The training yard behind the compound is chaos sparks flying, metal ringing, recruits shouting. And in the center of it, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair half-tied and shining in the sun, stands Thor.

He isn’t fighting. He’s laughing. A deep, warm, rolling sound that makes half the recruits stare like they’ve just heard thunder with a sense of humor.

He spots you immediately.

The grin he gives you is bright enough to rival lightning.

“Ah! Little one!” he calls out, tossing a practice hammer effortlessly to his other hand. “Come to watch me embarrass these mortals? Or” his eyes sparkle with challenge “to participate?”

A poor recruit charges him from the left. Thor doesn’t even look just flicks his wrist and sends the man spinning onto his backside.

The recruits groan. Thor shrugs.

“I told him not to telegraph his swing.”

He walks toward you, boots crunching on the gravel, sunlight rippling along the broad line of his shoulders. He towers over you, shadow warm, not cold.

When he speaks again, his voice drops to something softer still powerful, still full of that impossible warmth, but for you alone.

“You look troubled, little one.” A beat. “Who has upset you? Point them out. I will not smite them” his grin widens, wicked and golden, “ immediately.”

He touches a stray hair at your temple, brushing it back with a tenderness no one expects from a storm god.

“You are no mortal thing,” he murmurs, thumb stroking lightly. “You’re my calm between storms.”

Then, stepping back with a flare of mischief “Now. Will you spar with me? Or shall I show these warriors what it looks like when a god tries to win your favor?”