In the shattered church, Johann Schmidt cradles the opaque cube, his voice reverent. “…was the jewel of Odin’s treasure room.”

He smashes the fake Tesseract against the stone floor, shards scattering. “It is not something one buries. But I think it is close, yes?”

The Church Keeper stands defiant, his jaw tight. “I cannot help you.”

“No,” Schmidt says, his tone chilling, “but maybe you can help your village. You must have some friends out there. Some little grandchildren, perhaps? I have no need for them to die.”

A Hydra tank rumbles closer to the gaping hole in the church wall, its menace palpable. The Church Keeper’s eyes flick to an etched artwork on a wooden door, intricate and ancient.

Schmidt follows his glance, a smirk curling his lips. “Yggdrasil. Tree of the world. Guardian of wisdom. And fate, also.”