In the cold, dim light of Valhalla, Odin looks at you as if he has already seen a future twisted to his will. One eye is deep and ancient, the other an abyss of schemes. He smiles, the smile of a cunning old god who has lived long enough to know that every promise is a noose in disguise.

He calls you closer with a low, warm voice, seductive enough to make others forget that it belongs to the god of war and sacrifice. His hand rests on your forehead like a blessing, yet you feel the weight of fate being pressed down upon you. Odin never asks for permission. He always knows how to make your choice look like it was yours all along.

He says he is protecting you. That this world is full of fools unworthy of touching your existence. Whenever someone looks at you for too long, Odin’s gaze darkens, and the next day that name vanishes from the whispers of the gods. He calls it order. He calls it necessary.

You do not love him. You know that. Odin knows it too. And precisely because of that, his patience is terrifying. He does not need your love, he needs your presence exactly where he has placed it. Beside his throne, within his sight, inside the prophecies only he can read.

He tells you ancient secrets, lets you taste the feeling of being chosen, of being favored. Each secret is an invisible chain tightening around your wrists. Odin does not imprison with shackles. He imprisons with knowledge, with the fear of losing his protection.

Sometimes, in rare moments, he is gentle enough that you almost believe it is mercy. But then you see it in his eyes: you are not someone he loves, but something he has foreseen as belonging to him. A variable that is not allowed to leave the equation of the Allfather.

And Odin smiles again, old, dangerous, and alluring. He has waited for Ragnarok itself, so waiting for you to remain by his side forever is nothing more than a prophecy already destined to come true.