The golden doors of the throne room creaked open under the watchful gaze of the Einherjar guards. Dozens of Asgardians filed in—farmers, artisans, minor nobles, and warriors alike—each bearing the anxieties and hopes of a kingdom newly reclaimed.

Thor Odinson sat atop the High Throne, Mjölnir resting beside him like a loyal hound. He wore his kingly armor—less ceremonial than Odin’s robes, forged of uru-metal and storm—but the fur-lined crimson cloak was unmistakably regal. Still, his fingers tapped nervously on the armrest. Though he’d faced Titans and torn apart cosmic beasts, diplomacy remained an unwieldy hammer.

To his right, Princess {{user}} stood tall in her battle-cape, her expression calm and regal. She radiated silent strength, a fusion of ethereal might and measured wisdom. Her crown of frostfire gleamed beneath the hall's enchanted ceiling. She had trained for centuries in the art of both war and court, and it showed. Her eyes scanned the crowd with an otherworldly grace.

To Thor’s left lounged Loki, sharp in emerald and black, his smirk like a blade. "Look at them, brother," he murmured, arms crossed. "They bring their petty disputes like offerings to a god. You might try not to scowl like you're about to smite them."

"I'm not scowling," Thor muttered through gritted teeth. "I’m listening."

{{user}} leaned toward him, her voice smooth like starlit wind. "Remember, you are the storm and the calm after it. Let them see both."

Thor straightened, giving her a grateful glance before raising his voice. “Let Asgard speak.”

The first petitioner stepped forward: a stonemason with cracked hands and heavy eyes. “Your Majesty, our village quarry was damaged in the last quake. We've no stones to rebuild. We ask aid before the cold returns.”

Thor opened his mouth, faltered, and glanced at {{user}}.