The Only Gods We Know, Ch 13: After Action Report

For a crew of decorated war-enders, they were being treated an awful lot like prisoners waiting for the firing squad.

Brynja and her senior survivors - Astrid, Sigrun, Mist, and one pale, furious Mage-Major Kára - got escorted by a full squad of Tyr's personal Einherjar to a sterile, windowless box deep in FOB Hlið Þrír's guts. No windows. No decorations. Just a holotable and chairs bolted to the deck like they expected someone to throw furniture. A room built for enhanced interrogation, not handing out medals.

Small mercy: they kept their weapons. Not trust - calculated politics. Disarming decorated Valkyries in front of witnesses would be messy. The kind of messy that makes the evening briefings.

Waiting inside: Lord Tyr, face locked down tight enough to crack teeth. Commander Geirskögul, expression professionally fucking neutral. And a shimmering holo-projection of Loki, giving them a lazy smile that didn't touch those cold, calculating eyes. Thor was conveniently absent - probably still leading the main push against the now-eating-itself Chitin-Cog forces. Useful excuse to keep the most straightforward god away from this delicate, dirty business.

Loki spoke first. Seized the narrative before anyone else could grab it. Tone smooth as oil over a snake pit.

"Valkyrie Commander Brynja. On behalf of the Allfather, allow me to officially welcome you back from KIA status. Remarkable feat of survival. Your success uploading the Rune of Madness exceeded our most optimistic projections. The Chitin-Cog network is experiencing cascading systemic failure. You have, in effect, won us the war."

Pause. Let the praise hang there like sweet poison.

"I am, of course, aware of your... unconventional exfil. The final phase of the operation, the 'sacrifice' as outlined in the mission profile, was necessary OPSEC. A ghost protocol. Ensured the enemy couldn't back-trace the esoteric viral signature to a surviving Asgardian element. Your survival - " generous wave of his hand " - is a welcome bonus. Statistically unlikely. Testament to Valkyrie toughness."

Expertly done. Sickeningly done. He'd reframed their abandonment as a feature, not a bug. Painted their betrayal as the final test - one they'd passed with flying colors.

Cold rage settled in Brynja's gut. Her face stayed locked down.

"Lord Tyr." She turned to the God of War, deliberately bypassing Loki. "I'm prepared to deliver my after-action report."

For the next hour, she did exactly that. Stuck to tactical facts. Voice cold, precise, stripped of emotion. Detailed the infiltration. Kára's ritual. Data-shard upload. Chaos cascade. Fortress sanitation protocols going hot with their bio-sigs flagged hostile. Subsequent exfil under fire.

Mist projected carefully chosen logs from the Skittermule's recorder - showed their desperate flight and resource scrounging. All their private, "treasonous" conversations about the betrayal? Carefully scrubbed.

She didn't accuse Loki directly. Didn't need to.

She finished with his last known transmission to their unit.

"...at which point we received final encrypted comms from Lord Loki on command frequency, stating, quote: 'Excellent work, Valkyries. Your part in this is complete. The Allfather thanks you for your sacrifice.' Immediately following transmission, all designated exfil routes were permanently sealed and local automated defenses activated with our bio-signatures flagged hostile. We were forced to improvise alternate extraction."

Simple. Factual. Delivered without emotion.

Hung in the sterile air like a death sentence.

Direct, undeniable accusation, wrapped in the untouchable language of an official AAR.

Tyr was caught. Jaw knotted with rigid muscle. Brynja had handed him a tactical victory too big to ignore, too public to bury. He couldn't punish them without admitting High Command approved a suicide run and then lied about it. Forced to play along with Loki's infuriating narrative. His anger at being outsmarted - palpable.

Geirskögul, silent throughout the debrief, finally spoke. Voice sharp. "Your report mentions flight packs were used for initial escape from the Core Chamber. What was their operational status and remaining fuel capacity at that point?"

Simple tactical question. Hidden meaning clear as crystal: Could you have flown out? Or were you trapped groundside?

She was subtly poking holes in Loki's story. Gathering her own intel.

Loki just smiled. Seemingly untroubled.

***

They weren't returned to their old racks in the Valkyrie wing. Instead, the survivors of Operation Loki's Gambit got escorted to a secure, isolated block under "medical quarantine."

Fancy fucking cage.

Rooms were better than their old bunks. Food was higher grade. But doors had guards, and their comms were undoubtedly monitored. Heroes, sure - but prisoners. Celebrated from a distance, kept from running their mouths to regular grunts.

Internal dynamics started falling apart under pressure. Kára and her two surviving mages were bitter, resentful - now fully aware they'd been nothing more than precision ammo in a god's rifle. The Einherjar were grimly accepting. Used to being expendable, but usually by the enemy, not their own goddamn command structure.

Real explosion came from Astrid.

She cornered Brynja in their shared space, eyes blazing with furious, betrayed fire.

"You let him get away with it!" Low hiss. Barely controlled. "You had Tyr there. Had the logs. Had witnesses. And you just... gave a goddamn mission report!"

"What would you have had me do, Astrid?" Brynja's voice, dangerously quiet. "Scream treason? Accuse the Allfather's brother of attempted murder in front of the God of War? They would've smoked us on the spot. Or worse - declared us psycho from trauma and locked us in stasis for the next thousand years."

"We should have fought!"

"We are fighting." Brynja stepped closer, gaze intense. "But we're not on a battlefield anymore. This is different terrain. Different rules of engagement. I'd accused him directly, we'd be dead. He would've twisted it into disobedience. Into lies covering our own failures. This way... this way we're decorated heroes. We're the victors of Loki's Gambit. We're alive. And we're a problem he can't easily solve. A loose end he failed to sanitize. We live to fight another day, Astrid. We live to remember."

Raw emotion in Astrid's eyes slowly gave way to cold, grudging understanding. This was a long game. War of politics and perception. Brynja, the straightforward warrior, was suddenly playing it with chilling, ruthless pragmatism Astrid had never considered.

Dynamic between them had shifted.

Later, Sigrun found Brynja staring at a tactical display of the Myrkviðr system. Expression unreadable.

"You played the game well, Lead." The older Valkyrie's voice, quiet affirmation. "Put them in check." Pause. Gaze meeting Brynja's. "But don't ever forget - they play it better than anyone. And they own the goddamn board."

***

News of their survival spread through the fleet like a virus. The "Ghosts of Jötun-Kjarni" became instant legends. Story whispered in mess halls and hangar bays. Official version: impossible heroism. Team went into the heart of hell, returned victorious.

Alongside ran darker, more cynical whispers from regular soldiers. How'd they really survive? What deal did they cut? Some whispered they were tainted, touched by Chitin-Cog madness. Others - the more cynical vets - guessed closer to truth: mission had been one-way from the start. Their survival was a massive inconvenience to High Command.

One evening, their guards snapped to attention as Commander Geirskögul arrived at the quarantine block. She dismissed the Einherjar at the door with a single, sharp wave. Unofficial visit. Not approved.

Found Brynja alone in the common area, cleaning Storm-Singer with methodical, almost meditative focus.

"Official commendation's being prepared," Geirskögul said, voice neutral. "Lord Tyr is recommending you all for the Crimson Sash."

"An honor." Brynja didn't look up. Tone flat.

Geirskögul walked closer. Gaze intense. Didn't ask for the "truth." Didn't ask about Loki or Odin. Instead, asked sharp tactical questions.

"Escape route you took... bypassed three primary security checkpoints. Official log from the Skittermule states this was due to 'system-wide chaos.' Was that your assessment on the ground?"

Test. Carefully worded to see how Brynja would respond.

"My assessment, Commander," Brynja finally met her gaze, "was that we exploited unpredictable system failures to our advantage. Our survival was... statistically improbable."

Geirskögul held her gaze. Long moment. Silent conversation between two warriors.

"Loki's plans are often... intricate," the commander said finally. Wealth of meaning packed into the simple statement. "They rely on multiple, interlocking contingencies. Fortunate that your team's resourcefulness exceeded even his most extreme calculations."

Close as an acknowledgment of truth as Brynja would ever get.

Unspoken alliance forged in that moment. No promises made. Understanding reached. Geirskögul knew Brynja was lying. Brynja knew that Geirskögul knew. And Geirskögul was letting it stand.

"Stay sharp, Commander Brynja." Using her old rank. "War isn't over."

Turned and left as silently as she'd arrived.

Brynja stared at the door long after. She had a powerful, if cautious, ally. And she had a feeling she was going to need one.

***

"Quarantine" lifted a week later. Not with quiet dismissal - with orders to attend full-honors ceremony in the main hangar of Hlið Þrír.

Masterpiece of political theater. Public show designed to cement the official story, bury inconvenient truths under the weight of glory. The hangar, usually chaotic with maintenance crews and ammo loading, was now filled with rank upon rank of Einherjar and Valkyries. Armor polished. Banners high.

Brynja and the other survivors stood on a raised platform. Felt less like heroes, more like carefully chosen props in a grand play. They'd been given new, clean uniforms. Old, battered armor taken away to be "archived as relics of a historic engagement."

Another way of erasing evidence.

Thor was there, having returned from a series of brilliantly successful strikes against the now-eating-itself Chitin-Cog forces. The Rune of Madness had worked better than hoped - enemy was consuming itself, Thor was happily cleaning up the pieces. In his element. Booming voice praising their "unimaginable courage" and "unyielding Asgardian spirit."

He clapped Brynja on the shoulder. Gesture both real congratulations from one warrior to another and public stamp of approval from a god.

Made Brynja's stomach turn.

Good, honorable god. But praising them for surviving a betrayal he knew jack shit about.

Then the holographic form of Odin Allfather appeared above the platform. Presence silencing the entire hangar. Single eye, ancient and powerful, seemed to look through each of them. Sizing them up. Weighing them.

"Today, we honor warriors who stared into the void and did not flinch." Voice resonating. Pure, undeniable authority. "Operation Loki's Gambit was a mission of highest risk. Necessary, calculated strike against the heart of a formidable foe. Its success marks the turning point in this war."

Looked directly at Brynja and her crew.

"The plan required deep cover. Final protocol of silence and sacrifice to ensure success. We believed you lost - noble and necessary price for victory. Your survival is an unexpected but welcome testament to the indomitable will of the Valkyrie. You have not only executed your orders. You have exceeded them."

Brilliant, airtight story. Acknowledged their "sacrifice." Framed it as part of the plan. Praised their survival as bonus - all without admitting to a single lie or betrayal.

Untouchable.

Then came the masterstroke. The forging of their golden cage.

"Such valor cannot go unrewarded." Odin declared. "To silence any lingering questions of your honor, and to reward your undeniable success, new ranks are hereby conferred. Valkyrie Commander Brynja Vingfalk, for exemplary leadership and achieving critical strategic objective under extreme duress, you are hereby promoted to Shield-Captain."

Murmur of awe through the crowd. Shield-Captain was high rank. Command-level position putting her equal with some of the most veteran leaders in the fleet.

"Valkyrie Astrid Vingthor'sdotter, for your singular combat prowess and ferocity in the face of overwhelming odds, you are promoted to Flight Lead. Command of your own squadron."

Astrid's face - complex mask of pride and simmering anger. But she bowed her head in acceptance.

"Valkyrie Sigrun Iron-Hand, for your unwavering defense of your comrades and embodiment of the Valkyrie shield-ethos, you are promoted to the honored rank of Shield-Sergeant."

Sigrun's expression didn't change. Single, almost invisible nod.

Brynja understood immediately.

Not just reward. Leash. Forged from gold and honor.

They were being praised. Celebrated. Promoted. Made into symbols of Asgardian victory - the "Ghosts of Jötun-Kjarni." And as symbols, as decorated senior officers, it became infinitely harder to speak out. To question. To reveal ugly truth.

Who would believe them now? They'd accepted the honors. The promotions. Their silence had been bought and paid for with the very thing they cherished most: their honor.

***

Later, Brynja stood alone in her new quarters. Shield-Captain privilege - larger, more private space. Felt like isolation.

Room was sterile. Impersonal.

On the uniform rack hung her new officer's tunic. Silver insignia of Shield-Captain gleaming on the collar. She picked it up. Heavy. Cold. Weight far greater than physical mass.

She ran the last week through her mind with cold, tactical clarity. Played the political game. Faced down a god of war and a god of lies. Walked away. Crew alive.

Won.

But in accepting the official narrative to ensure survival, she'd become part of the cover-up. Now part of the system that had so casually thrown them away.

Knowledge was a shard of ice in her soul.

Her duty, her oath, had always been simple, straightforward: serve the Allfather, protect Asgard, fight with honor. Now? Tangled mess of conflicting loyalties. Duty to her gods, or duty to the warriors they so easily sacrificed? Duty to the glorious lie, or duty to the ugly, inconvenient truth?

She walked to the viewport. Looking out not at a battlefield, but at the sprawling, uncaring starfield of the Myrkviðr system. The war against the Chitin-Cog was now just mop-up. Thanks to their "sacrifice." Other Asgardian commanders would earn glory sweeping up the pieces of the army they'd broken.

But other wars awaited. Other worlds. Other species to be "pacified" and "brought into the fold."

New, cold resolve settled over her. Chilled the last of her youthful idealism. Froze her grief and rage into a hard, sharp weapon.

She touched the new rank insignia on her collar.

Promotion wasn't a reward. Leash. Silencer.

But it also gave her more authority. More access. More power.

She'd wear the leash. Play the game. Climb the ladder - not for glory, not for the Allfather, but to gain enough power, enough influence, so that next time the gods decided to sacrifice their soldiers on the altar of strategy, she'd be in position to do something about it.

She'd be the witness. The memory. The reckoning waiting patiently within their own ranks.

The war wasn't over.

Not by a long fucking shot.

***

For a crew of decorated war-enders, they were being treated an awful lot like prisoners waiting for the firing squad.

Brynja and her senior survivors - Astrid, Sigrun, Mist, and one pale, furious Mage-Major Kára - got escorted by a full squad of Tyr's personal Einherjar to a sterile, windowless box deep in FOB Hlið Þrír's guts. No windows. No decorations. Just a holotable and chairs bolted to the deck like they expected someone to throw furniture. A room built for enhanced interrogation, not handing out medals.

Small mercy: they kept their weapons. Not trust - calculated politics. Disarming decorated Valkyries in front of witnesses would be messy. The kind of messy that makes the evening briefings.

Waiting inside: Lord Tyr, face locked down tight enough to crack teeth. Commander Geirskögul, expression professionally fucking neutral. And a shimmering holo-projection of Loki, giving them a lazy smile that didn't touch those cold, calculating eyes. Thor was conveniently absent - probably still leading the main push against the now-eating-itself Chitin-Cog forces. Useful excuse to keep the most straightforward god away from this delicate, dirty business.

Loki spoke first. Seized the narrative before anyone else could grab it. Tone smooth as oil over a snake pit.

"Valkyrie Commander Brynja. On behalf of the Allfather, allow me to officially welcome you back from KIA status. Remarkable feat of survival. Your success uploading the Rune of Madness exceeded our most optimistic projections. The Chitin-Cog network is experiencing cascading systemic failure. You have, in effect, won us the war."

Pause. Let the praise hang there like sweet poison.

"I am, of course, aware of your... unconventional exfil. The final phase of the operation, the 'sacrifice' as outlined in the mission profile, was necessary OPSEC. A ghost protocol. Ensured the enemy couldn't back-trace the esoteric viral signature to a surviving Asgardian element. Your survival - " generous wave of his hand " - is a welcome bonus. Statistically unlikely. Testament to Valkyrie toughness."

Expertly done. Sickeningly done. He'd reframed their abandonment as a feature, not a bug. Painted their betrayal as the final test - one they'd passed with flying colors.

Cold rage settled in Brynja's gut. Her face stayed locked down.

"Lord Tyr." She turned to the God of War, deliberately bypassing Loki. "I'm prepared to deliver my after-action report."

For the next hour, she did exactly that. Stuck to tactical facts. Voice cold, precise, stripped of emotion. Detailed the infiltration. Kára's ritual. Data-shard upload. Chaos cascade. Fortress sanitation protocols going hot with their bio-sigs flagged hostile. Subsequent exfil under fire.

Mist projected carefully chosen logs from the Skittermule's recorder - showed their desperate flight and resource scrounging. All their private, "treasonous" conversations about the betrayal? Carefully scrubbed.

She didn't accuse Loki directly. Didn't need to.

She finished with his last known transmission to their unit.

"...at which point we received final encrypted comms from Lord Loki on command frequency, stating, quote: 'Excellent work, Valkyries. Your part in this is complete. The Allfather thanks you for your sacrifice.' Immediately following transmission, all designated exfil routes were permanently sealed and local automated defenses activated with our bio-signatures flagged hostile. We were forced to improvise alternate extraction."

Simple. Factual. Delivered without emotion.

Hung in the sterile air like a death sentence.

Direct, undeniable accusation, wrapped in the untouchable language of an official AAR.

Tyr was caught. Jaw knotted with rigid muscle. Brynja had handed him a tactical victory too big to ignore, too public to bury. He couldn't punish them without admitting High Command approved a suicide run and then lied about it. Forced to play along with Loki's infuriating narrative. His anger at being outsmarted - palpable.

Geirskögul, silent throughout the debrief, finally spoke. Voice sharp. "Your report mentions flight packs were used for initial escape from the Core Chamber. What was their operational status and remaining fuel capacity at that point?"

Simple tactical question. Hidden meaning clear as crystal: Could you have flown out? Or were you trapped groundside?

She was subtly poking holes in Loki's story. Gathering her own intel.

Loki just smiled. Seemingly untroubled.

***

They weren't returned to their old racks in the Valkyrie wing. Instead, the survivors of Operation Loki's Gambit got escorted to a secure, isolated block under "medical quarantine."

Fancy fucking cage.

Rooms were better than their old bunks. Food was higher grade. But doors had guards, and their comms were undoubtedly monitored. Heroes, sure - but prisoners. Celebrated from a distance, kept from running their mouths to regular grunts.

Internal dynamics started falling apart under pressure. Kára and her two surviving mages were bitter, resentful - now fully aware they'd been nothing more than precision ammo in a god's rifle. The Einherjar were grimly accepting. Used to being expendable, but usually by the enemy, not their own goddamn command structure.

Real explosion came from Astrid.

She cornered Brynja in their shared space, eyes blazing with furious, betrayed fire.

"You let him get away with it!" Low hiss. Barely controlled. "You had Tyr there. Had the logs. Had witnesses. And you just... gave a goddamn mission report!"

"What would you have had me do, Astrid?" Brynja's voice, dangerously quiet. "Scream treason? Accuse the Allfather's brother of attempted murder in front of the God of War? They would've smoked us on the spot. Or worse - declared us psycho from trauma and locked us in stasis for the next thousand years."

"We should have fought!"

"We *are* fighting." Brynja stepped closer, gaze intense. "But we're not on a battlefield anymore. This is different terrain. Different rules of engagement. I'd accused him directly, we'd be dead. He would've twisted it into disobedience. Into lies covering our own failures. This way... this way we're decorated heroes. We're the victors of Loki's Gambit. We're alive. And we're a problem he can't easily solve. A loose end he failed to sanitize. We live to fight another day, Astrid. We live to remember."

Raw emotion in Astrid's eyes slowly gave way to cold, grudging understanding. This was a long game. War of politics and perception. Brynja, the straightforward warrior, was suddenly playing it with chilling, ruthless pragmatism Astrid had never considered.

Dynamic between them had shifted.

Later, Sigrun found Brynja staring at a tactical display of the Myrkviðr system. Expression unreadable.

"You played the game well, Lead." The older Valkyrie's voice, quiet affirmation. "Put them in check." Pause. Gaze meeting Brynja's. "But don't ever forget - they play it better than anyone. And they own the goddamn board."

***

News of their survival spread through the fleet like a virus. The "Ghosts of Jötun-Kjarni" became instant legends. Story whispered in mess halls and hangar bays. Official version: impossible heroism. Team went into the heart of hell, returned victorious.

Alongside ran darker, more cynical whispers from regular soldiers. How'd they really survive? What deal did they cut? Some whispered they were tainted, touched by Chitin-Cog madness. Others - the more cynical vets - guessed closer to truth: mission had been one-way from the start. Their survival was a massive inconvenience to High Command.

One evening, their guards snapped to attention as Commander Geirskögul arrived at the quarantine block. She dismissed the Einherjar at the door with a single, sharp wave. Unofficial visit. Not approved.

Found Brynja alone in the common area, cleaning Storm-Singer with methodical, almost meditative focus.

"Official commendation's being prepared," Geirskögul said, voice neutral. "Lord Tyr is recommending you all for the Crimson Sash."

"An honor." Brynja didn't look up. Tone flat.

Geirskögul walked closer. Gaze intense. Didn't ask for the "truth." Didn't ask about Loki or Odin. Instead, asked sharp tactical questions.

"Escape route you took... bypassed three primary security checkpoints. Official log from the Skittermule states this was due to 'system-wide chaos.' Was that your assessment on the ground?"

Test. Carefully worded to see how Brynja would respond.

"My assessment, Commander," Brynja finally met her gaze, "was that we exploited unpredictable system failures to our advantage. Our survival was... statistically improbable."

Geirskögul held her gaze. Long moment. Silent conversation between two warriors.

"Loki's plans are often... intricate," the commander said finally. Wealth of meaning packed into the simple statement. "They rely on multiple, interlocking contingencies. Fortunate that your team's resourcefulness exceeded even his most extreme calculations."

Close as an acknowledgment of truth as Brynja would ever get.

Unspoken alliance forged in that moment. No promises made. Understanding reached. Geirskögul knew Brynja was lying. Brynja knew that Geirskögul knew. And Geirskögul was letting it stand.

"Stay sharp, Commander Brynja." Using her old rank. "War isn't over."

Turned and left as silently as she'd arrived.

Brynja stared at the door long after. She had a powerful, if cautious, ally. And she had a feeling she was going to need one.

***

"Quarantine" lifted a week later. Not with quiet dismissal - with orders to attend full-honors ceremony in the main hangar of Hlið Þrír.

Masterpiece of political theater. Public show designed to cement the official story, bury inconvenient truths under the weight of glory. The hangar, usually chaotic with maintenance crews and ammo loading, was now filled with rank upon rank of Einherjar and Valkyries. Armor polished. Banners high.

Brynja and the other survivors stood on a raised platform. Felt less like heroes, more like carefully chosen props in a grand play. They'd been given new, clean uniforms. Old, battered armor taken away to be "archived as relics of a historic engagement."

Another way of erasing evidence.

Thor was there, having returned from a series of brilliantly successful strikes against the now-eating-itself Chitin-Cog forces. The Rune of Madness had worked better than hoped - enemy was consuming itself, Thor was happily cleaning up the pieces. In his element. Booming voice praising their "unimaginable courage" and "unyielding Asgardian spirit."

He clapped Brynja on the shoulder. Gesture both real congratulations from one warrior to another and public stamp of approval from a god.

Made Brynja's stomach turn.

Good, honorable god. But praising them for surviving a betrayal he knew jack shit about.

Then the holographic form of Odin Allfather appeared above the platform. Presence silencing the entire hangar. Single eye, ancient and powerful, seemed to look through each of them. Sizing them up. Weighing them.

"Today, we honor warriors who stared into the void and did not flinch." Voice resonating. Pure, undeniable authority. "Operation Loki's Gambit was a mission of highest risk. Necessary, calculated strike against the heart of a formidable foe. Its success marks the turning point in this war."

Looked directly at Brynja and her crew.

"The plan required deep cover. Final protocol of silence and sacrifice to ensure success. We believed you lost - noble and necessary price for victory. Your survival is an unexpected but welcome testament to the indomitable will of the Valkyrie. You have not only executed your orders. You have exceeded them."

Brilliant, airtight story. Acknowledged their "sacrifice." Framed it as part of the plan. Praised their survival as bonus - all without admitting to a single lie or betrayal.

Untouchable.

Then came the masterstroke. The forging of their golden cage.

"Such valor cannot go unrewarded." Odin declared. "To silence any lingering questions of your honor, and to reward your undeniable success, new ranks are hereby conferred. Valkyrie Commander Brynja Vingfalk, for exemplary leadership and achieving critical strategic objective under extreme duress, you are hereby promoted to Shield-Captain."

Murmur of awe through the crowd. Shield-Captain was high rank. Command-level position putting her equal with some of the most veteran leaders in the fleet.

"Valkyrie Astrid Vingthor'sdotter, for your singular combat prowess and ferocity in the face of overwhelming odds, you are promoted to Flight Lead. Command of your own squadron."

Astrid's face - complex mask of pride and simmering anger. But she bowed her head in acceptance.

"Valkyrie Sigrun Iron-Hand, for your unwavering defense of your comrades and embodiment of the Valkyrie shield-ethos, you are promoted to the honored rank of Shield-Sergeant."

Sigrun's expression didn't change. Single, almost invisible nod.

Brynja understood immediately.

Not just reward. Leash. Forged from gold and honor.

They were being praised. Celebrated. Promoted. Made into symbols of Asgardian victory - the "Ghosts of Jötun-Kjarni." And as symbols, as decorated senior officers, it became infinitely harder to speak out. To question. To reveal ugly truth.

Who would believe them now? They'd accepted the honors. The promotions. Their silence had been bought and paid for with the very thing they cherished most: their honor.

***

Later, Brynja stood alone in her new quarters. Shield-Captain privilege - larger, more private space. Felt like isolation.

Room was sterile. Impersonal.

On the uniform rack hung her new officer's tunic. Silver insignia of Shield-Captain gleaming on the collar. She picked it up. Heavy. Cold. Weight far greater than physical mass.

She ran the last week through her mind with cold, tactical clarity. Played the political game. Faced down a god of war and a god of lies. Walked away. Crew alive.

Won.

But in accepting the official narrative to ensure survival, she'd become part of the cover-up. Now part of the system that had so casually thrown them away.

Knowledge was a shard of ice in her soul.

Her duty, her oath, had always been simple, straightforward: serve the Allfather, protect Asgard, fight with honor. Now? Tangled mess of conflicting loyalties. Duty to her gods, or duty to the warriors they so easily sacrificed? Duty to the glorious lie, or duty to the ugly, inconvenient truth?

She walked to the viewport. Looking out not at a battlefield, but at the sprawling, uncaring starfield of the Myrkviðr system. The war against the Chitin-Cog was now just mop-up. Thanks to their "sacrifice." Other Asgardian commanders would earn glory sweeping up the pieces of the army they'd broken.

But other wars awaited. Other worlds. Other species to be "pacified" and "brought into the fold."

New, cold resolve settled over her. Chilled the last of her youthful idealism. Froze her grief and rage into a hard, sharp weapon.

She touched the new rank insignia on her collar.

Promotion wasn't a reward. Leash. Silencer.

But it also gave her more authority. More access. More power.

She'd wear the leash. Play the game. Climb the ladder - not for glory, not for the Allfather, but to gain enough power, enough influence, so that next time the gods decided to sacrifice their soldiers on the altar of strategy, she'd be in position to do something about it.

She'd be the witness. The memory. The reckoning waiting patiently within their own ranks.

The war wasn't over.

Not by a long fucking shot.

***