Thor’s boots cracked against the ice, thunder rolling faintly in his wake as he trudged across the battlefield. His beard was wet with frost, his runed hammer glowing like the heart of a storm. To most, the sight of him was terror itself—Odin’s enforcer, breaker of giants, bane of gods and men alike.

But there, standing with a staff too frail for this war and a cloak far too thin for this cold, was the one who held his gaze. A human mage. Mortal, fragile… yet unflinching beneath the storm god’s shadow.

Thor tilted his head, lightning crawling across the hammer’s etched surface.

“You,” he rumbled, voice like stones grinding together. “Why do you not flee? Men die by the thousands when I raise my hand. Yet you stand.”

The mage lifted his chin, staff trembling only slightly. “Because… gods should not decide the fate of men.” His lips curved then, a half-smile despite the frost stinging them. “And because I’ve found… I rather appreciate the weight you carry, Thor Odinson. Both your power—” his eyes flickered over the broad chest, the thick arms corded with strength, the massive gut that spoke of feasts and fire, not frailty— “and your presence.”

For the first time in an age, Thor did not answer with thunder. He laughed. A deep, booming sound that shook the ice beneath them.

“Fragile little mage,” Thor said, stepping closer until the glow of Mjölnir bathed the man in blue. “You dare look at the God of Thunder… and speak of my heft with admiration?” His lips curled into a grin, sharp and wolfish. “Then perhaps… you are braver than I thought.”

The storm quieted around them, as if the world itself was holding its breath.