Thor never saw it coming.
In the blink of an eye, what should have been a heavy, crushing punch from Soren twisted midair into a sharp-edged palm strike, the "knife" slicing down toward Thor's exposed neck.
Danger! and before his mind even caught up, his body reacted, twisting his elbow up to block the descending blow.
CRACK
The impact jolted up Thor's arm like a lightning bolt.
Electric numbness spread from his elbow, the nerves shocked at the exact point where bone and muscle intertwined.
He grunted, stepping back instinctively. His right arm hung heavier now, reluctant to move.
What the Hel...?!
Across from him, Soren smiled, not cruelly, but with the cool patience of a veteran craftsman who had just exposed a flaw in fine steel.
Soren pressed the attack.
He did a foot feint here, a shoulder drop there, striking not with power, but with technique. Every movement was a scalpel, not a hammer.
Every blow sought joints, pressure points, soft tissue under flesh.
Thor struggled to stay alive.
He's faster now…, Thor realized, feeling himself driven back with each exchange.
When both arms were at full strength, he could just about manage to stand his ground. Now, with one arm lagging, every second left him more exposed.
Again and again, Soren's hands found their marks: the tendon behind his knee, the vulnerable spot just under the ribs, the shoulder's connective sinews.
Not heavy enough to break, but enough to sap strength, piece by piece, until Thor's breath came ragged and his body trembled under his belly.
The onlookers from Asgard watched, stunned into silence.
Their battles were almost always a contest of force, armor, muscle, sheer will, crashing together.
Even the seasoned warriors among them shifted uncomfortably, imagining themselves in Thor's place, wondering how they would survive such a style.
Finally, after stumbling back another few paces, Thor halted.
His legs shook, his arms hung low, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, the mighty Prince of Asgard bowed his head.
"I yield."
He straightened, chest heaving, and faced Soren squarely. "I've lost."
The words hung heavy in the air. Some in the crowd gasped.
Others nodded solemnly.
Soren simply smiled, with the quiet satisfaction of a teacher seeing a student reach a new threshold. He approached Thor with an easy stride, the tension already bleeding out of his stance.
"You fought well." Soren said, his voice low, meant for Thor alone.
"But you lean too much on strength. On armor. Your joints, your soft points, they're blind spots. They don't protect themselves."
Thor frowned, listening intently.
Soren paused, giving him a moment to absorb it. Then he added. "In war, armor breaks. Strength fades. Only awareness survives."
The crowd murmured. The young warriors, especially, hung on every word.
Thor was silent for a long moment, wrestling with the lesson, with the sting of defeat, but also the sharp, undeniable thrill of growth.
"Thank you!" Thor said, clapping a hand against Soren's shoulder with a sincerity that resonated beyond the words.
Soren, faintly smiling, gave a casual wave. "Enough formalities."
"Tonight's a night of celebration. Go, drink, laugh, live… love"
With that, the gathering that had held its breath watching their duel erupted back into life, the tension snapping like a bowstring cut loose.
The music swelled. Laughter and chatter roared anew through the golden halls.
Yet now, when the revelers raised their goblets high, more than a few turned their toasts toward Soren a nod of respect to the quiet healer who had bested the Prince without ever breaking his calm.
Here and there, from behind pillars and amongst the throng, young women of Asgard sneaked glances toward him, some shy, some bold.
It was hard not to notice him now, the sharp symmetry of his features, the effortless grace, the strength he kept wrapped in an easy, approachable air. That, paired with his uncanny skill in both healing and combat, made him more than just intriguing.
"…"
Thor noticed, of course, the way the women leaned in a little closer, the way the warriors gave Soren wide, respectful berths. But rather than jealousy, a grin tugged at Thor's mouth.
He refilled his goblet, lifted it in Soren's direction, and drank deeply.
Tonight belonged to Soren.
And what a night it was.
The feast roared on until the black of the sky began to pale at the edges with the coming dawn.
Soren, seemingly tireless, matched the Asgardian warriors cup for cup, mead, wine, spirits brewed in the heart of the divine for centuries, and sent each would-be challenger staggering into unconsciousness.
One by one, mighty warriors slumped under tables, over benches, sprawled out snoring in corners.
Soren, still upright, still sharp-eyed, tossed back one last goblet of shimmering Divine Realm wine as the first golden light touched the high windows.
He tipped the cup back, savoring the burn.
"Not bad." His heart pounding not with battlelust or adrenaline, but with something richer, richer-the deep satisfaction of having lived fully, even if only for a night.
A pair of maids, both with flaxen hair and easy smiles, approached.
Wordless but efficient, they offered their arms to steady him, a courtesy for a guest of honor who had fought the drink and won.
Under their guidance, Soren was led through winding halls to a lavish guest manor, a courtyard garden blooming with strange starlight-touched flowers, and a private hot spring steaming gently in the chill morning air.
Inside, a fresh set of Asgard clothes, tailored, embroidered subtly with runes of strength and clarity, awaited him.
Soren ran a hand across the fabric, a low chuckle escaping him. Asgard certainly knows how to treat its guests.
He didn't refuse the help. Not tonight.
He let them dress him properly, heroic and regal, the very image of a visiting champion, before dismissing them politely.
When he next met Thor, the sun was dipping low, casting long gold beams across the banquet halls.
Thor grinned when he saw him. "You survived the night, I see."
"Barely." Soren replied dryly, easing onto a chair with the grace of a man who had indeed survived a hundred battles, the latest being against Asgardian liquor.
They ate simply: roasted meats, hearty bread, sweet fruits from Yggdrasil's gardens. The casual ease between them felt earned, stitched together by mutual respect.
Afterward, Soren leaned back, wiping his mouth with a cloth.
"I'd like to visit your library."
"There's much about Asgard I still don't know."
Thor raised an eyebrow, chuckling. "The library, eh? That old place is more for sages and sorcerers. I'd sooner swing a hammer than flip a page."
But despite the teasing, Thor rose willingly, beckoning Soren to follow.
"I'll take you there. Maybe you'll find something useful...if you can stay awake."
They crossed through sprawling halls and winding staircases, the walls lined with banners and paintings of ancient wars. At last, they stood before a pair of massive bronze doors, engraved with runes that hummed faintly in the quiet air.
Thor pushed them open with a casual shove and gestured broadly. "Here it is. All the wisdom of Asgard... locked in dust and parchment."
Soren stepped inside alone as Thor departed, already stretching and muttering something about sharpening his axe.
The library was a cathedral of silence.
Shelves stretched up toward vaulted ceilings lost in shadow. Tomes older than memory lined the walls, their leather bindings cracked and worn with age.
Strange artifacts sat nestled among the books: crystal spheres, sealed scrolls, forgotten relics pulsing faintly with hidden power.
Soren wandered deeper, breathing in the heady scent of old paper and ancient magic.
He skimmed titles, most chronicled the history of the Nine Realms, the conquests of Odin, the creation myths of Midgard. Valuable, yes, but not what he sought.
Then, he found it, a gated section sealed by shimmering energy.
When he placed a hand against it, the barrier shivered, then receded. Permission granted.
Inside, the air was different, thicker, almost electric.
The books here whispered to one another across the shelves, their pages vibrating faintly, alive with power.
Soren's eyes gleamed.
He plucked a tome at random, its cover embossed with an unknown sigil, and opened it.
Runes spilled across the pages like rivers of light, shifting and rearranging themselves as he read.
Magic.
Not of Kamar-Taj, not of Earth's structured, geometric spells… raw, ancient, and wild. Like the pulse of stars.
Each page was a revelation.
Soren leaned over the book, heart hammering.
"Asgard's magic." A hungry grin spread across his face. "Older than Midgard's tricks."
He turned another page. And another.
"Not only warriors. Not just gods." He thought, the pieces falling together.
"They are scholars of magic as much as they are masters of war."
For hours, he studied, the rest of the world falling away, until at last, as the first stars pierced the dusk sky beyond the high windows…
꧁𓊈𒆜༺⚜༻𒆜𓊉꧂
PhantomDream