A waterfall of golden hair cascaded down the goddess’ shoulders, falling nearly to the small of her back in a glamour that evaded mortal confines. Garbs of emerald clung adoringly to her figure, whose contoured curves and sultry silhouette was desire itself made flesh. The goddess was incomprehensible in her visage; however, the beauty of her face and form was matched by the cruelty and ambition of her scheming heart.
The Enchantress looked up from the book in her hands, its pages full of stories of Asgard and the rest of the Nine Realms that were more or less true, to place her withering gaze on the man standing at the entrance to her chambers. Letting her crystal blue eyes linger on him for several moments, she turned her attention back to her reading as if he had never spoke.
“They’ve been 'coming' for months, Valdar,” she dismissed him before running her slender fingers tenderly through her golden hair.
The Godslayer’s eyes narrowed, his gaze moving from the Enchantress to the room’s window. Looking out at the city of Asgard, where the resident gods and goddesses went about their immortal lives, he couldn’t shake the feeling that had settled over him.
“I’ve fought in many wars, Amora. I have a sense about these things. They’re coming soon.”
Without shifting her focus, Amora arched a single eyebrow in a display of mild interest. Silence settled between them as she continued immersing herself in the book’s details, while Valdar waited patiently for a response. Just as he gave up on retaining her attention and began turning to find activities elsewhere, she gently closed the book while rising to stand at her full statuesque height.
“Then why keep them waiting,” she said with a cool calmness, the corners of her precious lips flickering upward in a smirk.
Striding with a feline grace toward her companion, she paused to hold his strong chin between her fingers, tilting his head downwards so that his eyes met hers.
“If it’s a war they want, it’s a war they shall have. I’ve grown tired of waiting.”
Placing a flirtatious kiss on his lips, the sorceress lifted both her hands upward as a veil of jade light enveloped both the Asgardians, before dissipating to reveal the empty space where they once stood.
The Hellfire Club, Malaga, Spain
“What are we doing here, Amora? This isn’t the home of the Liafadors.”
The gods stood before a palatial mansion, Spanish in its design and resting overlooking an endless stretch of the Mediterranean Sea. Every detail of the estate displayed a clear opulence, from the meticulous sculpting of the grounds to the ornate sculptures leading toward the imposing front entrance. The ambiance of wealth and power was unavoidable, while a more sinister nuance crept just under the surface.
“Do you take me for as big of a fool as you are, Valdar? I am well aware of where we are.”
She took several steps forward, running her fingers over the velvety petals of a red rose sprouting from the flora that decorated the mansion’s grounds. “I have no intentions of striking the first blow against the Liafadors. We must draw them to us,” she explained with an unsettling poise. Curling her fingers into a fist, the pristine rose turned to ash in a flare of emerald flames.
Turning her golden head over her shoulder, she looked back at Valdar with a wicked glee painted over the beauty of her face. Raising a hand, an aura of jade energy began searing the air around her with its scorching heat. In a single swift motion, she shot an open palm toward the mansion, the green energy projecting in her hand’s direction.
The blast’s impact sent a shockwave in a radius around the mansion, flattening grass and palms trees in its path and sending an earsplitting sound through the air for miles around. Shards of debris flew in every direction, while what hadn’t been instantly disintegrated in the magic energy’s heart was left to burn in a column of emerald fire. Ash fell like grim snow from the sky, painting the previously noble estate in a layer of slate despair. Most disturbingly was a fresh scent in the air, one faint but gut wrenching, one of the burnt flesh of those inside the mansion who had no time to save themselves from the Enchantress’ assault.
Watching the flickers of debris still burning in jade fall from the sky, Amora’s subtle smirk grew into a sadistic grin as she witnessed the results of her labor.
“Well, I would have rather just killed one of those Liafador brats, but that should still send the message. To Ziccarra and her Hellfire friends,” she chimed, wrapping a lithe arm around Valdar’s hulking frame while placing her other hand on his chest.
“Come, my love. We must return to Asgard to give Thor news of the Liafadors savage attack against us.”
“Does thou's tongue speak true, Amora?” the voice of Thor rumbled through the massive throne room, which had been emptied except for the Thunder God, the Enchantress, and the Godslayer. The King of Asgard sat with grace on his throne, the High Seat his rightful inheritance after Odin’s death despite Amora’s brief seizure of its position.
“Of course, Thor. I would not lie under such circumstances,” she pressed with innocence, her silver tongue capable of enchantments just as powerful as her magic. “Valdar and I traveled to Midgard to reason with the Liafadors, to avoid this war entirely. But when we arrived, we found the mortals' army already amassed. The Liafadors and the Hellfire Club all prepared to march on the gates of Asgard at any moment. We barely managed to return to Asgard after being attacked by those dogs,” she spat, painting the image with expert verbal craftsmanship.
Thor fell silent, contemplation darkening his face as he considered her words. Looking up he spoke.
“If it is war they want, it is war they shall have. I’ll have our armies assembled immediately. This will be the last time any mortal tests the strength of Asgard.”
Sinister joy flooded the Enchantress face, her figure bowing faintly before leaving Thor to discuss war preparations with his advisors.
After navigating the expanse of the Imperial Palace, followed by Valdar, Amora sauntered into the golden sunlight pouring over the palace’s gardens. The light played with a heavenly glee within the golden strands of her hair as the goddess made her way to the heart of the garden, where she rested her divine figure on a stone bench that formed a square around a tree as magnificent and immortal as the city it lived within.
“What do we do now?” Valdar questioned, resting his Herculean frame against the tree’s trunk. “Should we not prepare ourselves for war as well? Undoubtedly Ziccarra, as well as Maya, will come with an insatiable desire for your blood,” he commented, weary of how the sorceress might respond.
“Now, Godslayer, we wait,” she granted him, closing her eyes in bliss as the sun hugged her flawless skin. Her laxness confused the warrior god, but he did not interrupt.
“You see Valdar, we have already done our part in this war. As we speak, Ziccarra and her family will discover the pile of ashes we left for them in Malaga, while Thor readies Asgard’s greatest warriors to avenge something that never happened. Ziccarra and the Hellfire Club will find themselves at our gates, where, with help from the Knightfalls if we’re lucky, the two armies will fight until every mortal—Liafador, Hellfire, and Knightfall—and every Asgardian is but a corpse in a sea of blood and death. Do you know what that will mean, my love?” she offered Valdar, knowing he would have already been lost in the writhing intentions of her words. Recognizing the pained expression on his face, she took his answer as a no.
“It means it will all be ours to take. Asgard will be weakened, with Thor either dead or exhausted enough for me to kill him myself. Midgard will be without its greatest champions, the Liafadors decimated and the Hellfire Club exterminated. All we do now is wait, Valdar. And when the dust is settled and every warrior has taken his last breath, we will take what is ours. Asgard will have its queen back, and wretched Midgard will have the queen it deserves.”
Rising from the bench, she moved with an ethereal grace stand under a branch hanging lower than the rest. Raising a hand, she picked a single golden apple among the dozens that would grow from the tree. As she dug her teeth into the succulent fruit, its juices dripping from her pillowy lips and down her chin, she could hear the sound of metal clanging against metal in the distance. Every warrior on Asgard would be preparing, gathering their finest armor and sharpening their proudest blades.
War was no longer coming. War had arrived. A war between two worlds.