The archives of Asgard had never known violence.
They were halls of stone and silence, raised long before kings required justification for their power, their ceilings supported by pillars etched with victories that had outlived the languages that once praised them. Knowledge was sacred here, preserved beyond wrath or urgency, guarded by tradition rather than force.
That protection failed the moment Odin lost patience.
Scrolls lay torn and scattered across the floor, their bindings broken, their seals cracked by hands that no longer cared for ritual. Crystal record slates were ripped from their mounts and stacked without order, some discarded entirely when they failed to answer his questions. Even the air itself seemed reluctant to remain still, as though the library understood that something long buried was being dragged into the light.
Odin moved through the Great Library like a war made deliberate.
He had studied these records since childhood. He knew their organization, their redundancies, and their omissions. Every conquest carried a verse. Every failure carried an explanation softened by pride. Yet now he searched not for glory or precedent, but for something Asgard had attempted to erase.
"The Stones exist," Odin said, his voice low and controlled, threaded with restrained fury. "That truth survives."
He placed his hand against a central slab, and the runes awakened.
Symbols rose into the air, rotating slowly, heavy with age and consequence.
The Space Stone bent distance into obedience, folding separation until travel became a question of will rather than effort.
The Power Stone embodied force without restraint, answering only to endurance strong enough to survive its presence.
The Reality Stone reshaped existence through insistence alone, rewriting what was into what was demanded.
The Time Stone governed sequence, decay, and inevitability, acknowledged only in warnings and fragmented chronicles.
The Mind Stone radiated awareness older than thought itself, observing rather than serving.
The Soul Stone bound life to consequence, measuring not strength or belief, but equivalence.
They were not weapons.
They were laws, condensed into intolerable form.
And yet, for all their detail, the records around them failed.
Where explanation should have followed, language retreated. Meaning collapsed into metaphor. Entire passages ended mid-thought, their conclusions removed with deliberate precision.
Not lost.
Excised.
Odin's single eye hardened.
"This is not decay," he said quietly. "This is fear."
Between margins and fractured syntax, references spiraled toward something older still. A convergence that answered to no Stone alone. A source from which judgment flowed selectively, not endlessly.
A place erased so thoroughly that it no longer possessed a name.
The Well existed only as implication.
"Cowards," Odin muttered. "You feared what lay beyond you, so you erased the thought of it."
A calm voice answered from behind.
"Or perhaps," Frigga said, "they feared what kings become when nothing exists beyond their will."
She stepped into the hall, her gaze moving across the ruin without surprise. Her expression held understanding, not alarm.
"They removed it," Odin said. "Even Bor."
Frigga lifted a damaged slate, tracing the scar where meaning had once been.
"They did not destroy the truth," she said softly. "They contained it."
Odin turned back to the hovering symbols.
"Whatever lies beyond the universe is buried too deeply to reach directly," he said. "But mobility is weakness. Distance is defense."
His gaze settled briefly on the Space Stone.
"If distance ends, everything else follows. Travel becomes absolute. Energy becomes endless."
Frigga studied him carefully. "And the price?"
Odin's answer was calm.
"Every cost is negotiable."
The domain of the Elder lay beyond the influence of thrones.
It was not Knowhere, not yet, but a constructed territory formed from celestial remains and artificial gravity, orbiting a fading star that bathed everything in the color of old bone. Here, history was collected rather than honored, preserved without sentiment.
The Collector welcomed Odin with unmistakable delight.
"God-King of Asgard," he said warmly. "It is not often a ruler seeks me without already knowing the answer he wants."
"I seek the Well," Odin said without ceremony.
The Collector's smile thinned, though curiosity still gleamed in his eyes.
"Then you seek something no Elder possesses," he replied. "Its source does not originate within this universe. It touches a stratum beyond it. Multiversal in nature."
Odin stepped forward. "Then no Elder knows?"
"None," the Collector admitted. "We arrived too late."
Silence lingered.
"But," the Collector continued, his voice brightening, "I do know where you may begin."
"The blue one," Odin said.
"Yes," the Collector said, pleased. "The Space Stone."
"What is your price?"
The Collector laughed softly. "Direct. I appreciate that."
He leaned closer.
"When you finally break one of them," he said quietly, "one of the great builders who call themselves Celestials, I want the head. Intact. Such relics are exceedingly difficult to acquire."
Odin did not hesitate.
"It will be delivered."
The Collector's delight was unmistakable. "Trust from an Elder is not easily earned. You should be pleased."
He paused, then added, "One caveat."
Odin turned back.
"The Stone rests within an ancient cosmic temple," the Collector said. "A graveyard of old Celestials. Only the worthy may claim it."
Odin smiled faintly. "That will not be an obstacle."
"One more thing," the Collector added. "Above that temple now dwells a new pantheon. Banished from your Midgard. They call their realm Olympus."
Odin's expression cooled.
"Gods who require faith to exist," he said calmly, "are unworthy of the title."
The Collector raised a brow. "And what will you do?"
Odin turned toward the stars.
"I will walk to Olympus."
Beyond the Elder's domain, the universe continued its indifference.
And somewhere beyond it, something older than law listened patiently, untroubled by ambition, untouched by denial, waiting only for a king arrogant enough to knock.