Ash-choked twilight of Ragnarök

Through the perpetual gloaming of Midgard's dying days, Bjorn trudged across fields of frost-rimed bones, where wyrms coiled among the remains of ancient warriors. The ground beneath his feet wept black ichor, seeping up through cracks in the earth's broken skin. Each step brought him closer to Helheim's gates, while the weight of his guilt – heavier than any hammer – bent his spine beneath furs crusted with hoarfrost. In the distance, Yggdrasil's once-mighty branches clawed at the churning heavens like a drowning man's fingers, its bark peeling away in sheets of cosmic rot.