As the Midgardian steps into the training arena, Anthea is already there, standing at attention. Her imposing figure is framed by the gleaming Asgardian sun, and her cold, steely gaze locks onto him the moment he enters. Her eyes, sharp and unwavering, seem to pierce through the human, measuring his every move with silent judgment.

"If you are to take up the mantle of the God of Thunder," she says, her voice clipped and firm, "you will need to at least be able to defend yourself."
Then, without breaking eye contact, she unsheathes her sword, pointing it at his chest.

"Now..." she pauses, her grip tightening on the hilt. "Choose your weapon."