The noise and resistance in the Golden Palace finally subsided under Loki's clever persuasion.
The god of trickery wormed his way between the angry gods, lowering his voice and laying out seemingly irrefutable logic:
"Everyone, think calmly! One season? Just one winter? Even if you gave him an extraordinary divine steed, how many boulders could he haul? Moreover, it requires precise construction, reinforcement, and the application of protective magic? This is simply an impossible task!"
"What's wrong with agreeing to him? We don't have to pay for the sun, the moon, and certainly not for the Tyrfing blade that just arrived. We only gave a promise he can't keep, and Ásgarðr will be provided with an impregnable barrier! This is a risk we can never lose!"
This rhetoric precisely hit the greed and hope for luck in the hearts of the gods.
Yes, a foreign craftsman, an animal, one season... The conditions were almost insulting.
They seemed to see the craftsman's exhaustion and failure, and then they would be able not only to retract their promises but also to gain part of the wall's foundation built for free.
And so, thanks to Loki's 'efforts', a contract was reached, bound by a sacred oath:
The craftsman from the outskirts was to single-handedly complete the construction of sturdy walls around Ásgarðr in one winter. If successful, he would be rewarded with the sun, the moon, and Tyrfing;
If he failed, he would receive nothing.
When the contract was concluded, the gods prepared to watch a good show with a mix of contempt and expectation.
On the first day of construction, they gathered at the foundation trenches that the foreigner had, with his divine power or skills, dug the previous evening, and chatted amongst themselves.
At dawn, they saw the sturdy craftsman and his gray horse confidently walking through the morning mist.
The following scene abruptly cut off all whispers.
The gray horse, named Svaðilfari, with an unusually steady gait, was not just carrying its load but dragging huge stone sleds piled high with massive granite boulders.
Each stone, apparently pre-polished, had smooth edges and was of uniform size.
What was even more shocking was that the horse pulled such a heavy load effortlessly, its hoofbeats dull and rhythmic, as if stepping on the very heartbeat of the gods.
The craftsman was silent; he didn't need to shout, didn't need to urge.
When he reached the trench, he extended his calloused but extremely steady hands, moving smoothly, as if rehearsed thousands of times.
He used no visible divine power, but when he took a boulder that several Æsir warriors together could barely lift, his muscles tensed, his waist and abdomen applied force, and the boulder was lifted as if weightless, placed precisely on the foundation.
During construction, the stones were tightly sealed together, with almost no gaps, as if they were born so closely connected.
"This... how is this possible?" a god exclaimed in a low voice.
"This horse... is absolutely no ordinary breed!" other gods with sharp eyes looked at the gray Svaðilfari.
It was so quiet, so calm, and possessed a spirituality in its eyes that surpassed that of cattle.
Under the master's silent command, it moved freely and flawlessly.
The work efficiency was simply astonishing.
In just one morning, the seemingly insurmountable, high and thick foundation of the wall rose from the ground far faster than the gods had expected.
The gods, who had initially come to watch a joke, gradually changed their expressions.
Contempt disappeared, replaced by suspicion and a slight panic that quietly grew.
They began to realize that Loki's so-called 'never-lose bet' didn't seem so absolute.
This foreign craftsman and his horse displayed almost rule-based and unreasonable construction abilities.
Odin's one eye was deeply set, watching the city wall rapidly 'growing' under the master's hands, and the silent, powerful gray divine steed beside him.
The doubts in his heart grew heavier and heavier, like the thick mist of Niflheim.
This was by no means an ordinary craftsman, nor ordinary magic.
The atmosphere before the Golden Palace, once filled with noise and contempt, suddenly became solemn and tense.
"Alright," Loki stood among the assembled gods, arms crossed, trying to maintain an air of having everything under control, although a barely perceptible suspicion lurked in the depths of his eyes.
"The horse will tire quickly. This is its first working day. It can't haul this many stones every night. Besides, winter is coming. The snow will fall deep and thick, and traveling the mountain roads in blizzards will be extremely difficult. Nothing to worry about."
He paused, looked at the still-worried faces around him, and said in an irritable tone, as if trying to convince himself and soothe everyone:
"Everything is within my plan."
However, reality ruthlessly shattered Loki's 'plan'.
Day after day, no matter how cold the night, no matter how icy and snow-covered the mountain roads, the silent craftsman and his gray divine steed Svaðilfari never stopped.
Every evening, as the last light of Ásgarðr faded, the craftsman would silently ride the empty stone sled and horse towards the snow-covered mountains.
Their figures disappeared into the blizzard and darkness, as if swallowed by a giant mouth.
And every morning, when the rising sun cast its pale light upon the frozen city walls, they would return on time, through the morning mist, wind, and snow.
Svaðilfari's steps were still confident; it dragged the huge stone sled loaded with seemingly endless granite boulders—no more, no less, a full twenty, each larger than the strongest Æsir warrior.
Wind and snow seemed not to affect them.
The piercing cold couldn't freeze the craftsman's movements, and the deep snow couldn't hinder Svaðilfari's steps.
The horse seemed tireless, its power emanating from the earth itself, unfathomable.
Its eyes were always calm, with an almost indifferent focus, following the master's silent instructions.
The city wall, under this almost mechanical precision, efficiency, and unreasonable labor, 'grew' frantically at a visible speed.
What was initially just a shallow trench was quickly filled with boulders and rose high.
The walls were thick and sturdy, the joints between stones so tight that even the thinnest blade could not be inserted.
It stretched along the borders of Ásgarðr, like a stone arm slowly closing to embrace and seal the entire divine realm.
The initial suspicion of the gods had now completely turned into hidden panic and anger.
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