoid, yet completely devoid of facial features.

It was only a sculpture.

And yet, whenever Aggram looked at its blank face, he felt as though he were staring into an abyss of infinite chaos, endless cycles of existence, and truths too vast for any mortal mind to comprehend.

The longer he looked, the more uncomfortable he became.

Malekith seemed oblivious to his arrival. His eyes remained closed as he whispered his prayer.

"Chaos that crawls. Fear that drifts. Hunter in the darkness. Dweller in shadow. Faceless God. Bloated Woman. Crawling Mist. Dark Demon. Black Pharaoh. Howler in the Night."

His voice was low and reverent.

"Countless names. Endless lies. A wondrous dance. An enchanting tale."

He paused, drawing a slow breath.

"O Nyarlathotep. O Nyarlathotep! Immersed in tragedy, great messenger of the chaotic nucleus, great Nyarlathotep!"

Silence settled over the chamber.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Aggram took an involuntary step backward.

He stopped immediately, startled by his own reaction.

Fear.

The Kursed transformation had stripped away much of his restraint, leaving him with a temperament dominated by aggression and rage. Yet something about that prayer had frightened him.

What could possibly make a Kursed warrior afraid?

Aggram stared at the faceless idol.

Perhaps his king’s worship wasn’t quite the ridiculous farce he’d assumed.

"Oh, Aggram."

Malekith finally opened his eyes and turned toward his visitor. His voice was deep and resonant, with an almost suspiciously polished smoothness.

"My closest friend. My most loyal subordinate. My bravest warrior. To what do I owe this visit?"

Aggram resisted the urge to sigh again.

Ever since Malekith’s personality had changed, even the simplest conversations had become exhausting.

"I came to ask what our next move should be."

"We wait."

Malekith delivered the answer with absolute certainty.

Aggram’s heart sank.

"But, my king..." His frustration broke through despite his efforts to remain respectful. "You know what condition I’m in. If we keep waiting, I might..."

"There’s no need to worry, my friend."

Malekith swept one hand across his chest in a graceful, carefully controlled gesture. It was the sort of movement that suggested many hours spent practicing in front of a mirror.

"Everything will be resolved before your final curtain falls."

Aggram stared at him.

"Are you planning to launch a direct assault?"

His emotions were a tangled mess. He desperately wanted to fight before his remaining strength deserted him, but he also understood how disastrous an attack on the Golden Palace could be.

"The palace is heavily defended. We might not win a frontal assault."

"That won’t be necessary."

Malekith smiled faintly.

"According to my calculations, this affair will not reach its conclusion on the battlefield between two armies."

Aggram frowned.

"Why not?"

He couldn’t tell whether the king’s new faith was responsible for his increasingly cryptic pronouncements, but Malekith seemed to have developed a talent for saying a great deal without explaining anything at all.

"Tell me, Aggram. Have you ever studied drama?"

Aggram stared at him blankly.

Drama?

They were hiding in a spacecraft, surrounded by a desperate army, preparing for a war that could determine the fate of their entire race. Their king had been burning incense and drinking ash for days, and now he wanted to discuss theater.

"Drama is an art," Malekith continued, apparently unconcerned by his subordinate’s expression. "And a truly great drama is the highest form of that art."

He rose to his feet and turned toward the chamber’s viewport, his burned face illuminated by the faint light of distant stars.

"Our conflict with Asgard is a grand production. Every great production requires a protagonist."

He raised one hand, as though addressing an invisible audience.

"Two armies clashing, countless warriors battling across a vast battlefield... Such a spectacle may be impressive, but the sheer scale of it obscures the protagonist. The audience loses sight of the central figure."

Malekith turned back to Aggram.

"That would make it a failure."

Aggram’s expression grew increasingly strained.

"Therefore, the clash of armies can only serve as a prelude. The true finale must come when I, the protagonist, face Odin, the antagonist."

He spread his arms.

"Only then will the curtain fall."

Aggram wondered whether it was too late to request a transfer to literally any other profession.

His king had apparently decided that reality was obligated to follow the conventions of a stage play.

Odin possessed the Aether, their most important bargaining chip. Asgard’s defenses were secure, and the Dark Elves were in no position to force a confrontation on their own terms.

All Odin needed to do was remain behind the walls of the Golden Palace.

Why would he ever emerge to fight Malekith in a personal duel?

Unless the All-Father had suffered some catastrophic lapse in judgment, there was no reason to expect such an outcome.

"My king..." Aggram chose his words with the care of a man approaching an unexploded bomb. "Isn’t that a little... unrealistic?"

"Hmm. Unrealistic?"

Malekith chuckled softly.

"Perhaps I would have agreed with you once."

His gaze drifted toward the idol.

"But not anymore."

A strange conviction settled over his features.

"I believe the god wishes to witness this very scene."

Aggram waited.

Surely there was more.

Perhaps Malekith had discovered some weakness in Asgard’s defenses. Perhaps he’d identified a flaw in Odin’s strategy, or uncovered a secret that would force the All-Father to fight.

Aggram would have welcomed even a half-decent military explanation.

Instead, his king had offered him a single sentence about the will of a god.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

Before Aggram could decide whether to press the matter, Malekith suddenly staggered.

His face went pale, and darkness seemed to swallow his vision. He lurched sideways, catching himself against the wall before he could fall.

Aggram instinctively stepped forward.

"My king!"

Malekith remained still for a moment.

Then his expression transformed.

His eyes widened with astonishment, followed by a sudden, almost ecstatic delight.

"I can feel it."

He turned toward Aggram.

"The Aether. It’s coming to us of its own accord!"

Aggram hesitated.

Was this real?

Malekith had always possessed a deep connection to the Aether. Before his recent transformation into an apparent religious fanatic, Aggram would have trusted such a declaration without hesitation.

Now, however, he wasn’t entirely sure whether to believe the king or call for a physician.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long for confirmation.

A Dark Elf soldier hurried into the chamber, bowed quickly, and delivered an urgent report.

"My king! We’ve detected energy fluctuations consistent with the Aether in the Dark World. The readings are coming from our homeworld!"

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then Malekith smiled.

"The time for the final battle has arrived."

He turned abruptly and dropped to his knees before the faceless idol, bowing his head in reverence.

"O great Black Pharaoh, accept this drama that we shall perform with our very lives!"

Aggram stood frozen for a heartbeat.

Then, to his own surprise, he followed suit.

He knelt before the idol and bowed his head.

Asgard had the advantage. The Golden Palace was secure, and Odin had every reason to remain behind its defenses. Yet now the Aether was appearing in the Dark World, and events seemed to be unfolding exactly as Malekith had predicted.

If Odin hadn’t suddenly lost his mind, there was only one explanation Aggram could accept.

The god had ordained it.

Aggram slowly raised his head.

The idol’s face remained featureless, an empty expanse where eyes, a nose, and a mouth should have been.

And yet, for the briefest instant, Aggram thought he detected the faintest suggestion of a smile.