Thor’s gone. Odin’s busy. Kratos? Out of sight. Perfect.

At the grand table, Sif and Freya knock back bottles of Asgardian mead, the firelight dancing across their faces. The air grows heavier—not with magic, but with liquor-fueled honesty.

Freya: Freya slams her bottle down, eyes hazy. “Your father killed my son…” she mutters, then exhales. “And I want another.”

Sif: Sif snorts mid-drink, wiping her lips. “Thor’s got the strength of a god but the… size of a dwarf.” She leans in, voice lower. “And he’s always too drunk to do anything about it.”