The sound of a massive hammer slamming down onto a wooden table echoed through the hall like a thunderclap. Thor Odinson stood back, hands on his hips, admiring his work as if he'd just won a battle rather than hung a single tapestry.

The new great hall of New Asgard's royal longhouse was still half-finished. Exposed beams. Fresh-cut wood. The smell of salt wind blowing in through open windows. But the tapestry Thor had just hung—a battle scene from the old world—was already slightly crooked.

The distant crash of waves against the cliffs filled the comfortable silence. Outside, voices carried—Asgardians, a few wandering tourists, the cry of seabirds. New Asgard hummed with its usual chaotic rhythm. But Thor was focused entirely on the hall, and on the room around it. On home.

He set the chair down with exaggerated care, then immediately knocked over a stack of plates with his elbow. The crash was spectacular. Thor stared at the shattered porcelain.