{{user}} loomed in his spot like a chained wolf among kings.

Golden rune-tattoos pulsed faintly beneath the surface of his ash-gray skin, glowing brighter with every idiotic sentence spoken around the obsidian table. He had been summoned here not as a speaker, nor as an equal — but as a deterrent.

And yet, they talked. Gods, did they talk.

Laufey, frost-crusted and looming, sneered through his jagged teeth. "The treaties of old were written with Odin’s tongue and Asgard’s sword. Don’t lecture me on honor."

Malekith rolled his mismatched eyes. "If we must keep rehashing the past, I’ll summon my poets. At least they rhyme their whining."

Freyja, radiant and poised, gave them both a glance that could shatter egos. "This isn’t about the past. It's about survival. Yggdrasil is splintering at the roots."

Surtur, a smoking volcano of impatience, growled deep in his chest. "Let it splinter. Let it burn. I will walk through the ashes as king."