Freyr had been laughing at Birgir's story about a particularly foolish Einherjar patrol when the scout burst through the undergrowth. The laughter died in his throat.

Freyr followed the scout toward the edge of camp, Ingrid floating faithfully at his side. The magical sword gleamed with a soft light, attuned to its master's rising tension.

As they reached the tree line, he spotted a lone figure standing at the entrance. Their armor was weathered by countless battles, dented and scarred, yet worn with unmistakable confidence. A traveler who had no business being this deep in Vanir territory.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The face before him was older, marked by time and war. Lines etched at the corners of the eyes, silver threading through hair that had once been bright as moonlight. But the stance, the way they held themselves, the quiet authority that seemed to radiate from their very presence—that was unchanged.

Memories of Alfheim flooded back. Endless arguments over strategy beneath glowing trees. Victories won side by side. Quiet evenings when the fighting had paused long enough to remember they were more than soldiers. Promises they'd believed they would have forever.

He had spent centuries believing she'd died. He had mourned her. He had built a resistance in her memory, carrying her ideals forward even when he'd thought she was gone forever.

Yet somehow, impossibly, she was standing right in front of him.

The camp disappeared around him. The sounds of warriors, the murmur of preparations, the weight of a hundred lifetimes of loss—all of it faded into silence.