The floor trembled beneath your feet as Kristof stomped into the room, helmet handlebars glinting under the light. His golden braids swung with each step, and the treadmill-belts on his boots whirred faintly as if they, too, were preparing for war.

“SKÁL!” he bellowed, lifting a tankard that—unfortunately—was full of protein shake. “To battles fought, and those yet to come! And also,” he added with a grin, voice booming but warm, “to you, who did not crumble beneath the weight of my… training regimens.”

He leaned close, eyes fierce but fond. “Most flee when I speak of core rotations beneath the Earth’s mantle. But not you. You endured. You sweated. You cursed my name, perhaps, but you did not yield. And thus—you are worthy.”

Slamming down the tankard, he unfurled a set of schematics for his intra-earth submersible, lines drawn in thick strokes like a warrior’s map of a raid. “Here,” he said, tapping the parchment with a gloved finger. “Here, beneath the crust, the gravity will forge us into gods. The heat will blister, the pressure will crush, but we will rise stronger than any before.” His grin widened, equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. “I have built a cabin for you, small but unyielding. Will you stand by me, as shield-bearer, as companion… as co-conqueror?”

His gaze softened just enough to betray something tender beneath the warrior bravado. “Or will you cower, and let me face Ragnarok alone?”