86 Malakeith

Natasha, Jane, and Frigga scuttled through the halls of Asgard as they trembled with the distant sounds of war. Explosions rumbled like distant thunder, shaking the very foundations of the palace. The screams of warriors and the clash of steel echoed through the air, growing closer with every second.

When they reached the top of the grand staircase with a sprawling, open hall held together by towering columns, Natasha suddenly skidded to a halt. Jane nearly crashed into her, her breath ragged from the sprint. "Nat, what are you doing? We have to keep moving!"

But Natasha ignored her. Without hesitation, she turned toward a small, nondescript utility room nestled between two grand pillars. She reached inside, brushing her fingers against nothing but air until a shimmer of magic rippled at her touch. The Notice-Me-Not charm peeled away like a curtain being drawn, revealing the weapons cache she had hidden earlier with Harry’s help.

The Skuggaauga. The Reiðar. The Griðungr.

Her fingers curled around the weapons. Frigga watched with understanding while Jane’s expression twisted into one of horror. "No. No, no, no. You’re not doing this," Jane said, her voice high with panic. "You can’t take them on alone!"

Natasha barely spared her a glance as she slung the sniper rifle over her back, strapped the grenade launcher to her hip, and adjusted the straps on her rifle. "I don’t plan on dying, Foster," she said. "But I’m not letting those bastards reach you."

Jane’s stomach twisted. She had seen Natasha fight before, but this was different. This wasn’t just hand-to-hand combat, it wasn’t just taking down a few guards or mercenaries. This was war. A full invasion. And Natasha was choosing to make her stand here, alone, against god knows what.

"Natasha," Jane tried again. "Please. You don’t have to do this. Come with us. We can—"

"We must go," Frigga interrupted gently, placing a firm hand on Jane’s shoulder. There was no hesitation in her voice. No doubt. She had seen warriors like Natasha before. She knew the kind of fight Natasha was about to have. And she also knew there was no talking her out of it.

Jane turned to Frigga, desperate. "How can you just leave her? She, she might not—"

Frigga’s gaze softened. "Because I trust her skill and her judgment," she said simply. Then, with the same authority she always carried, she turned to Natasha. "Hold the line for as long as you can. When the time comes, fall back. Your time to go to Valhalla is not yet. And that is an order."

Natasha smirked, flicking the safety off her Skuggaauga. "Understood, your majesty."

Frigga nodded once. Then, without another word, she turned and pulled Jane along, leading her away down the hall.

Jane cast one last, desperate look over her shoulder. Natasha was already kneeling at the edge of the staircase, steadying her rifle.

Natasha, remained perfectly still, kneeling at the edge of the grand staircase. The silence before the storm. The cold, anticipatory calm that came before a fight.

Then—BOOM.

The palace trembled. From somewhere, the unmistakable sound of a ship crashing into the palace sent a tremor through the golden halls. Dust trickled from the ceiling, and Natasha swore she felt the very air shift as the invasion fully took hold.

Her grip on the rifle tightened.

She wasn’t stupid. She was nervous. Only a fool wouldn’t be. She was about to take on an unknown number of enemy forces, alone, with nothing but her skill, her weapons, and the advantage of terrain. The odds weren’t just against her, and they were laughing in her face.

But none of that mattered now.

She took a slow breath, exhaled, and steadied herself.

Then she heard them.

The distinct, rhythmic thud of boots against stone. A formation moving in unison.

The first one stepped into the hall.

Natasha pulled the trigger.

A single, silenced shot rang out. The Dark Elf’s skull snapped backwards, a neat, crimson hole dead centre in its forehead. It crumpled before it even realised it was dead.

Another one rushed in behind it—BANG—a second shot sent the next Elf sprawling, lifeless, before it hit the floor.

Then another. Bang. And another. Bang.

Natasha was a machine. Each pull of the trigger was calculated, each shot a death sentence. The corridor became her hunting ground, and the Dark Elves were nothing more than prey stepping blindly into her line of sight.

One by one, they dropped.

But they weren’t stupid.

Natasha had already cut down more than a dozen of their forces by the time the Dark Elves had realised what was going on.

Then, she saw the movement.

A Dark Elf, crouched behind cover, pulled something from his belt and threw it right at her. Natasha didn’t know what it was, but Natasha’s body reacted before her mind fully processed the threat. She threw herself sideways, rolling across the polished floor just as the soldier hurled the object.

It hit her perch—BOOM!

A shockwave of black energy detonated against the golden walls, vaporising the spot she had been crouched in moments ago. The force of the explosion sent Natasha skidding across the floor, her ears ringing, her vision flashing white for a second.

When she regained focus, the dark elves swarmed into the staircase hall like a flood. They were no longer cautious. They charged, using the blast as a distraction to overwhelm her.

Natasha cursed under her breath.

Quickly, she rolled onto one knee, threw the rifle, and reached for her next weapon.

With the Reiðar in position. The grenade launcher hummed with raw power as she primed it, her eyes narrowing as the Dark Elves charged forward like a relentless tide.

She fired.

A blazing sphere of energy shot from the barrel, streaking through the air before detonating in the heart of the enemy ranks. The explosion tore through the advancing soldiers, sending armoured bodies flying, their grotesque helmets cracking apart as the force of the blast disintegrated them.

She fired again.

Another sphere ignited the staircase, bathing the gilded Asgardian walls in violent, flickering light. Stone shattered, bodies twisted, screams filled the air, yet still, they kept coming.

The choke point was working in her favour, bottlenecking them at the entrance, but there were so many. No matter how many she cut down, more took their place.

A third shot hit the grand chandelier above. It groaned, the ornate golden chains snapping one by one before gravity took over—

CRASH!

The massive structure collapsed onto a cluster of Dark Elves, crushing them beneath its weight. A shockwave of dust and debris erupted through the hall.

For a moment, there was stillness.

Then, through the dust, the glowing black slits of their masks emerged once more.

Relentless. Merciless.

Natasha gritted her teeth.

She fired another shot, but by now, the enemy had adapted. They dove, rolled, and vaulted over the flames,. The first of them reached the top of the staircase.

Natasha knew her time was up.

She switched to the Griðungr, the rifle humming to life as she squeezed the trigger. Pulses of crackling energy erupted from the barrel, each shot finding its mark. Helmets shattered, armour caved in, and bodies dropped like broken marionettes.

Still, they kept coming.

Natasha moved back. She fired, ducked behind a crumbling column, let the weapon cool down, and popped out to fire again. The palace's once-pristine halls were now a war zone, riddled with scorch marks and splattered with blackened blood.

She fell back, step by step, using every piece of furniture and fixture as cover. A toppled pillar became a momentary barricade. A shattered statue provided an angle for a perfect shot. She weaved through the hallways while her gunfire remained unrelenting.

By the time she rounded a corner, a mass of Dark Elves had all clustered in the hallway, surging forward like a storm.

Natasha didn’t hesitate.

She reached for the Þrumu, the rocket launcher she had stashed earlier. She yanked it from the shelf, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

A deafening blast rocked the entire palace.

The rocket exploded in the heart of the enemy ranks, sending bodies flying in all directions. The sheer force of the detonation ripped a gaping hole through the corridor, exposing the sky beyond. A few surviving Dark Elves stumbled backwards, caught off guard by the devastation.

Natasha didn't give them time to recover.

With a smirk, she slung the Þrumu back into its holster and raised her rifle once more.

"Who's next?"

Natasha continued her tactical retreat. The Reiðar and Þrumu screamed in her hands, energy pulses tearing through armour, sending Dark Elves crumpling to the floor. She moved like a phantom, her body weaving between columns and shattered furniture, her weapons a relentless storm of death.

Then her back hit the chamber gates.

This was it. No more room to fall back.

Without missing a beat, she threw her rifle and rocket launcher and yanked free the Vörðr from its hiding place.. The scatter blaster was heavier in her grip, its power thrumming beneath her fingertips. The weapon was designed for close-quarters devastation and perfect for what came next.

The Dark Elves surged forward.

Natasha welcomed them.

She sidestepped their first barrage of fire, rolling low beneath a plasma bolt before snapping up and unloading a blast. The Vörðr kicked in her hands, the sonic burst obliterating the first elf in the charge. A flick of the wrist, a shift in stance—another shot, another soldier down.

They tried to overwhelm her with sheer numbers, but she was faster.

A Dark Elf lunged with a curved blade, but Natasha ducked, swept his legs out from under him, and turned her shotgun downward. One pull of the trigger, and the blast ripped through his chest, splattering the floor in blackened blood.

Another came at her from the side. Natasha vaulted off the chamber doors, flipping over his head. Before he could react, she twisted midair, landed behind him, and fired point-blank into his back.

The narrow hallway worked against the Dark Elves. They had nowhere to maneuver, no way to spread out. Natasha turned their aggression into their downfall, making every move count, using every opening.

Shot after shot, the hallway filled with smoke and carnage, until—

Silence.

Natasha exhaled, chambering another round as she scanned the bodies littering the floor. The last of them lay motionless, their weapons slipping from lifeless hands.

Only one remained. Their leader.

He stood at the end of the corridor, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand—

And hurled an antimatter bomb straight at her.

Natasha’s eyes widened. With no time to think, she dived backwards, bursting through the chamber doors just as the explosion engulfed the hallway behind her.

Jane and Frigga startled as the chamber doors burst open, the echo of destruction still ringing from the hallway beyond. Natasha barely registered their reactions. Her body ached, her lungs burned, but she didn’t stop. She pushed herself up, rolling her shoulders as she strode to the corner where she had stashed her final weapon, a spear.

She grasped it firmly, twirling it once to test its weight.

Then, heavy footsteps. A slow, deliberate stride.

The leader entered the chamber like a spectre of death. His form was cast in flickering shadows from the flames in the hallway, his armour dull and ancient, his presence suffocating. He moved without hesitation, his gaze cold, his intent unmistakable.

Frigga stepped in front of Jane, her expression firm, as tension crackled in the air like a gathering storm.

"Stand down, creature," Frigga commanded. "And you may yet survive this."

Natasha moved as well, positioning herself between them and the advancing threat. Every muscle in her body coiled, ready to strike.

The leader merely regarded them with the indifference of a god looking upon ants. Then, slowly, he smiled, a cruel, hollow thing.

“I have survived worse, woman.” His voice was like a whisper of ice, sending a chill through the chamber.

Frigga’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

The dark elf tilted his head, his blackened eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“I am Malekith,” he intoned. "And I will take what is mine."

He strode forward.

Jane gasped as his focus landed squarely on her, his intent clear.

Natasha struck.

The spear lashed out, a blur of silver and steel. Malekith barely managed to twist away in time, his body pivoting unnaturally as the blade scraped against his armour. He staggered back a step, his expression darkening.

For the first time, his gaze locked onto Natasha.

Malekith retreated a step, his black eyes narrowing. Then, with a smooth, almost lazy motion, he drew his sword. A dark, serrated blade, pulsing with eerie, violet energy. It hummed as if alive, thirsting for blood.

Natasha tightened her grip on the spear, steadying her breathing. Every muscle in her body burned from the battle before, but she pushed past the pain. She had come too far to fall now.

For a moment, the two combatants simply stood there, circling each other, eyes locked, assessing their opponents. Then Malekith struck.

He lunged with terrifying speed, his sword a silver blur as it aimed straight for Natasha’s throat. She twisted at the last second, the blade slicing through the air just inches from her skin. Before Malekith could reset, she countered instantly. Her spear lashing out like a viper, aiming for his heart.

Malekith’s sword flicked up, deflecting the strike with a sharp clang. Sparks burst from the impact, scattering like fireflies. He twisted his blade, trying to slide it down the shaft to disarm her, but Natasha pulled back just in time, pivoting on her heel to strike low.

The spear whistled toward Malekith’s legs. But he leapt over it effortlessly, spinning mid-air in a perfect arc. As he descended, he brought his sword down like a guillotine.

Natasha barely managed to raise her spear to block. The impact sent a brutal shockwave up her arms, rattling her bones. Malekith pressed down. Gritting her teeth, she twisted the spear, locking his blade between the shaft before wrenching it sideways.

Malekith snarled and shoved forward, sending Natasha skidding backward. She planted a hand on the ground, rolling with the force, before flipping back to her feet just as Malekith closed in again.

Both of them were relentless. Blades clashed like thunder, metal ringing through the chamber.

Malekith’s sword grazed her thigh, opening a thin line of blood.

She ignored it.

Her spear jabbed deep into his shoulder.

He barely flinched.

Malekith shifted his grip and slashed in a wide arc. Natasha ducked, feeling the blade whistle past the crown of her head. She retaliated instantly, using her momentum to sweep his legs.

This time, he wasn’t fast enough.

Malekith crashed onto his back. Natasha didn’t waste a second. She surged forward, driving the spear straight down toward his heart.

But Malekith wasn’t finished. His legs shot up, dodging her spear and kicking Natasha backwards. She flew through the air and slammed into a marble pillar, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs.

Once both of them got up, Natasha launched herself forward, spear spinning in a blur. Malekith met her halfway.

It was here that Natasha found her opening.

Malekith overextended on a downward slash, and Natasha twisted her spear with a flick of her wrist, catching his blade against the spear’s hooked edge. She yanked hard, disarming him in an instant.

Malekith’s eyes widened—

Natasha drove the spear forward.

The tip tore through his armour, straight into his heart.

Malekith let out a sharp gasp. He stared at her, almost in disbelief.

Natasha held his gaze, her grip unwavering. Then, with a brutal yank, she twisted the spear and wrenched it free.

Malekith staggered back, choking. His hands reached for the gaping wound in his chest, but already, his strength was failing him. He collapsed to his knees, blood pooling around him.

For a brief moment, Natasha just stood there, chest heaving, her body screaming in pain.

Then, Malekith fell forward, unmoving. Dead.

Natasha stood over Malekith’s lifeless body, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The spear was still embedded in his heart, as his body lay crumpled at her feet. The battle had drained her. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest.

She took a single step back, and then her knees buckled.

The world tilted as Natasha collapsed onto the cold stone floor. Darkness threatened to consume her vision, her breaths shallow, her body unwilling to move.

Then, distant echoes of footsteps. Quickly, Harry and Odin stormed in, flanked by Asgardian guards. Sif was right behind them. A gust of wind rushed in from the balcony as Thor landed with a crash, Mjolnir crackling in his grasp.

Their eyes fell on the scene and Harry’s breath caught in his throat.

“Natasha!”

He ran to her side, skidding to his knees beside her motionless body. His hands hovered over her, almost afraid to touch her, his heart pounding with dread.

Behind them, the illusion Frigga had crafted shimmered and faded. The false Jane dissolved into golden mist, revealing the real Jane Foster stepping hesitantly from her hiding place.

Frigga exhaled in relief. “It is over.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He pressed two fingers to Natasha’s neck, feeling for a pulse. The moment stretched unbearably until he finally found it. Relief flooded through him, so powerful it nearly made him lightheaded. He brushed a blood-matted strand of hair from Natasha’s face and whispered, “You crazy, reckless woman.”

Thor stepped forward, surveying the destruction. His gaze landed on Malekith’s corpse, then on the spear still lodged in his chest. “She… killed him?”

Harry exhaled and gently scooped Natasha into his arms. “She needs rest.” His voice brooking no argument.

Odin turned to his guards. “Take her to the healers. She fought as one of us. She will be treated as such.”

Harry adjusted his grip on her unconscious form, holding her close as he lifted her up and turned toward the door. Without another word, he carried her out of the ruined chamber, past the fallen enemies and shattered stone.

The battle was over.

But right now, none of that mattered.

Right now, all that mattered was getting her to the healers.