Marvel: Silver Hand

The Bifrost split the skies like a falling star.

With a thunderous boom, Alexander, Thor, and the Warriors Three landed in Nidavellir.

The realm of the Dwarves was as they had left it—mountains of iron and stone, rivers of molten metal, and the endless clanging of forges.

Eitri, King of Nidavellir, stood waiting for them, his massive frame clad in intricately crafted armor. His expression was grim but determined as they approached.

"You've returned," Eitri said, nodding in greeting. "Odin chose well. Come. We must prepare."

Alexander followed him into the war chambers, a great hall carved from obsidian and reinforced with enchanted steel. A massive stone table stood at the center, a detailed map of Nidavellir and its outposts spread across it.

The moment they entered, Thor crossed his arms and grinned.

"No need for maps and tactics! We march to Sindri's stronghold and crush him beneath our boots!"

"Aye!" Volstagg added, slamming his fist against the table. "This talk of battle plans is unnecessary. We have steel, magic, and might! That is all we need!"

Fandral leaned against the wall, smirking. "Strategy is for those who lack skill. I say we strike now, before the coward can prepare."

Only Hogun remained silent, his eyes cold as he studied the map.

Alexander, however, wasn't laughing.

"Rushing in without a plan is foolish." He turned to Eitri. "Tell me more about Sindri's weapon."

The Dwarven King sighed and pointed to a section of the map. "We don't know exactly what it is. What we do know is that it's a massive cannon, capable of unleashing an unstoppable beam of energy. The first time we attacked Sindri's forces, he activated it and… well…"

He hesitated, his brow furrowing.

"Almost thirty percent of my army was wiped out in an instant."

The room fell silent.

Alexander clenched his fist. "How many men do you have left?"

Eitri straightened. "Despite our losses, we are still strong. I have 250,000 warriors ready for battle."

That was more than enough.

"And Sindri?"

Eitri shook his head. "His numbers are uncertain. The last estimate put them at over 50,000, but we don't know the true size of his forces."

Alexander exhaled sharply. "Then we have the advantage in numbers." He looked at Eitri. "Get your army ready. Prepare your warships. We march to Sindri's stronghold."

Thor grinned. "Finally! Something to do!"

---

The Battle of the Iron Fortress

A few hours later, the armies of Nidavellir set out.

Rows upon rows of Dwarven warriors, clad in heavy plate armor, marched forward, their axes, hammers, and rifles gleaming under the light of Nidavellir's dying sun. Warships soared above them, massive steel vessels armed with cannons and magical enhancements.

When they arrived at Sindri's outpost, it was as expected—heavily fortified, with massive steel walls and thousands of warriors standing ready.

And there, in the center of the fortress, stood the weapon.

It was massive, bigger than anything Alexander had ever seen—a towering construct of Uru and dark metal, humming with green energy that crackled and pulsed ominously.

Thor cracked his neck. "Shall we begin?"

Alexander's answer was simple. "Charge."

The war horns blared.

With a deafening roar, the armies of Nidavellir surged forward, warships raining fire upon the fortress while ground troops stormed the gates.

Thor leaped ahead, swinging Mjolnir forward—

BOOM!

The gate exploded inward, sending shards of metal flying as the battle began.

Alexander summoned Turann, his wraith hammer, and hurled it into the ranks of Sindri's forces, watching as it crushed through steel armor and bone alike.

Dwarves clashed in brutal combat, axes splitting skulls, hammers caving in ribs, blades painting the ground red with blood.

Fandral danced through the battlefield, his rapier slicing through his foes with deadly grace.

Hogun was a silent reaper, cutting down enemies with brutal efficiency.

Volstagg, laughing heartily, swung his massive axe and cleaved through enemy lines.

Thor moved like a storm incarnate, Mjolnir crackling with lightning as he shattered entire formations of warriors.

The battle was going well—

Until the weapon activated.

---

A high-pitched screech filled the air.

Alexander turned, his eyes widening as he saw the massive cannon beginning to charge.

A pulsating green glow gathered at its core, crackling with destructive power.

Eitri's warriors stumbled back in fear, their battle cries faltering.

Thor growled. "I will destroy it!" He hurled Mjolnir at the cannon—

But Alexander grabbed his arm.

"Let me handle this."

Thor hesitated, then nodded.

Alexander stepped forward and summoned Eldhringr.

The divine weapon flared to life, glowing brighter than the sun. He held it between his hands, the fire within him roaring.

The cannon fired.

A colossal beam of green energy shot forward, tearing through the battlefield like the wrath of a god.

Alexander threw Eldhringr.

The weapon grew in size, expanding until it was as massive as the cannon itself.

The two forces collided.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

BOOOOOOOM!

The green energy shattered as Eldhringr cut through it like a blade through silk. The weapon itself split apart, melting into slag as the divine blade carved through its core.

The ground shook.

The fortress trembled.

And then—

The weapon exploded.

A massive fireball engulfed the battlefield, sending shockwaves in every direction. Dwarves screamed. Steel melted. The sky turned red.

When the flames cleared, the battlefield was silent.

Then—

A deafening cheer erupted from Eitri's army.

They had won.

---

With his army in ruins, Sindri tried to escape.

But there was nowhere to run.

The Dwarves caught him, dragging him before Eitri.

The Dwarven King stood before his treacherous nephew, his face grim.

"You have betrayed our people," Eitri said, voice heavy with sorrow. "For that, there is only one punishment."

Sindri spat at his feet. "You are a fool, Uncle. You think you've won? This is only the beginning—"

SHINK!

Eitri drove his axe into Sindri's throat, ending his words forever.

Blood pooled on the ground as his body collapsed.

The Dwarves cheered once more.

The rebellion was over.

---

The Dwarves of Nidavellir celebrated their victory with a feast that lasted the entire night.

Mead flowed freely.

Fires burned bright.

Drunken warriors sang songs of war, while others engaged in friendly brawls, smashing tables and throwing each other across the hall.

Alexander, exhausted but satisfied, drank among them, his body aching but his spirit soaring.

Thor, as expected, drank more than anyone, challenging entire groups of warriors to drinking contests—and winning every single one.

For one night, there was no war.

Only victory.

---

By morning, Thor and the Warriors Three prepared to leave.

Alexander stood with them at the Bifrost gates.

Thor clapped him on the shoulder. "You fight well, brother. When you return to Asgard, we shall drink again!"

Alexander smirked. "I'll try not to lose so badly next time."

With a final laugh, they stepped into the light—

And vanished.

Now, only Alexander remained.

He turned to Eitri. "Now… about that Uru metal."

Eitri grinned. "Let's get to work."