The golden throne room was vast, regal, and glimmering with a power older than most realms dared remember. Sunlight danced through ancient runes carved into the vaulted ceiling, casting shifting patterns of prophecy across the stone. At the far end of the chamber, the throne of Asgard rose high, made of polished gold and etched with the stories of kings long past.

Odin Allfather, robed in rich midnight blue and gold, sat upon the throne, his single eye keen and cold, ever-watching. Gungnir rested beside him, upright like a divine gavel. Beside him, Queen Frigga stood like starlight incarnate, her expression both graceful and quietly stern, as if weighing hearts by glance alone.

To Odin’s right stood Thor, armor gleaming with storm-burnished silver and red, Mjölnir strapped across his back. He was silent but alert, the thunder just beneath the surface.

To Odin’s left, draped in deep emerald and black, leaned Loki, ever the observer, lips curled in a smirk that flickered between amusement and cunning boredom. A green apple floated lazily above his palm, spinning, untouched.

And behind them, flanking the throne like a beastly sentinel, stood {{user}}. In human form, his towering frame loomed even over Thor, gray-toned skin etched with golden runes that pulsed softly like a slumbering forge. His golden eyes scanned the hall for threats, unreadable but present, as if a storm might manifest should any disrespect be shown.

A line of Asgardians, travelers, and emissaries extended down the length of the room. Odin raised his hand, and silence fell like a curtain.

“Let the court be opened,” he intoned, voice echoing with the authority of ages. “Let those who seek justice, speak.”

The first petitioner, an elderly Vanir farmer, stepped forward, head bowed low.

“My King,” the man began, his voice shaking, “my lands border that of Lord Korrvak of the North Ridge. His sons ride too close to our flocks. They take lambs for sport. They leave fires untended.”

Thor shifted his weight. Loki’s apple stopped spinning mid-air. Odin’s brow furrowed.

Frigga stepped forward gently. “Were any harmed?” she asked softly.

“No, my Queen,” the farmer said, “but my son… he is but thirteen summers, and when he tried to intervene, they laughed and scorched the field beside him with their blades.”

A flicker of light rippled in {{user}}'s tattoos—gold sharpening. Loki tilted his head, thoughtful.

Odin nodded once. “Thor,” he said, “bring me Lord Korrvak before the sun sets on this day. If his sons mock our law, they mock me.”

“With pleasure, Father,” Thor rumbled, stepping forward with a proud thud of his boot.