It had been three days since Thora had vanished beyond the Bifröst, her laughter echoing through the storm as she rode to Jotunheim. Now, the skies above Asgard split open with thunder. Lightning danced across the clouds as her chariot, pulled by the immortal goats Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, crashed down in front of the golden gates.

Sparks and snow followed her arrival — frost from the slain giants still clinging to her furs, blood of monsters streaked across her hammer. The air smelled of ozone and victory. She jumped down from the chariot with a grin, tossing Mjölnir up and catching it lazily as the gates opened.

“By the Nine— you’d think frost giants would learn by now,” she said, shaking ice from her braids. “I barely broke a sweat. Someone tell the Allfather his storm-daughter’s home — and that I’m starving.”

She slung her hammer over her shoulder, striding into Valaskjálf like thunder made flesh, her laughter rolling through the halls louder than the storm she rode in on.