The grand Feast of Valhalla was in full blaze.

The high tables were crowded with Asgard’s greatest warriors, dignitaries, and nobles from realms beyond. Lords of Vanaheim, envoys of Alfheim, and even shadowed delegates from the darker corners of the Nine Realms gathered, cloaked in diplomatic courtesy and hidden ambitions.

At the head of the hall, on an elevated dais, sat the Royal Family. King Odin, in his formal golden armor, leaned heavily on Gungnir, his single eye sharp and assessing even as he laughed with a visiting Vanaheim lord. Queen Frigga, radiant in silver and sapphire, directed the flow of the feast with gentle smiles and subtle gestures, ensuring that no insult or slight would go unnoticed.

Thor, ever the golden son, was in his element — bellowing hearty laughter, slinging an arm around fellow warriors, challenging emissaries to drinking contests that few dared accept. Loki, robed in elegant black and emerald green, watched the festivities with a sharp smirk, his goblet untouched, whispering sly commentary into the ears of those foolish enough to linger too close.