(General P.O.V)
The morning sun bathed the golden windows of Thor's Hall in a soft, amber light. The scent of steam and sweat still clung to the air from the night before.
Siegfried sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, his long red hair tousled and damp from the bath.
On his lap, Sif, wild-haired and glowing with post-battle pride, traced idle lines across his chest with one finger.
"You may not be my Thor," she murmured with a smirk, "but you certainly have his stamina."
Siegfried raised an eyebrow, lips parting to answer—
—but the air shimmered with divine light.
Freyja appeared, arms crossed, her presence filling the room like a shift in pressure.
"Well," she said smoothly, "looks like you've found your place on my son's lap, Captain."
Sif stiffened, caught mid-sentence. She stepped off Siegfried with a rushed bow. "My queen."
And then she was gone, hastily worn boots echoing down the marble hall.
Siegfried stood and began pulling on his armor.
Freyja watched him dress, eyes lingering with the practiced gaze of someone who'd once seen power up close.
"You have your father's body," she mused. "Odin looked like that when he courted me."
Siegfried didn't bite. "What do you want? You've made it clear I'm not your favorite person."
Freyja's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "True. And I am sorry for that."
She stepped toward the window, hands folded. "I know the Allfather gave you a task—to stabilize the Nine Realms. And to recover what memories you can."
Siegfried's eyes narrowed. "He told you?"
"We've had our quarrels," Freyja admitted, "but my husband has never hidden his thoughts from me."
Siegfried folded his arms. "Then I'll ask again. What do you want?"
She turned. Her voice softened, but her tone remained regal. "I'd like you to let Baldur go with you."
"No," Siegfried said flatly, and started walking toward the door.
Behind him, Freyja's voice sharpened. "Do you really think you can trust Loki?"
He paused.
Just long enough for her to see the doubt she'd planted.
"Loki's clever," she continued, "but never predictable. With Baldur there, your chances of being tricked or led astray are far less likely."
She stepped closer, carefully watching him. "And don't forget—Lady Sif will accompany Baldur. She'll guard him. And perhaps… you."
Siegfried didn't respond right away.
Then, slowly, he turned—lifting his hand just as Mjolnir came streaking across the chamber, whizzing past Freyja's head, snapping into his palm with a thunderous thump.
Freyja didn't flinch—but she tensed.
Siegfried met her gaze.
"Fine," he said. "But tell your son this."
She tilted her head.
"He better be ready," Siegfried said, Mjolnir crackling faintly in his grip. "Because I'm not looking after him."
-0-
(2 days later)
The light of the Bifrost rained down in a prismatic column, touching the emerald grasslands of Alfheim with a shimmer of divine presence.
As the light faded, Siegfried, Loki, Baldur, Sif, and the Warriors Three emerged, boots crunching against soft moss and flowers that pulsed faintly with life. Insects like glowing flakes buzzed through the air, and distant elven spires glittered under the pale gold sun.
"Looks like the outskirts," Fandral noted, taking in the distant silhouette of a town nestled beyond the trees.
Baldur adjusted his cloak. "We should find a tavern before nightfall. These woods get tricky after dusk."
But Loki raised a hand, halting the group.
"I have some business to settle first," he said, tone smooth but pointed. He turned toward Baldur. "Oh Royal brother of mine, perhaps now's the time you tell our sibling Thor here why you really insisted on coming along."
All eyes turned to Baldur.
Before he could speak, Siegfried pushed past them.
He walked forward alone, Mjolnir swaying at his side, his gaze fixed on the road ahead.
"Siegfried, wait," Loki called. "Aren't you curious?"
"No," Siegfried said without turning.
Loki frowned. "Why not?"
A loud snort cut through the moment.
Volstagg was pointing ahead with a half-eaten leg of roasted boar still in his hand.
"Because we have company."
From the hillside, a band of Dark Elves—riders draped in obsidian cloaks, mounted on massive, tusked Hounds—galloped down the slope toward them.
The hounds snarled, eyes glowing violet, their riders brandishing bladed spears and curved bows. Dust and mist kicked up behind them in a thunderous charge.
Sif immediately stepped in front of Baldur. "Guard the prince!"
Volstagg raised his axe, grinning. "Finally, something worth swinging at!"
But before he could take a step, Loki grabbed his arm.
"Hold."
"What?" Volstagg protested.
"This is still Thor's mission," Loki said, smirking. "And he could use the training. Don't interfere."
All eyes turned to Siegfried, now stepping out across the grass, calmly.
He reached for Mjolnir at his hip—then stopped.
Instead, he let his hand fall to his side.
He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and faced the charging riders.
Unarmed.
The others watched, uncertain.
But Siegfried stood still, waiting.
Because part of him didn't want the hammer for this.
He wanted to remember what it felt like to fight before the gods returned to his life.
Before the power.
Just fists.
Just fury.
He wanted to vent.
The Dark Elf riders closed in, their monstrous hounds snarling as they bounded across the grassy terrain. Their spears gleamed with poison-tipped metal, eyes glowing with warlust.
Siegfried waited until the last possible moment.
Then he moved.
In a blur, he ducked under the first rider's blade and ripped him off his mount, slamming him into the ground with enough force to knock the breath from every onlooker.
The hound lunged—but Siegfried caught its jaw mid-bite and snapped its neck with a grunt.
The second rider barely had time to react before Siegfried launched the hound's limp body at him like a boulder, sending them both tumbling down the hillside.
Another spear came for his head.
He caught it mid-air and spun, using it as a pole to vault over two more riders, kicking one square in the face and slamming into the other with his shoulder, cracking armor and sending him flying.
Within moments, it was over.
The hill was scattered with unconscious riders, splintered weapons, and twitching hounds.
Fandral whistled, clapping slowly. "Indeed… he is Thor."
Volstagg grumbled, "I could've done the same, if you lot weren't so quick to steal the fun."
Hogun merely grunted in agreement.
Siegfried stood atop the hill, glancing back. "Get up here."
The others joined him, climbing the small ridge.
At the summit, the view stretched wide—down into the heart of the Light Elf town. And what they saw wasn't peace.
Fires burned. Dark Elves raced through the streets, raiding and ransacking. Elven guards tried to resist but were overwhelmed. Homes were looted. Civilians fled or fought with little success.
Siegfried reached for Mjolnir.
Then Baldur stepped forward, eyes hard.
"Let me."
Siegfried paused. "You sure?"
"I may be patient, but I don't condone this," Baldur said. "These are not warriors. They're Svartfelheim raiders. Cowards."
Siegfried lowered the hammer and nodded. "Then it's yours."
Baldur gave a sharp nod. "Thank you."
He strode to the edge of the ridge and raised his arms.
The sun overhead pulsed, responding to his call.
Siegfried frowned.
Beams of light bent and twisted under Baldur's control, folding into thousands of lances of solar energy, each one aimed with precise intent.
He brought his arms down.
And the spears fell—like divine wrath.
They struck only the Dark Elves, threading through the chaos with impossible accuracy. Every rider, every looter, every would-be killer was consumed in columns of purifying light. The fires in the town were snuffed out in the wake of the storm.
The group stood silent behind him.
Even Loki raised an eyebrow.
"Well," he whispered to Siegfried. "In the years you've been gone, our little brother's leveled up."
Siegfried didn't answer right away.
He didn't want to admit he was impressed.
But he was.
He watched Baldur control every iota of power like an artist with a brush. Every strike deliberate. Every motion smooth.
And it reminded him.
Of the mercenaries he'd struck down back in Midgard.
Of the horses he hadn't meant to kill.
Power without control.
He clenched his fist.
One day, he'd match that kind of precision.
But for now, he had to learn.
(Siegfried's P.O.V)
Volstagg's arm was like a stone pillar.
Mine was heavier.
The tavern table cracked between us, joints groaning beneath the pressure. The light elves cheered and leaned in with drinks and wagers. Volstagg roared, trying to push my hand back—but I pressed just a little harder.
Snap.
The table split.
Volstagg's hand slammed into the floor with it.
The entire tavern erupted into shouts and laughter.
"By Odin's missing beard!" Volstagg cursed, pulling his hand back and shaking it. "You cheated with that farm-born grip of yours!"
Loki leaned lazily against the bar, smirking. "Pay up," he said, holding out his hand to Fandral, Hogun, and Baldur, who each dropped a few golden chits into his palm with dramatic sighs.
"He's strong," Baldur muttered. "Unbelievably so."
"I slipped," Volstagg grumbled. "These new boots are cursed."
"Don't be a sore loser," Sif teased, nudging him with her elbow.
I leaned back, mug of honeydew mead in my hand. Sweet, floral, dangerously smooth.
My third one.
My appetite for drink had grown fast. Same with battle. And… other things. Nights with Sif blurred between passion and confusion.
Who was I now?
Siegfried the slave had been quiet, calculating, used to watching from shadows. No confidence. No voice.
Thor Odinson had swagger. Power. Unapologetic force.
Neither man felt like the full truth.
If I had to choose… I'd still choose Thor.
But not their Thor.
This mission, this journey—across the realms—wasn't just to restore peace. It was for me to decide what kind of Thor I wanted to become.
The table rattled again.
I looked down.
"Not now," I whispered to Mjolnir, which pulsed faintly with storm-light.
Fandral raised an eyebrow. "Still talking to the hammer, I see."
"She wants to fly," I said, half-smiling. And I was the one mostly doing the talking. Bloody hammer had gone silent after leaving Midgard.
"She?" Sif asked, glancing from the hammer to me.
I shrugged. "She. He. It. Depends on the mood."
Everyone chuckled—except Mjolnir, who buzzed impatiently in my lap.
Loki returned then, leading a procession of light elf maidens, two by his side, while trays of food and mugs floated behind—carried by fluttering fairy maids with wings like stained glass.
He swept a hand over the table. "Compliments of the realm," he announced. "Gratitude for saving them from the Dark Elves. Eat. Drink. Relax."
Plates of honeyed meats, glowing fruits, and golden bread filled the table. The aroma alone made me hungrier than I expected.
As we ate, the chatter slowed, and Loki leaned in, his tone darkening.
"My spies confirmed it," he said. "The Dark Elves broke out of their prisons in Svartalfheim after Thor died. With Odin weakening, there was no one left to keep them in check."
Fandral grunted. "Figures."
"They're raiding across the realms," Loki continued. "Claiming conquest in the name of their king…"
He looked at me.
"Malekith the Accursed."
The name settled like a stone in my stomach.
Baldur wiped his mouth, face hardening. "Then Malekith will be our first target. We find him. We stop him. We make a statement."
The others nodded.
I sat back, fingers tapping Mjolnir's handle.
Could he be the one?
The one Odin warned me about—the shadow that steals suns and ends cycles?
But something didn't fit.
Too obvious. Too loud.
I pushed the thought aside when I caught Sif watching me across the table, a playful glint in her eye. She winked.
I smiled back.
There would be time to face shadows later.