Marvel’s Reckoning:The Shadow Monarch Ascends

The throne room was vast, yet the presence of the Monarch made it feel even grander. He sat upon his seat of power, a vision of absolute authority, his dark cloak draped over the armrests like the wings of a predator preparing to strike. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows, twisting and shifting across the stone walls—echoes of the power that now ruled Asgard.

Before him knelt his three most trusted warriors—Igris, Beru, and Bellion—his most loyal and fearsome generals. Each one a legend of war, standing on the precipice of conquest.

The Monarch leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping idly against the throne. His voice, smooth and absolute, filled the chamber.

"The Nine Realms have been left unchecked for too long. Once, they bowed to Odin. Now, they will kneel to me. And those who refuse?" His lips curled into a knowing smirk. "They will cease to exist."

He let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his words to settle. Then, he turned his piercing gaze to his first general.

Igris – The Conqueror of Alfheim & Nidavellir

The elves of Alfheim had spent millennia bathing in their eternal light, untouched by war. Peaceful. Complacent.

Igris would change that.

His sword, sharp as the void itself, would carve through their illusions of security. The light elves, for all their grace, would learn the meaning of true fear.

But the dwarves of Nidavellir were a different matter. Unlike the elves, they were useful. Their forges had crafted weapons that had slain gods. The Monarch had no desire to wipe them out. He did not waste potential.

Instead, Igris would offer them a choice: Forge for the Shadow Empire… or be consumed by it.

The Monarch's voice was calm but absolute as he gave the command. "Igris, you will lead the conquest of Alfheim. They believe themselves untouchable. Show them how wrong they are"

Igris bowed his head, crimson armor gleaming under the dim light. "They will fall, my king."

The Monarch smirked. "Good. When Alfheim is mine, move on to Nidavellir. The dwarves will forge for us, or they will burn in their own forges. Give them a choice. But ensure they make the right one."

Igris placed a fist over his heart. "It will be done."

Beru – The Terror of Vanaheim & Svartalfheim

Vanaheim was home to the Vanir gods, warriors who had once been Asgard's equals. They had fought Odin to a standstill in the distant past. That alone made them a threat.

Beru would break them.

The dark elves of Svartalfheim, long thought to be wiped out, still lurked in the shadows. Malekith's failures had left them fractured, leaderless. They were dangerous, but without direction. They could be molded.

They would either serve the Monarch… or be erased.

The Monarch turned his gaze to Beru, who trembled with excitement, his mandibles clicking in anticipation.

"The Vanir are not to be taken lightly," the Monarch mused. "They have magic. They have warriors. But they have no leader who can match me. Beru, you will lead the assault. Do not simply defeat them—break them. I want their forests reduced to graves, their warriors reduced to ghosts."

Beru let out a low, delighted hum, his voice buzzing with eagerness. "It shall be a glorious slaughter, my liege."

"Control yourself." The Monarch's voice was sharp, though tinged with amusement. "We are not mindless beasts. We conquer not for destruction, but for dominion."

Beru immediately composed himself, bowing his head. "Of course, my king."

The Monarch's smirk returned. "Once Vanaheim is mine, move to Svartalfheim. The dark elves are cunning, but they are weak. They will serve me, or they will vanish from history."

Beru's eyes burned with hunger. "I will bring their heads to you."

The Monarch chuckled. "No, Beru. Bring me their loyalty. That is far more valuable."

Bellion – The Scourge of Jotunheim & Muspelheim

Jotunheim was already his. The frost giants had bent the knee. But they were still scattered, directionless. The Monarch had claimed them, yet they had not yet found their place in his empire. That would change.

Bellion would reshape them into warriors worthy of the Shadow Army.

But it was Muspelheim that intrigued him the most. The realm of fire, the kingdom of the great Surtr.

The sleeping titan, wielder of the Twilight Sword, was destined to bring Ragnarok.

The Monarch intended to wake him up. But not to destroy Asgard—no, that prophecy was obsolete. This time, the fire of Ragnarok would burn for the Shadow Empire.

He turned his gaze to Bellion, the first and strongest of his generals. Bellion met his king's eyes with unwavering loyalty, his massive form exuding pure, quiet power.

"Jotunheim is ours, but it is underutilized. I want its resources exploited, its warriors reforged in my image."

Bellion bowed. "I will see it done, my king."

The Monarch's smirk widened. "Good. Once the frost giants have been reshaped, your true task begins—Muspelheim."

Bellion's head tilted slightly. "Surtr is a being of fire and destruction. He will not bow easily."

The Monarch's smile turned sharp. "Wake him up, Bellion. Let him see the truth—that Ragnarok is inevitable. But it will be under my command."

Bellion's gaze darkened. "I understand.

Bellion bowed deeply. "Muspelheim will burn for you, my king."

The Beginning of the End

The Monarch sat back on his throne, surveying his gathered warriors. Each one was an instrument of his will. Each one was a weapon aimed at the Nine Realms.

With these conquests, his dominion would be absolute.

The Nine Realms had once been Odin's domain. Now, they belonged to him.

He lifted a hand, and shadows curled around his fingers like living things.

"Go," he commanded. "Claim my Empire."

His generals vanished into the darkness, leaving the Monarch alone upon his throne.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing as he gazed into the distance.

Helheim awaited.

And so did Hela.

It was time for the Queen of Death to meet the Sovereign of Shadows.