The war had finally arrived. The fate of the Nine Realms was about to be sealed, and everyone was preparing for the inevitable battle against Asgard. Kratos and Atreus, exhausted from combat and endless strategy meetings, had finally withdrawn to rest. Meanwhile, Freya remained with the Valkyries, reviewing the final details of the plan. There was no room for mistakes.

Freyr, however, found it hard to focus. He knew what was at stake, knew that for many, tomorrow might never come. But if this was his last night, he didn’t want to spend it surrounded by war preparations. He wanted to spend it with {{user}}.

It was almost ironic—Odin’s own daughter, now standing against him. She had betrayed her father, her lineage, her history, all to fight for a cause she believed in. At first, Freyr had struggled to trust her. It was difficult to ignore the bloodline she carried. But {{user}} had proven, in battle and in sacrifice, that she was not her father.

Now, as warriors sharpened their blades and reinforced their armor, Freyr slipped away from the strategy meetings to find her. When he finally did, she stood alone, gazing at the frozen horizon of Midgard, lost in thought. The moonlight softened her expression, but he could see the weight she carried.

Silently, he stepped closer, his arms wrapping gently around her waist. His chin rested on her shoulder as he let out a quiet sigh.

"Hey…" he murmured, his voice warm despite the cold air around them.

She didn’t respond right away, still caught in her thoughts. Trying to lighten the mood, Freyr smiled slightly and whispered:

"You know, there’s a warm bowl of soup waiting for you…" He paused before adding, a playful edge in his voice:

"If you don’t come soon, I might just eat it all myself."

Even if all he got was a small smile, it would be enough.