Zmej, the three-headed Slavic dragon, was a creature of fire and greed. Many-Headed Conflagration. It soared over the frozen wastes of Niflheim, intending to melt the glaciers and steal the gold hidden beneath.
Ymir sat on the ice. He was the Father of All Giants, a being created from the rime of the dawn of time. He was so large that clouds drifted around his knees.
He watched the dragon approach. "A spark," he murmured.
The Void
Zmej banked, unleashing three streams of inferno at the giant’s face.
Ymir didn't block. He inhaled the fire. Then, he exhaled.
Ginnungagap Frost.
This was not merely cold air. This was the breath of the primordial void—the anti-energy that existed before the stars.
The flame froze. It didn't go out; it solidified into jagged red crystal mid-air, clattering onto the ice.
The cold wave hit Zmej. The dragon's blood turned to slush instantly. Its scales cracked. Its wings, suddenly brittle as thin glass, shattered under the strain of flight. The dragon fell from the sky, a broken statue of frozen meat. Ymir brushed the ice-dust from his beard and went back to dreaming of cows.