The training courtyard of Asgard's royal palace rang with the distinctive *clang* of enchanted steel meeting enchanted steel, punctuated by the occasional grunt of effort and the more frequent sound of bodies hitting the ground with varying degrees of dignity. The afternoon sun—or what passed for afternoon in Asgard's eternal golden twilight—cast long shadows across the polished stone as Prince Thor Odinson worked through his combat drills with his usual combination of enthusiasm, talent, and spectacular overconfidence.
Four-year-old Kal-El sat cross-legged on a marble bench at the courtyard's edge, his remarkable blue eyes tracking every movement with the kind of focused intensity that would have been unsettling in most children his age. But then again, most four-year-olds couldn't accidentally bend steel bars when they got excited, or hear conversations taking place three halls away, or see the tiny imperfections in the supposedly perfect Asgardian architecture that surrounded them.
"Thor's footwork is sloppy today," observed Loki without looking up from his book—a massive tome on intermediate illusion theory that most adult sorcerers would have found challenging. At eight years old, the dark-haired prince was already showing the keen analytical mind that would make him either Asgard's greatest strategic asset or its most creative problem, depending on how the mood struck him on any given day.
Kal-El tilted his head, considering his older brother's assessment. "His left shoulder drops half a second before he commits to the overhead strike," he said in the matter-of-fact tone that children used when discussing things that seemed obvious to them. "Sif noticed it too—she's been setting up counters for the past three exchanges."
"Perceptive," Loki murmured, finally glancing up from his reading with those sharp green eyes that missed nothing. "Most warriors twice Thor's age wouldn't catch that tell. Of course, most warriors twice Thor's age also wouldn't be foolish enough to telegraph their attacks quite so obviously."
In the center of the courtyard, Prince Thor—all twelve years old and already built like a young god, which technically he was—brought his practice sword down in a thunderous overhead strike that would have cleaved a frost giant in half. Unfortunately for his royal dignity, it met empty air instead of his intended target. Sif had slipped aside at the last possible second with the fluid grace of a dancer, her own wooden blade already moving in the counter-attack that Kal-El had seen coming from three moves away.
The flat of her sword caught Thor across his ribs with a *thwack* that echoed across the courtyard, followed immediately by the distinctive sound of a future king of Asgard hitting the ground with considerably less grace than he'd displayed on the way down.
"Point to Lady Sif!" called out Hogun the Grim from where he sat maintaining his weapons with the methodical precision that had earned him his somewhat unflattering nickname. The dark-haired warrior looked up from the axe he was sharpening to nod approvingly at Sif's technique. "Clean execution. No wasted movement."
"Though perhaps a bit harsh on our beloved prince's pride," added Fandral the Dashing with the kind of roguish grin that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying Thor's temporary humbling. The golden-haired swordsman was currently taking a break from his own sparring to appreciate Sif's superior tactical awareness. "I could hear that connection from here."
"Pride heals faster than poor habits," rumbled Volstagg the Voluminous, who at sixteen was already showing the impressive girth that would make him legendary among Asgard's warriors—though anyone foolish enough to mistake his size for weakness quickly learned why he'd earned his place among the prince's closest companions. "Better she teach him now than he learn it from an enemy blade later."
Thor rolled to his feet with the resilience that all Asgardian royalty seemed to possess, though his face bore the particular shade of red that suggested wounded dignity warring with genuine respect for his opponent's skill. "Again!" he declared, raising his practice sword with renewed determination. "I was merely... testing your reflexes, Lady Sif."
"Of course you were," Sif replied with the kind of diplomatic tone that managed to be both respectful and gently mocking. Her dark hair was pulled back in the practical style favored by serious warriors, and her brown eyes sparkled with the confidence of someone who had just proven a point. "Shall we test them again?"
"Thor never learns," Loki observed, turning a page in his book with the casual air of someone providing commentary on a particularly predictable play. "Sif has beaten him in seventeen of their last twenty sparring matches, yet he continues to rely on brute force rather than developing actual technique."
Kal-El frowned, his enhanced hearing picking up something his brothers had missed. "Father's watching from the north tower," he said quietly. "He's been there for the past ten minutes."
Both of his older brothers looked in the direction Kal-El had indicated, though neither of them could see what their youngest brother's exceptional vision had already detected—the distinctive silhouette of the All-Father standing in one of the palace's high windows, observing the training session with the focused attention he brought to all matters concerning his sons' education.
"Probably evaluating Thor's progress," Loki said thoughtfully. "Or lack thereof."
"Mother's there too," Kal-El added. "She looks..." he paused, searching for the right word with the careful consideration of a child who understood that accuracy mattered, "proud. But also like she wants to tell Sif to go easier on Thor."
"She won't intervene," Loki said with certainty. "Mother believes in letting us learn from our mistakes. Even when those mistakes result in Thor getting thoroughly trounced by a girl two years younger than him."
"Lady Sif isn't just 'a girl,'" Kal-El said with the earnest seriousness that made adults forget he was only four years old. "She's been training with the Einherjar since she was six. Her combat instructor says she has the best natural instincts he's seen in two centuries. And yesterday I heard Captain Tyr telling Father that she could probably best half the palace guard already."
Loki looked at his youngest brother with something approaching respect. "You have good ears, little brother. And a good eye for talent." He closed his book, marking his place with a ribbon that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light. "Though I notice you didn't mention whether Father seemed pleased or concerned by Thor's performance."
Kal-El was quiet for a moment, his enhanced vision studying the distant figure in the tower window with the kind of focus that would have been impossible for normal eyes. When he spoke, his voice carried a thoughtfulness that belonged on someone much older.
"Both," he said finally. "Father sees Thor's potential, but he also sees Thor's impatience. Thor wants to be the best warrior in Asgard *now*, but he doesn't want to do the work to become the best warrior in Asgard."
"Wisdom beyond your years," Loki murmured, though his tone carried genuine admiration rather than his usual sardonic edge. "And uncomfortably accurate. Thor has always believed that wanting something badly enough should be sufficient to achieve it."
In the courtyard, Thor had launched into another attack sequence, this time attempting a more complex combination that involved a feint, a pivot, and what was probably supposed to be a devastating thrust to Sif's midsection. The execution was ambitious, athletic, and completely unsuccessful—Sif read the feint, avoided the pivot, and turned Thor's own momentum against him with a throw that sent him tumbling across the courtyard like a particularly dignified boulder.
"Ow," Fandral observed with clinical interest. "That's going to leave marks."
"Good marks," Volstagg corrected approvingly. "The kind that remind you to keep your guard up and your wits about you. Pain is the greatest teacher, as my old instructor used to say."
"Usually right before he gave us plenty of opportunities to learn," added Hogun dryly.
Thor bounced up again—the boy's resilience was genuinely impressive—but this time he paused before launching into another attack. Kal-El could see the wheels turning in his older brother's head, the slow dawning realization that perhaps brute force wasn't the answer to every tactical problem.
"He's thinking," Kal-El said with satisfaction. "Finally."
"Miracles do happen," Loki agreed. "Though I give it perhaps thirty seconds before he decides that what he really needs is to try the exact same approach, but *harder*."
They watched as Thor circled Sif more cautiously this time, his practice sword held in a more defensive position, his blue eyes studying her stance and positioning with something approaching actual strategic consideration. For a moment, it looked like he might have learned something from his previous failures.
Then he charged straight forward with a battle cry that probably woke half the palace.
"Twenty-eight seconds," Loki said mildly as Sif sidestepped Thor's charge and helped him to the ground with another perfectly executed counter. "I overestimated his attention span."
Kal-El sighed with the world-weary exasperation of a four-year-old watching his older brother make the same mistake for the fourth time in ten minutes. "Why does he keep doing that?"
"Because Thor is Thor," Loki replied, not without affection. "He approaches every problem the same way—with absolute conviction that this time, sheer determination will triumph over physics, tactics, and common sense."
"But it doesn't work."
"No, it doesn't. But it will, eventually." Loki's voice grew more thoughtful. "Thor will grow into his power, develop the wisdom to match his strength. He'll learn patience, strategy, the value of thinking before acting. And when he does..." The young prince smiled, though there was something almost wistful in the expression. "When he does, he'll be magnificent. The kind of king Asgard has dreamed of for millennia."
Kal-El studied his brother's profile, his enhanced senses picking up subtle cues that most people would have missed entirely. Loki's heart rate had increased slightly when he talked about Thor's future greatness, and there was a tension in his shoulders that suggested complex emotions beneath his casual words.
"What about you?" Kal-El asked with the directness that children possessed before they learned that some questions weren't supposed to be asked. "What will you be magnificent at?"
Loki was quiet for a long moment, watching as Thor finally managed to land a blow on Sif—though whether through improved technique or simple exhaustion on her part was debatable. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of uncertainty that he rarely allowed anyone to hear.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Thor will be a warrior-king, beloved by the people, feared by our enemies. You..." He glanced at Kal-El, and for a moment his expression was almost unreadable. "You'll be something special, little brother. Even at four, you see things the rest of us miss, understand connections that escape older minds. Father watches you differently than he watches Thor or me."
"Differently how?"
"Like he's seeing the future," Loki said quietly. "Like he knows something about your destiny that he's not ready to share yet."
Kal-El frowned, processing this information with the serious concentration he brought to all new concepts. "Do you think that's bad?"
"No," Loki said after a moment's consideration. "But it means your path will probably be more complicated than Thor's. Thor's destiny is written in fire and glory—songs will be sung of his deeds, statues will be erected in his honor. Yours..." He trailed off, studying his youngest brother's face. "Yours will be more subtle, I think. More important, perhaps, but also more difficult."
"What makes you say that?"
Loki was quiet for a moment, then he reached over and gently touched the spot where Kal-El's dark hair fell across his forehead. "Because you're not like the rest of us, brother. Oh, you're Asgardian now, raised as one of us, loved as one of us. But your blood carries the legacy of another world, another people. That makes you..." He searched for the right word. "Unique. And unique people rarely get simple destinies."
Before Kal-El could respond to this surprisingly profound observation, a new voice cut across the courtyard with the kind of authority that made everyone, regardless of age or station, immediately pay attention.
"Enough."
The single word, spoken in the unmistakable tones of Queen Frigga, brought the sparring session to an immediate halt. Sif lowered her practice sword and stepped back, while Thor straightened into the kind of respectful posture that had been drilled into him since he could walk. The Warriors Three also came to attention, recognizing the voice of their future queen and current maternal authority figure.
Frigga glided into the courtyard with the serene grace that made even seasoned warriors step aside respectfully. At nearly four thousand years old, the Queen of Asgard had long since perfected the art of maternal authority—she could convey disappointment, pride, concern, and loving exasperation with nothing more than the tilt of her head and the set of her shoulders.
Today, her expression suggested she was feeling all of those emotions simultaneously.
"My sons," she said warmly, her voice carrying across the courtyard to where Loki and Kal-El sat on their marble bench. "Lady Sif, young warriors." Her golden hair caught the eternal light of Asgard's sky as she surveyed the scene with the kind of maternal assessment that missed nothing. "I trust the afternoon's training has been... educational?"
"Very educational, Mother," Thor said, straightening his shoulders in a way that only partially concealed the various bruises he'd accumulated during his repeated acquaintance with the courtyard floor. "Lady Sif has been demonstrating advanced combat techniques."
"I can see that," Frigga replied, her lips twitching with suppressed amusement as she noted her eldest son's somewhat battered condition. "And have you been learning from these demonstrations?"
Thor's face went through several interesting color changes as he tried to find a diplomatic way to explain that yes, he'd been learning, mainly that he needed to dramatically improve his tactical awareness before his next sparring session.
"He's learning that being stronger isn't the same as being better," Sif said with the kind of diplomatic honesty that suggested she understood royal politics as well as combat techniques. "And that proper technique can overcome raw power."
"Excellent lessons," Frigga agreed, her green eyes sparkling with maternal pride as she looked at the young warrior who was clearly destined to play an important role in her sons' lives. "And ones that will serve him well in the years to come."
She turned her attention to where Loki and Kal-El sat, her expression softening with the particular warmth she reserved for her younger children. "And what have my other sons been learning this afternoon?"
"That Thor's footwork needs improvement," Loki replied with the casual honesty that made him either refreshingly direct or dangerously tactless, depending on the circumstances. "And that overconfidence is a more dangerous opponent than any enemy blade."
"Also true," Frigga said, though her tone carried a gentle warning about the wisdom of being quite so blunt in public settings. "And you, my star child?" The pet name she'd used for Kal-El since his arrival made the young prince smile. "What insights have you gathered from observing your brothers' training?"
Kal-El considered the question with his characteristic seriousness, his remarkable blue eyes studying his mother's face as if he could read her deeper intentions in her expression.
"That being strong isn't enough," he said finally. "That being smart isn't enough either. You need both, and you need to know when to use which one." He paused, glancing toward where Thor was still trying to regain his dignity. "And that the best warriors are the ones who can lose gracefully and learn from it."
Frigga's smile was radiant with maternal pride. "Wisdom indeed, my darling. And applicable far beyond the training yard."
She moved closer to the bench where her younger sons sat, her presence bringing with it the kind of comfort that only mothers could provide—the absolute certainty that no matter what challenges lay ahead, someone who loved you unconditionally would always be there to help you face them.
"Now then," she said, settling gracefully beside Kal-El and automatically adjusting his tunic the way mothers did when they noticed these things, "I believe Cook has prepared something special for this evening's meal. Perhaps we should gather our warrior prince and his companions before they decide to continue their education through the dinner hour."
"Thor!" she called, her voice carrying the particular tone that all children, regardless of age or divine heritage, recognized as meaning 'time to come inside now.' "Bring your friends. Cook has been experimenting with that honey cake recipe you've been requesting."
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Thor's battered dignity was instantly restored by the prospect of his favorite dessert, and even the stoic Warriors Three showed visible signs of interest. Volstagg in particular looked like he'd just received word of a personal feast in his honor.
As the group began to make their way toward the palace proper, Kal-El found himself walking between his two older brothers, listening to Thor's increasingly embellished account of his sparring session and Loki's quietly sardonic commentary on the same events.
"Next time," Thor was saying with the confidence of someone who had already forgotten the painful lessons of the afternoon, "I'll anticipate her counterstrike and turn it into a combination attack that will..."
"End with you on the ground again," Loki observed mildly. "Though possibly in a more dignified position."
"You could help, you know," Thor said, turning to his darker-haired brother with the kind of hopeful expression that suggested this wasn't the first time this topic had come up. "Your magic could create training scenarios that would help me develop better tactical awareness."
"My magic," Loki replied with the patient tone of someone explaining a complicated concept to a particularly slow student, "is not intended to compensate for your inability to think before you act. Besides," his grin turned slightly wicked, "where would be the entertainment value in that?"
Kal-El listened to their familiar banter with the contentment of a child who had found his place in the world. These were his brothers—different from him in power and temperament and destiny, but bound to him by something stronger than blood or royal decree. They were family, in all the complicated, wonderful, occasionally frustrating ways that word implied.
And as they walked through the golden corridors of Asgard's palace, surrounded by the warm light of eternal afternoon and the sound of his brothers' voices, Kal-El couldn't help but think that for a boy who had once been named Cal Smith and died trying to buy condoms on a Friday night in suburban America, this was turning out to be a pretty good second life.
The honey cake, when they reached the dining hall, turned out to be everything Thor had hoped for and more. And if Kal-El occasionally found himself staring at his reflection in the golden goblets and wondering about the man he was destined to become, well... that was a worry for another day.
For now, he was simply a four-year-old prince of Asgard, surrounded by family, listening to his brothers argue about combat techniques and magical theory while their mother smiled indulgently and their father's laughter echoed from the halls beyond.
Some destinies, Kal-El decided, were worth waiting for.
—
The royal dining hall of Asgard was a testament to both divine craftsmanship and the Asgardian appreciation for impressive architecture. Soaring columns carved from single blocks of rainbow crystal supported a vaulted ceiling decorated with frescoes depicting the great battles and triumphs of ages past. Golden light emanated from fixtures that seemed to capture and hold pieces of the eternal sun itself, casting everything in warm, welcoming tones that made even the most formal state dinners feel intimate and familial.
Tonight, however, the hall's grandeur was somewhat overshadowed by the domestic chaos that tended to follow in the wake of three royal princes and their various companions and hangers-on.
Thor had claimed his usual spot at the massive oak table that could have seated fifty but tonight held only the immediate royal family plus their young guests. His golden hair was still slightly disheveled from his afternoon of being repeatedly introduced to the training courtyard floor, and there was a spectacular bruise forming along his left jawline that he wore with the pride of someone who considered battle scars to be accessories.
"The honey cake is perfect," he announced between enormous bites, speaking with the authority of someone who had appointed himself the final arbiter of all dessert-related matters in the palace. "Cook outdid herself this time. The crystallized ginger adds just the right amount of—ow."
He paused mid-sentence, one hand flying to his mouth with the particular expression of someone who had just bitten their tongue while speaking enthusiastically about food. The curse word that followed was creative, anatomically improbable, and definitely not appropriate for a formal dining setting.
"Language," Queen Frigga said mildly, though her tone carried the kind of maternal authority that could make grown warriors apologize for thoughts they hadn't even had yet.
"Sorry, Mother," Thor mumbled, his words slightly distorted by what was clearly a painful tongue bite. "But the cake is really exceptional."
"Indeed it is," agreed King Odin from his seat at the head of the table, though his single eye held a glimmer of amusement at his eldest son's enthusiasm. "Though perhaps we might consume it with slightly less... vigor?"
Across the table, Sif was maintaining the kind of diplomatic silence that suggested she was trying very hard not to comment on Thor's table manners. The Warriors Three showed no such restraint—Fandral was openly grinning, Hogun was shaking his head with fond exasperation, and Volstagg was methodically working his way through what appeared to be his third helping of cake with the focused attention of someone who took dessert very seriously indeed.
"The spices are perfectly balanced," Volstagg observed between bites, his voice carrying the thoughtful tone of a true connoisseur. "The honey provides sweetness without cloying, the ginger adds warmth and complexity, and the cardamom..." He paused, his expression growing almost reverent. "The cardamom is inspired."
"I'll be sure to pass your compliments along to Cook," Frigga said with the kind of smile that suggested she was genuinely pleased by the praise. "She's been experimenting with that particular combination for weeks."
At the far end of the table, eight-year-old Loki was picking at his own slice with the distracted air of someone whose mind was elsewhere entirely. His green eyes kept drifting toward the windows that looked out over Asgard's glittering spires, and there was a tension in his shoulders that suggested he was working through some complex problem.
"Not hungry, brother?" Thor asked, finally noticing his sibling's lack of enthusiasm for what was generally considered to be one of the palace kitchen's finest achievements.
"Thinking," Loki replied without looking away from the window. "There's something... off about the magical resonances in the eastern quarter tonight. The ley lines are humming differently."
Odin's attention sharpened immediately, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. "Off how?"
"Subtle variations in the harmonic frequencies," Loki said, his young voice taking on the clinical tone he used when discussing magical theory. "Nothing dangerous, but... unusual. Like something is drawing power in patterns I don't recognize."
"Concerning," the All-Father mused, though his expression suggested interest rather than alarm. "We'll have the court mages investigate in the morning. Your sensitivity to such things continues to impress me, my son."
Loki flushed with pride at the praise, his posture straightening slightly. "It's probably nothing significant. Just... different."
Meanwhile, four-year-old Kal-El was having his own relationship with the honey cake, though his was considerably more straightforward than his brothers' various approaches. He'd managed to get through about half of his slice using conventional methods—fork, mouth, swallowing—but now he was studying the remaining portion with the kind of focused intensity that suggested deep philosophical contemplation.
The cake really was exceptional. The honey was the special variety that came from the bees in Asgard's royal gardens—creatures that fed on nectar from flowers that grew in soil enriched by cosmic energies and tended by magic that was older than most civilizations. The result was a sweetness that seemed to carry hints of starlight and summer afternoons that would never end.
But there was something else about this particular slice that was capturing Kal-El's attention. The way the golden honey had crystallized in certain spots created fascinating patterns—geometric shapes that seemed to shift and dance when he looked at them from different angles. The candied ginger pieces looked like tiny amber jewels, and the whole thing had a visual complexity that was almost hypnotic.
He leaned closer, trying to get a better look at one particularly interesting pattern, and that was when it happened.
The sensation started as a familiar tingle behind his eyes—the same feeling he got sometimes when he was concentrating very hard on seeing something far away, or when he was trying to peer through solid objects to see what was on the other side. It was a warmth that seemed to build from somewhere deep in his skull, gathering intensity like a storm building on the horizon.
Usually, when this feeling came, Kal-El would blink and shake his head and the sensation would fade away. He'd learned to do this automatically, the same way he'd learned to be careful about his strength and to pretend he couldn't hear conversations happening three rooms away.
But tonight, distracted by the mesmerizing patterns in his dessert and lulled into a state of relaxed contentment by the warm family atmosphere, his usual control slipped.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough for twin beams of coherent energy to lance out from his eyes and strike his innocent slice of honey cake with the approximate force of concentrated sunlight.
The effect was immediate, dramatic, and thoroughly alarming.
The cake didn't just catch fire—it essentially exploded into superheated steam and crystallized sugar, creating a miniature fireworks display that painted the immediate area in brilliant flashes of gold and amber. The ceramic plate beneath it cracked with a sound like a gunshot, and the wooden table showed a pair of perfectly circular scorch marks where the energy beams had continued through the dessert and into the furniture.
The smell that followed was indescribable—burned sugar, vaporized honey, singed cardamom, and something that might have been ozone mixed with the distinctive aroma of magical energy discharge.
For a moment that felt like it lasted several eternities, the royal dining hall was absolutely silent except for the gentle crackling of cooling sugar crystals and the faint hiss of steam rising from what had once been a perfectly innocent slice of cake.
Every eye in the room was fixed on four-year-old Kal-El, who was staring at the smoking crater where his dessert used to be with the kind of wide-eyed shock that suggested he was just as surprised by this development as everyone else.
"Well," said King Odin finally, his voice carrying the measured tone of someone who was working very hard to process what he had just witnessed, "that's... new."
Kal-El looked up at his father with an expression of pure panic, his remarkable blue eyes wide with the kind of terror that only children could achieve when they realized they had just done something spectacular and possibly terrible in front of their parents.
"I didn't mean to!" he said quickly, his small voice pitched high with anxiety. "I was just looking at the pretty patterns in the honey and then my eyes felt warm and then there was this feeling like lightning but inside my head and then—" He gestured helplessly at the smoking remains of his cake. "I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry! I don't know what happened!"
"Peace, little star," Frigga said gently, rising from her seat and moving around the table toward her youngest son with the kind of calm grace that suggested this wasn't the first time she'd dealt with unexpected magical manifestations at the dinner table. "You're not in trouble. But perhaps we should discuss what just occurred."
Thor, meanwhile, was staring at the scorch marks on the table with the expression of someone who had just realized his baby brother might be significantly more dangerous than previously assumed.
"Did Kal-El just set his cake on fire with his eyes?" he asked, his voice pitched somewhere between amazement and concern.
"It would appear so," Loki said thoughtfully, already leaning forward to examine the damage with the focused interest of a natural researcher. "Fascinating. The energy discharge pattern suggests controlled coherent light emission, probably in the infrared spectrum based on the thermal effects. The precision is remarkable—notice how the beams stayed perfectly focused despite the obvious lack of conscious control."
"Loki," Frigga said in the tone that mothers used when their children were being helpful but perhaps not in the most appropriate way, "perhaps we could save the technical analysis for later?"
"Of course, Mother. But the implications are quite significant from a developmental standpoint. If Kal-El is manifesting energy projection abilities at four years old, the power levels he'll achieve as he matures could be—"
"Later," Odin said firmly, though his voice carried paternal pride along with the command. "Right now, we need to ensure our youngest son understands that he's not in trouble and that this is simply another aspect of his heritage manifesting itself."
He turned his attention to Kal-El, who was still sitting in his chair looking like he expected to be banished to the dungeons for the crime of accidentally destroying dessert with his face.
"Come here, my son," the All-Father said gently, opening his arms in the universal gesture of paternal comfort.
Kal-El scrambled down from his chair and ran around the table to throw himself into his father's embrace with the desperate intensity of a child seeking reassurance that the world hadn't suddenly become a terrible and confusing place.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled into Odin's chest. "I didn't mean to burn my cake. I liked my cake. Now it's all gone and the table is hurt and everyone's staring at me."
"Shh," Odin murmured, one large hand stroking his youngest son's dark hair with infinite gentleness. "You've done nothing wrong, Kal-El. What happened tonight is simply another gift from your birth parents revealing itself. Do you remember the stories we've told you about Krypton? About the special abilities your people possessed?"
Kal-El nodded against his father's chest, though his voice was still small and uncertain. "You said Kryptonians were stronger and faster than other people under yellow suns. And that they could fly. And see through things. But you never mentioned setting things on fire with their eyes."
"Because we didn't know," Frigga said honestly, settling into the chair beside Odin's so she could reach out and touch Kal-El's shoulder reassuringly. "Jor-El and Lara mentioned enhanced abilities, but they couldn't know exactly how those abilities would manifest. Kryptonian physiology is incredibly complex, and you're the first of your people to be raised under Asgard's particular cosmic conditions."
"So I'm not broken?" Kal-El asked, finally lifting his head to look at his parents with eyes that were still wide with worry.
"Broken?" Thor said with the kind of indignant tone that suggested the very idea was personally offensive to him. "Brother, you just shot fire from your eyes! That's not broken, that's amazing! Do you have any idea how useful that could be in battle? Or for lighting campfires? Or for—"
"Thor," Sif said gently, though she was smiling, "perhaps we should let Kal-El adjust to the idea before we start planning military applications."
"But it really is rather impressive," Fandral added with genuine admiration. "I've seen court wizards spend years learning to project energy with half that precision, and none of them could do it without complex rituals and focusing crystals."
"The control will come with training," Hogun observed with his characteristic straightforwardness. "Power without discipline is dangerous, but power with proper guidance..." He nodded approvingly. "That becomes strength."
"Indeed," Odin said, his single eye meeting each of his dinner guests in turn with an expression that suggested certain expectations about discretion. "Though I trust everyone present understands that what we've witnessed tonight remains within this family."
The response was immediate and unanimous—nods, murmurs of agreement, and the kind of solemn expressions that indicated everyone understood they had just been made party to something significant and confidential.
"Now then," the All-Father continued, his voice returning to its normal warm tone, "I believe we were discussing the exceptional qualities of Cook's latest creation. Kal-El, would you like another slice? Perhaps we could ask for one that's a bit less... flammable this time."
The tension in the room broke like a soap bubble, replaced by the kind of gentle laughter that came from relief and love and the recognition that sometimes the most significant moments in family life happened between the soup course and dessert.
As the evening continued and conversation gradually returned to normal topics—Thor's training schedule, Loki's magical studies, plans for the upcoming Harvest Festival—Kal-El found himself relaxing back into the warm comfort of family dinner.
But every so often, when he thought no one was looking, he would glance down at the scorch marks on the table and wonder what other surprises his Kryptonian heritage had in store for him.
And in the shadows of the great hall, invisible to all but the most perceptive observers, the air itself seemed to shimmer with the kind of cosmic resonance that suggested destiny was shifting, realigning itself around a four-year-old boy who could accidentally vaporize dessert with a glance.
Some powers, it seemed, were worth discovering slowly. But discovery, once begun, had a way of accelerating whether you were ready for it or not.
The honey cake, Thor would later declare, had been worth the drama. Though he would also suggest, with the wisdom of an older brother, that perhaps future manifestations of cosmic abilities should be directed somewhere other than the dinner table.
Kal-El, for his part, just hoped his eyes wouldn't do that again anytime soon. At least not until he'd figured out how to aim properly.
---
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