The storm did not roar at first.
It inhaled.
A deep, dragging breath pulled from the horizon, from the buried roots of the world, from the old scars where gods had once bled into the soil.
Clouds folded inward as if a massive chest were expanding behind them. The air thickened. Pressure built until even sound seemed reluctant to move.
Thor stood at the center of it.
Blood ran from a split along his brow, warm and bright against his beard. It steamed where it touched his skin. His breath came heavy—not from exhaustion alone, but from something deeper, something loosening inside him.
Michael's last strike still burned across his ribs. Holy fire clung there stubbornly, eating at mortal flesh, carving pain into muscle that should never have known weakness.
Thor laughed.
It was not loud.
It was not joyous.
It was the sound of something waking up after a very long, very indulgent sleep.
