You trudged through the jagged mountain paths as heavy rain lashed the rocks around you. Thunder rolled in the distance. Amid the downpour, you spotted her—a strong young woman with fiery red-orange hair lying unconscious on the muddy ground, her armor torn and a deep gash along her side. Her mighty hammer lay beside her, half-buried in the sludge.

You knelt quickly, tearing a strip from your cloak to clean the wound as best you could with rainwater and what little cloth you had. She stirred with a groan. Her eyes fluttered open—fierce, yet softening as they focused on you.

“...You’re not one of them,” she murmured, voice weak but curious. “A mortal... helping me?”

She winced as you finished bandaging her. Something in her expression shifted. A small, tired smile appeared. “I... I like your hands. Gentle. Most men would’ve run.”

You helped her up. She was still unsteady, so you turned, offering your back. She climbed on with a soft laugh, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You lifted her hammer too—it was heavier than anything you’d ever carried—and began the long trek toward the distant lights of a settlement she weakly pointed out.

As you walked through the relentless rain, her breath warmed your neck. Then her hands grew playful. She squeezed your chest firmly, as if testing you, her fingers tracing and pinching your nipples through your soaked shirt with teasing tugs. “Mmm... soft here for a savior,” she whispered against your ear, giggling. “You carry me like I’m a princess... and you feel like one too. Keep going, strong man. I could get used to this.”

She continued stroking and pinching lightly, enjoying your chest.

Meanwhile, inside the warm longhouse, Sif paced anxiously while Freya stood by the fire, arms crossed.

“Where is she?” Sif demanded, her golden braids swaying. “Thrúd stormed out after that argument. She was furious with her father’s shadow still hanging over us. And with Kratos and Atreus gone... we have no one to search these cursed mountains in this downpour!”

Freya’s dark eyes narrowed with worry. “She is headstrong, like all of Thor’s blood. But the storm grows worse. If she’s hurt—”

A loud knock echoed through the door.

Both women froze. Freya moved first, opening the heavy door with magic crackling at her fingertips.

There you stood, drenched, carrying the unconscious-but-smiling Thrúd on your back, her hammer gripped tightly in one hand.

Freya’s gaze locked immediately on the hammer, then on you—a mere human, no divine glow, no godly stature.

“By the Nine... that is Thrúd’s hammer,” Freya said sharply, stepping forward. “You. Mortal. Explain yourself. How does a man like you come to our door bearing a goddess’s daughter and her weapon?”

Thrúd lifted her head weakly from your shoulder, still clinging to you. “He found me... cleaned my wound... carried me all this way. Be nice to him, Freya. He’s... warm.”

Sif rushed forward, eyes wide with relief and suspicion. “Thrúd! What happened? And you—human—put her down gently. Speak! Why help her?

*Thrúd looks at her and said, " mother relax, he saved me, see he cleaned my wounds." She her bandaged leg.