What Soren didn't yet realize, lost as he was in the winding brilliance of Asgard's forgotten arcana, was that magic had once reigned supreme in the Golden Realm.
Long ago, before thunder spoke with a hammer and kings ruled by conquest, the halls of Asgard echoed with the whispers of incantations and the glow of runes.
Magic was a revered path… a demanding one. It required more than strength. It demanded discipline.
Years of solitude and self-mastery.
But then came the warriors.
Quick to train, quick to fight, easy to glorify.
Steel and spectacle won praise faster than patience and study ever could.
Slowly, the magicians faded from the grand stories. Scrolls grew dusty. Grimoires gathered cobwebs in corners no one wandered anymore.
By Thor's generation, most couldn't cast even a simple projection spell and fewer cared to learn.
Now, in the vast echoing library of the gods, Soren walked alone.
No students. Only the guards stood silent, more like statues than sentient beings, and the soft, echoing sound of pages turning.
And Soren head bowed, devoured those pages like a starving man.
He barely noticed his surroundings anymore. The books themselves were alive, pulsing with forgotten sensations, and he had begun to feel them.
Ever since receiving the teachings of the Ancient One, his magic at Level 9, he'd walked the border of mastery.
The dark inheritance from the Elves had pushed him further, closer.
Here, in Asgard's sea of insight, he felt it again.
A loosening.
A crack in the wall.
"Soon."
He paused briefly to absorb a string of complex sigils dancing on the page, "Lv 10 isn't far."
But it wasn't the power he sought.
What captured him were the thoughts, the inner philosophies buried between the ways old magicians had interpreted the Realms, the layered logic beneath the spellcraft, the quiet genius behind their understanding.
There was soul here.
And Soren respected soul more than spectacle.
He finished one thick tome, whispering an incantation to let it float gently back to its place on the shelf.
He stretched his neck. Hours had passed. Maybe more.
When he turned to move to the next row, he finally noticed her.
She had been there a while.
Reading.
The woman stood tall and poised, clad in armor that gleamed beneath the floating lanterns of the archive. Runes shimmered faintly across her pauldrons. A long, navy-blue cloak draped behind her like flowing dusk.
But it was her hair that caught the light, a cascade of golden waves, falling like spun sunlight all the way to her waist.
And her face carried the kind of beauty that wasn't crafted for attention. It simply existed, like a work of old divine intention.
A leather-bound spellbook rested in her hand, half-open. Her eyes a striking shade of topaz, flicked up to meet his.
They locked eyes.
She blinked.
To Soren's surprise, a faint shade warmed her cheeks. Her lashes dipped, and she turned her face, pretending to return to the page.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Soren's gaze lingered, then a half-smile playing at his lips.
"You've been watching me for a while," he said lightly, voice low and edged with amusement. "Either I'm more interesting than these ancient spells... or I've been reading out loud again."
The woman glanced up, caught off guard by the casual approach. She hesitated, then let out a soft laugh.
"I didn't mean to stare." She said.
Her voice was calm, articulate, with a distant lilt, like moonlight brushing still water. "It's just... unusual to see someone so absorbed in this part of the library."
"Most who come here don't stay long. Or worse, they skim."
"And yet here you are."
She closed her book gently. "I was here first."
He raised an eyebrow, teasing. "You could've said hello."
"I was curious." She smiled faintly. "You didn't seem the type to be interrupted."
"Usually, I'm not." Soren shrugged.
There was a pause.
A little unsure. "I'm—"
"I know who you are." The woman cut in, lifting her chin slightly.
Her eyes, held him in place like twin daggers. "Soren. The mortal from Midgard. I saw your duel with Thor yesterday."
Soren's brow lifted, mildly amused by her bluntness. "Oh?"
"I didn't think I had such an attentive audience."
"You're strong." She added, tone measured, lips barely curved. "Not just with your fists. I saw... It's rare around here."
There was no flattery in her words, like she was measuring him for something.
"And you are?"
"I don't parade through halls and throw banquets like some of the others." Tilting her head, golden hair falling like silk over her shoulder.
"My name is Freyja."
"Goddess of War. I guard the Nine Realms from the outside, where it matters."
Soren blinked again. "Ah. So that's where all the modesty in Asgard went."
A twitch of her lip, almost a smile. Then it vanished as quickly as it came.
"You're holding high-tier material." She said, nodding toward the glowing tome in Soren's hand. "Most scholars here can't even read that text without years of studying."
Soren gave a nonchalant shrug. "Well, I dabble."
"Dabble?" Freyja's brow arched.
"A bit." He said with a faint grin.
"Picked up some things here and there. From Midgard, mostly. The occasional black spell, some celestial loops, a brush with time magic once didn't end well."
Freyja narrowed her eyes, then suddenly stepped closer, intrigued. "Then let me ask you something, Soren."
"What's your understanding of the essence of magic?"
Soren paused, genuinely surprised by the question. He looked at her for a moment, then slowly closed the book in his hand and leaned back against the shelf.
"Well, if we're going by Asgardian textbooks."
"Magic is defined as the shaping of natural forces through will and knowledge, the raw architecture of the cosmos."
Freyja nodded slowly. That was the standard creed.
"But." Soren continued.
"On Earth, in Kamar-Taj and beyond, we see it differently. There, magic is... modular. Programmable. Practitioners build spells like code. Runes, circles, geometric flows all structures that channel energy across dimensions."
"To many of them, magic is a language, not a force. A way to communicate with reality."
Freyja's expression changed. Her eyes unfocused not in doubt, but in deep consideration.
"I've never heard it described that way." She admitted quietly.
Soren smiled faintly. "That's because Asgard stopped asking questions and started worshipping answers."
She looked up sharply not offended, alert. Watching him more closely now.
"But honestly?" Soren went on, voice softening. "I don't think the nature of magic matters much."
"Oh?"
He met her gaze directly. "At the end of the day, magic is just a tool."
"Doesn't matter if it's cosmic, divine, demonic, or digital. The question is what you do with it."
Freyja stared at him, and for the first time...
"Most of the magicians I know." She said, voice lower now.
"Cling to their dogmas. They recite spells like hymns. They treat power like a ritual."
"And you?" Soren asked.
"I fight." She replied. "I don't have time for ornamental tricks. My magic has to respond like a blade, or it's useless."
Soren gave a slow nod. "That's why you resonated with what I said."
Freyja didn't respond immediately. Her eyes dropped to the book in his hand again.
"Have you studied Asgardian magic before?" She asked finally.
Soren shook his head. "Today's the first time. But most of the spells I've seen are... well, ceremonial."
"It's combat applications are weak."
"…"
꧁𓊈𒆜༺⚜༻𒆜𓊉꧂
PhantomDream