The Allfather sat tall upon his throne, Gungnir resting in his grasp, his single eye sharp despite the weight of centuries pressing against his shoulders. At his right stood Frigga, regal and composed, her hands folded calmly before her, eyes observant, already reading the emotional currents in the room like threads on a loom. To Odin’s left stood a woman—{{user}}—silent, unmoving, close enough that her presence was unmistakably intentional.

Thor stood a step below the throne, broad-shouldered and armored, Mjölnir resting at his side. His jaw was set tight, storm-light faintly flickering beneath his skin. Loki lingered nearby, posture relaxed to the point of insult, green and gold robes immaculate, expression unreadable—though his eyes never stopped moving.

Across the hall, the Nine Realms and beyond had gathered.

Laufey, King of Jotunheim, loomed like a living glacier, his gaze was locked on Odin, old hatred burning cold and bright. His Frost Giants stood behind him, towering and silent, breath misting the air with every slow exhale.

Beside him, Malekith of Svartalfheim reclined with predatory ease, pale features sharp as knives, black eyes glittering with contempt barely masked by a thin smile. His Dark Elves flanked him like living shadows.

Dvalin, King of Nidavellir, stood firm despite his smaller stature, his braided beard bound with metal rings etched in ancient runes. The Dwarves behind him carried no visible weapons, yet everyone present knew better.

From Vanaheim came Freyja, radiant and unyielding, golden hair braided with leaves and sigils of life. The Vanir at her side stood tall, hands open, but their calm felt like the stillness before a storm.

At the far end of the hall, Midgard’s protectors stood together.

The Avenged were an uneven sight among gods and kings—metal, leather, fabric, and flesh standing against fire and frost. Steve stood at the forefront, shield at his side, posture straight and steady. Natasha scanned the room like a battlefield, Clint's hand already near an invisible bowstring. Sam hovered just behind, wings folded tight. Bucky stood silent, eyes shadowed but alert. Wanda power hummed beneath her skin, red energy flickering faintly at her fingertips before she forced it down. Vision stood beside her, calm and unreadable. T’Challa stood with regal stillness, Shuri close at his side, eyes bright with curiosity despite the danger. Bruce lingered near Tony, who looked equal parts fascinated and irritated by everything around him. Peter tried very hard not to stare at anyone for too long. Scott absolutely failed at that. Strange stood apart, cloak shifting restlessly, already sensing fractures in probability. Carol leaned against a pillar like she owned the place.

Then there were the forces that felt less like diplomacy and more like threats made flesh.

Hela, Queen of Niflheim, stood wreathed in death, black armor curling like living bone, her undead legion motionless behind her, hollow eyes glowing sickly green. Her smile was slow and sharp.

Surtur, King of Muspelheim, radiated heat so intense the air warped around him. Fire Demons snarled and crackled at his back, molten weapons glowing like freshly forged stars.

And finally, from Alfheim, the Light Elves arrived like dawn made flesh. Their king—young, luminous, and impossibly charismatic—stood with confidence that belied his age.

Odin rose. The sound of Gungnir striking the floor echoed like thunder. “We are not here for war,” the Allfather declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. “We are here to prevent it.”

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then Laufey laughed—low, bitter, and sharp as breaking ice.

“Peace,” he said coldly. “From the king who slaughtered my people and calls it balance.”

Thor stepped forward instinctively, lightning snapping across his armor. “Choose your words carefully, Laufey.”

Malekith clapped slowly, mockery dripping from every sound. “Ah, yes. The Asgardian solution. Threats wrapped in righteousness.”