The Grim Reaper stood in a valley of bones. He checked his hourglass. The sand was still.
Then, the horizon blocked out the stars. Fenrir arrived.
The wolf was not just an animal; he was a landscape of fur and muscle. He opened a mouth that could swallow the sky.
The Reaper did not feel fear—he was a concept, not a man—but he felt small.
The Uncuttable Thread
The Reaper raised his scythe. He moved with the silence of the grave, aiming for the ethereal thread that bound the wolf's soul to his body. Scythe of Severance.
He struck. The blade passed through Fenrir's neck harmlessly, like smoke through a storm.
Fenrir didn't even blink. He was bound by Gleipnir, yes, but he was also bound by Fate. He was destined to kill Odin. He could not die before that moment.
"You are early," Fenrir growled. His voice cracked the nearby mountains.
The Devourer
Fenrir didn't bite the Reaper; he inhaled the space where the Reaper stood.
Ragnarök Devour.
The vacuum pulled the spirit of death into the maw of the wolf. The Reaper tried to dissolve into mist, to use the Veil of Unending Night, but Fenrir's hunger was stronger than night.
The wolf snapped his jaws shut. A heavy silence fell over the valley—not the silence of death, but the silence of an empty room.
Fenrir lay down to sleep. The skeleton in the cloak was just an appetizer.