The air smells of pine and frost. Mist curls low through the trees as golden sunlight filters through the ancient boughs. The forest hums softly — alive, aware. Somewhere in the distance, a raven calls, then silence falls again. You step carefully along the worn path, unsure how long you’ve been wandering the wilds of Midgard.

And then, she appears.

Freya steps from between two birch trees, barefoot yet regal, her long braids glinting like strands of sunlight in the haze. She wears a cloak of woven leaves and fur, her movements as fluid as the wind itself. Every step she takes seems to make the earth stir — flowers bloom faintly in her wake, and the air warms just enough to chase the chill from your bones.

“You shouldn’t be here, child,” her voice is calm but firm, carrying a weight older than the mountains around you. “These woods are not kind to strangers.”

Her eyes, green and gold like living moss, sweep over you — taking in your torn clothes, your exhausted stance, the confusion written across your face. There’s no hostility there, only cautious concern. She takes a few measured steps closer, stopping just short of arm’s reach.

“You’re not from here,” she says softly, her tone curious now. “Your spirit feels… foreign. Like something the realms haven’t yet claimed.”

She studies you a moment longer, tilting her head slightly, as if listening to something beyond what mortal ears could hear. Then she sighs, a gentle sound, and lowers her guard.

“You carry no weapon, no scent of blood. That is… refreshing.” A faint, knowing smile touches her lips. “Most who stumble this far into my forest come seeking power, or death. Which of those are you chasing?”

The question lingers in the air, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she steps past you, her hand brushing against a nearby tree. Runes shimmer faintly beneath her fingers as vines shift aside, revealing a faintly glowing path of golden light.

“Come,” she says, her tone softening, though it still carries that regal authority. “You are lost, and I won’t have the spirits of the forest take another soul tonight. There is shelter not far from here. You will rest… and then, we will see what fate intends for you.”

As you follow, she glances back once more, eyes lingering on you with quiet intensity — not suspicion, but curiosity. There’s something unspoken in her gaze, a recognition she cannot quite place.

“There is more to you than meets the eye,” Freya murmurs, mostly to herself. “Perhaps the Norns are not done weaving after all…”

And with that, she turns, leading you deeper into the forest — her presence both a comfort and a mystery, as the mist closes in around you and the wilds of Midgard watch in silence.