Rebirth 8 (Patreon)

Freyja’s tutelage had done a lot for him.

A bird chirped above, and Harry flicked the berry in his hand upward, watching the sparrow-like avian catch it neatly in its tiny beak. Black eyes blinked down at him, sharp and curious, before it hopped away into the branches. Sighing, he resumed his walk toward the waterfall by Ngunn’s garden. As he moved, he reached out with his magic—not grasping, not demanding—letting it brush against the world around him.

The forest answered.

Joy stirred beneath moss and loam, quiet and pervasive. Alertness rippled through the undergrowth as its denizens marked his passing and then dismissed him, recognizing neither predator nor prey. With every step, he let a part of himself loosen, slipping into the rhythm of the land until it became difficult to tell where his awareness ended and the forest’s began.

Three months had passed in what felt like a single breath.

Honestly, were it not for the changes he had undergone, Harry would have sworn he had been in Vanaheim for scarcely more than a week. Time here did not march forward; it drifted, folding around itself like water around stone. Dropping down into the valley below, he bent the air instinctively, softening his landing as his boots met the earth without a sound. He moved toward the waterfall at an unhurried pace, the steady roar of rushing water threading through the air like a heartbeat, calming his already meditative mind further.

He loved it here.

Not in the sharp, aching way he had loved Hogwarts, or the fierce, desperate way he had loved the people he had lost—but in something gentler. Vanaheim asked nothing of him. Its calm seeped into his bones, saturating his days with the layered melody of a hundred creatures chirping, rustling, calling to one another in near harmony.

Near, being the operative word.

Harry sighed as a familiar presence broke through the serenity. A ripple disturbed the pool below the falls, followed by a flash of gold as a dreki hatchling paddled determinedly toward him. Tiny wings jutted awkwardly from its sides, more decorative than useful, and its scales gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight—utterly ruining every attempt it made at subtlety.

In the distance, higher up along the cliff face, Harry felt the weight of its mother’s attention settle on him. Not hostile. But sharp. Watchful. The kind of awareness that promised swift and unpleasant consequences should he misjudge his next move.

Chuckling, Harry stepped out onto the water as though it were solid ground. He crouched, met the hatchling’s indignant chirr with a fond smile, and flicked his finger. Magic followed the gesture—not forceful, just nudging reality aside long enough for the little dreki to drift gently back toward the rock shelf where its mother waited.

The hatchling squawked in outrage as it bobbed away, tiny claws flailing uselessly, and Harry laughed openly, the sound echoing across stone and water alike.

Thankfully, dreki were just intelligent enough to recognize when they were being toyed with rather than threatened. The mother’s presence receded a fraction, irritation giving way to grudging tolerance.

Moments like this were when he felt the change most keenly.

Freyja’s tutelage had done more for him than he had expected.

The Vanir approach to magic bore little resemblance to anything he had learned at Hogwarts. There was no forcing reality into submission, no rigid insistence that power be bent to will through sheer stubbornness. Instead, Freyja had taught him to listen. To coax. To understand what he was asking the world to do, rather than assuming it would obey simply because he demanded it.

She had spent weeks dismantling the walls he had built around his magic—the tight, brutal control that had kept him alive through a war but left him brittle. Rigid. Now, his magic moved like water through the forest, connecting to the life around him without conscious effort.

The refinement alone would have been worth the displacement.

Three months of Freyja’s guidance had accomplished what years of Dumbledore’s manipulation and the Ministry’s incompetence never had: understanding. Not spells memorized by rote, not wand movements drilled into muscle memory, but the why beneath it all. How intent shaped energy. How will could bend the world without words or gestures, if you understood what you were asking for.

He had progressed a great deal in the months following Voldemort’s defeat—especially during the war itself—but expert guidance was in another league entirely. Even more so when it came from a Goddess of Magic.

And then there was the knowledge.

Freyja knew things.

Spell theory that made Master-level transfiguration look like a child smearing paint across parchment. Ritual construction that did not rely on blood and sacrifice, like the Dark Arts Voldemort had favored, but on harmony with natural cycles. She taught him to read the flow of energy through living systems, to sense the difference between a ward anchored to stone and one tied to running water. Practical lessons. Dangerous ones, sometimes—delivered with that serene smile that suggested she knew exactly what sort of weapon she was handing him.

Astronomy, too. Not the stunted, inward-looking version practiced by Earth’s wizards, obsessed with a single star and a handful of constellations. The Vanir perceived the flow of energy across the entire universe.

Yggdrasil alone was enough to overwhelm his fledgling senses, its near-infinite branches brushing against realities he could barely comprehend. And Freyja and Odin stood above even that.

Loki, surprisingly, had been just as valuable.

The trickster was an ass—there was no avoiding that. Sharp-tongued, smug, and possessed of an uncanny ability to find the exact words that would dig beneath Harry’s skin and twist. A much more handsome and infinitely more dangerous blend of Draco and Snape, if such a thing were possible.

Brilliant, in that infuriating way that made Harry want to punch him and take notes at the same time.

Where Freyja taught him to flow, Loki taught him to cut.

Precision over power.

Efficiency over spectacle.

“You fight like a Midgardian,” Loki had remarked once, weeks ago, watching Harry run through combat forms in one of Vanaheim’s training yards. “All brute force and luck. Frankly, it’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

Harry had nearly hexed him for it. Would have, too—if Loki hadn’t then dismantled every one of his defensive techniques in under a minute using nothing but parries and a single, humiliating leg sweep.

The lesson had stuck.

So had the insults, though not in the way Loki likely intended. There was something almost… companionable about the way the prince needled him. As if Loki cared enough to be deliberately infuriating rather than simply dismissing him outright.

It reminded him of Ron.

Before.

Harry shook his head, banishing the thought. He had grown better at that here—letting the past rest without dragging it up to bleed over everything else. Vanaheim had given him that, too. Distance. Space. Not just from Earth, but from the weight of everything he had carried there.

Here, he could simply be.

Practice magic by a waterfall. Laugh at an overeager dreki hatchling. Learn without eyes on him, without expectations pressing in from every direction. Sit in silence without feeling as though he were failing someone by doing so.

Harry settled onto a flat stone near the base of the falls, close enough that cool mist kissed his skin. The water roared on, constant and uncaring, as it had for centuries before he arrived and would for centuries after he left. There was comfort in that indifference.

He closed his eyes and let his magic sink deeper.

The dreki mother on the cliff above, her ancient awareness brushing against his like a warm current. The fish darting in tight schools below the surface. The trees beyond, their roots woven together in a vast network stretching for miles, sharing water, nutrients, and something else he still lacked a word for. Life, perhaps. Or simply the refusal to be alone.

He had learned—

“Brooding by a waterfall,” came a familiar voice, dry and amused. “How very mythic of you.”

Harry didn’t open his eyes. “Go away, Loki.”

“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”

The voice was closer now, off to his left. “The Allfather summons us. You, by name.”

That made Harry open his eyes.

Loki stood a few paces away, posture deceptively relaxed, green and black catching the filtered sunlight—but there was tension there, subtle and unmistakable.

“Any chance this is your usual way of greeting me?” Harry asked.

“Would that it were,” Loki replied, smile thin. “But I do not jest when the Allfather is involved. Come. Asgard awaits.”

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The Bifrost ride was somehow grander than Harry remembered.

Or maybe he was just more aware of it now, after months of Freyja teaching him to sense energy flows. The rainbow bridge didn't just transport—it tore you from one realm and hurled you into another, ripping through the fabric between worlds with all the subtlety of a battering ram.  But despite the power within it, its surgical precision was unrivalled. All that power was focused with a skill that would have made Dumbledore blush with envy, cutting through reality and bridging light-years seamlessly. His magic recoiled from it instinctively, trying to shield him from the violence of it, but none of that interdimensional energy touched his body. It merely flowed around him, cocooning him in the Bifrost and protecting him from the harsher currents that violently moved around them. 

Of course, most of his focus came from his attempt to think about just why the Allfather had summoned him.

Loki noticed, of course. "You look unwell."

"I'm fine."

"Mmm. Convincing."

Heimdall bowed to Freyja as she stepped out first, before nodding at them both, his golden gaze lingering on him longer than he liked. The walk through the bridge and the town was silent for the most part; most of the Asgardians were still asleep at this hour, the sun’s rays barely cresting the horizon as they reached the palace.

They walked in silence through Asgard's golden halls, past towering statues and impossibly high ceilings that still made Harry feel like an insect. The warriors they passed nodded to Loki with varying degrees of respect or wariness, and inspected Harry like curious students at a museum.

The throne room was exactly as he remembered—vast, ostentatious, and designed to make visitors feel small. Odin sat on his throne at the far end, one-eyed gaze fixed on the doorway as they entered.

Freyja and Loki both walked the steps towards the throne as he stopped at the appropriate distance, and took their spots at Odin’s side. She, on a smaller throne that rose out of the ground, while Loki at his father’s right, befitting his status as a prince.

"Harry Potter," Odin said, voice carrying the weight of centuries. "We meet again."

Harry nodded, bowing his head, and kept silent.

"Raise your head, Son of Potter," Odin’s voice boomed, and as their eyes met, he continued, “Your months in Vanaheim have done you good, sorcerer. Freyja speaks highly of your progress."

"Thank you, Allfather." Harry kept his voice level and shook his head softly, “But it only speaks of Queen Freyja’s and Loki’s guidance”.

“Thor had Freyja’s guidance,” Odin replied, smiling a little as he leaned back, sharing a look with his wife, before looking back at him, “Take pride in your skills, Harry Jamesson, tis not everyday Freyja deigns to share her craft.“

“But your skill at magic and seiðr is not why I have summoned you today,” Odin said, leaning forward slightly, the vastness of him pressing into the hall. “Your time in the higher realms has reached its natural end.”

There it was.

Harry inhaled once, slow and controlled, and said nothing. He had learned better than to rush words in the presence of gods.

“You are mortal,” Odin continued, his voice neither harsh nor indulgent. “Midgardian. The energies that saturate Asgard and Vanaheim are not meant to be borne by such a vessel for long. You have endured them well—better than most ever could—but endurance is not immunity.”

“I feel fine,” Harry said, even knowing how hollow the objection sounded.

Freyja spoke before Odin could answer, her tone gentle but unyielding. “You feel fine because we have been careful, Harry. Every lesson, every exercise, every ritual you undertook was designed to temper your exposure. Even so…” She paused, fingers tightening slightly where they rested against her throne. “Your core has begun to saturate. Left unchecked, it would not break cleanly. It would unravel.”

The word settled heavily between them.

Harry had seen what unraveling looked like. Magic collapsing inward, devouring thought and memory until nothing coherent remained. Lockhart’s vacant stare flashed through his mind, unbidden.

“You are sending me back,” he said quietly. Not accusing, just stating a fact.

“Yes,” Odin replied. “To this Midgard.”

Harry considered that in silence.

Part of him wanted to argue—not out of defiance, but fear. Vanaheim had been the first place since the war where he had not felt haunted by memory. Where he could breathe without counting ghosts. Earth was… complicated. Especially since there was no Hogwarts, no wizarding world to live in.

But this was not a decree born of indifference. Nor was it a test.

It was a necessity. He was many things, suicidal and stupid were not one of them.

“When?” he asked at last.

“Three days,” Odin said. “Enough time to confer with Heimdall and think about where you wish the Bifrost to place you at.”

Freyja rose then, stepping down from her seat to stand before him. She placed a hand over his heart, warmth radiating through him in a way that had nothing to do with magic. “This is not banishment,” she said softly. “Nor is it farewell. You may return when your body has had time to mend. A year, perhaps two at most.”

Two years.

“I understand,” Harry said, and meant it. Besides, he would have needed to go to Midgard eventually. 

Vanaheim might have become a home for him, but he was still a Midgardian.

Odin inclined his head once. “Then go. Make use of what you have learned. We will speak again before you depart.”

Harry bowed, deep and precise, and turned without another word. He kept his shoulders square as he walked from the throne room, refusing to let the echoing halls hear the hollow ache that had taken root in his chest.

Only when the doors closed behind them did Loki speak.

“You took that rather well,” the prince remarked, voice light but eyes sharp.

Harry exhaled slowly. “I’ve had practice.”

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Three days wasn't nearly enough time, and he couldn’t really understand why teh Allfather hadn’t booted him out right away. But a command was a command, especially from the God-king of the Nine Realms.

Thus, Harry spent his time roaming Asgard's premises like a ghost, trying to memorize the weight of the place before it was taken from him. The golden spires, the impossible architecture that bent light and perspective until he couldn't tell where one building ended and another began. The warriors training in courtyards, their laughter echoing off stone that had stood for millennia, wrestling and fighting with arms in Valhalla.

On the first, he explored the town, eating and drinking at various bars and halls, enjoying the different kinds of meats that the Asgardian palette consisted of. Though they could learn something about dragon preparation from Earth’s chefs, he thought at night, belching out his dinner in an alleyway.

On the second day, he ran into the famed Warriors Three.

Literally, in Volstagg's case—the broad warrior turning a corner at speed and nearly flattening him against a pillar. Fandral caught Harry's arm before he could bounce off the wall, steadying him with an easy grin.

"Apologies, Midgardian," Fandral said. "Volstagg has all the grace of a rampaging bilgesnipe."

"Ah yes, my apologies Midgardian," Volstagg nodded, before leaning down to inspect him closely, "word is that you depart for Midgard soon."

News traveled fast in Asgard, as it did everywhere. "Tomorrow morning."

"A shame," the third man spoke, whom Harry assumed to be Hogun, but there was something almost like regret in his tone. "Prince Thor was most excited to meet the Midgardian who had captured the interest of Lady Freyja as well as Loki."

"For a Midgardian," Fandral added, still grinning, “You have been here a long time, the longest, I think.”

Harry might have taken laughed at that, except Thor chose that moment to appear, clapping a hand on his shoulder hard enough to make his teeth rattle. The prince looked absurdly pleased to see him, with golden hair and bright armor and that earnest enthusiasm that made it impossible to dislike him—and about twice his size.

"Midgardian! A pleasure to meet you at this hour!” he beamed, all sunshine and drums, a stark, almost painful contrast to Loki’s sharpness, “Mother told me that you are to leave for Midgard?!"

"Not by choice," Harry muttered, before meeting Thor’s eyes, deciding that formal introductions were a waste anyways at the moment, “but yes Prince Thor, I am to leave for Midgard after Heimdall decides upon my heading.”

“Then it seems our talk is cut short,” Thor said, expression softening as he slung an arm across Harry’s shoulders. “Come. Feast with us tonight in Asgard’s halls and set aside your worries. When you walk Midgard again, do so without fear—I will visit that realm soon enough, and I shall see for myself that you stand in good spirits, Son of James.”

Thor’s arm stayed around his shoulders for a moment longer than necessary, the weight of it steady and familiar in a way that made Harry keenly aware of how long it had been since anyone had touched him without expectation attached.

“Aye,” Thor said, tone lighter now that the moment had passed. “Then we waste no more time standing about. Come. We feast tonight.”

Harry nodded, letting himself be guided back toward the flow of Asgard proper, boots striking stone that hummed faintly beneath them. The city felt different at this hour — less ceremonial, more lived-in. Warriors moved through the streets in small groups, some still in armor, others with cloaks thrown loosely over their shoulders. Laughter carried easily in the open air, echoing off gold and marble alike as the Warriors Three and the Prince of Asgard acted as his guides proper.

The hall Thor chose was older than most, its pillars worn smooth where hands had brushed against them for centuries. Fires burned low and constant along the walls, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. The place was already loud when they arrived, voices overlapping in rough harmony, the air thick with heat and the smell of cooked meat.

Harry took a seat where Volstagg directed him and promptly found a plate placed before him, piled high before he could protest. He ate because it was easier than arguing, the food heavy and rich enough that it sat warm in his stomach almost immediately—and certainly better than what he had eaten yesterday. Mead followed, sweeter than the Vanir brews he had grown used to, but no less potent, the taste of smoke and honey rich on his tongue.

Conversation flowed around him without demanding his attention. Volstagg laughed often and loudly, recounting stories that grew less coherent with each retelling. Fandral leaned back against the bench, spinning tales with the ease of someone who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Hogun listened more than he spoke, gaze sharp beneath his helm, offering the occasional comment that cut straight through the noise.

Thor drank and listened in equal measure. When Harry spoke, the god’s attention did not wander. He asked questions without pressing, nodding thoughtfully at the answers, as though committing them to memory rather than filing them away for later use. It was disarming in its own way. Tales of wars and combat flowed as fast and loud as the mead did, and while distressed at his world’s destruction, Thor was no less enreraptured at the words that spoke of destroyed cities and ravaged continents.

As the night wore on, the hall quieted by degrees. Fires dimmed. Conversations fractured into smaller knots. Harry found himself leaning back, watching embers collapse inward on themselves, feeling the steady pull of fatigue beneath the warmth of food and drink.

He took his leave without announcement, standing up and bowing to his hosts in gratitude. Thor clasped his forearm in farewell, grip firm, standing up in concert.

“Until Midgard,” the prince said, “Stay safe and hale, sorcerer!”

Harry nodded. “Until then.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He did not go to Heimdall immediately.

Sleep came first, shallow and restless, interrupted by half-remembered sounds of the hall and the weight of Asgard’s sky pressing down on his senses. By the time dawn crept over the city, Harry was already awake, staring at the ceiling of his chambers and cataloguing the faint hum of energy that never truly faded here. Even after months, the grandeur of these celestial planes did not fade for his supernatural senses.

He rose without ceremony, dressed simply, and made his way through the palace as the city stirred around him. The streets were quieter at this hour, warriors crossing courtyards with unhurried strides, the air carrying the smell of cold stone and distant forges. Markets were being set up, men hollering at each other to move faster as the golden rays warmed the realm.

The bridge shone as brightly as ever, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors back at him while the giant ocean below him surged with calm waves. The Bifrost chamber loomed ahead, unchanged and indifferent, and Heimdall stood at the entrance, staring towards him with his solemn, golden eyes. His sword rested point-down before him, gaze meeting his with all the wisdom and power that the Æsir held. Harry crossed the threshold and felt the familiar pressure settle behind his eyes, the subtle insistence of inter-realm energies brushing against his core.

“You have come,” Heimdall said, tilting his head in acknowledgement, “I assumed you would tarry longer.”

“Yes,” Harry replied, sighing as he stared out at the expanse of the Universe, “I thought so too.”

Silence followed. Not absence, but weight. Heimdall’s gaze shifted at last, fixing towards the cosmos outside, seeing stars and nebulae that shone like distant candles. “Midgard then?”

“I need to choose where I land.”

Heimdall studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head once. “Behold”

The touch was brief, almost unremarkable—two fingers resting against Harry’s brow. There was no warning, no sense of buildup. One moment the chamber stood solid around him, the next his perception tore outward with a violence that stole the breath from his lungs.

It was not sight as he understood it. Distance ceased to exist in any meaningful way. Realms overlapped, bled into one another, vast and layered and impossibly alive. He felt lives flare and fade like sparks cast from a forge, felt currents of power intersect and diverge in patterns too complex to follow.

It was too much. Far too much.

He would have drowned in it if Heimdall had not anchored him, drawing the immensity inward with deliberate precision, narrowing the focus until the chaos resolved into something singular.

Midgard.

London surfaced first, dense and heavy, magic pressed flat beneath stone and steel. Wards layered atop wards until the air itself felt constrained. He sensed the Ministry’s presence without effort, a dull pressure that carried with it old frustration and older anger. Familiar streets, familiar scars.

Harry recoiled instinctively.

The vision shifted.

Cities rose and fell in rapid succession, flashes of glass and concrete, of human ambition grinding relentlessly forward. New York, Sydney, Delhi, Washington, Paris, Dubai…None of them held his attention for long, memories of destruction and human greed having tainted each of them for him. 

Then the land changed.

Stone rose into view, vast and unmoved, mountains cutting clean lines against the sky. Valleys unfolded beneath them, threaded with quiet, persistent power. Ley lines converged not in conflict, but in patient equilibrium, flowing through the land as they always had.

Kathmandu.

Harry’s breath left him slowly. “There.”

The world snapped back into place.

The Bifrost chamber resolved around him once more, solid and contained. Weight returned all at once, and Harry reached out instinctively to steady himself against the edge of the dais, pulse hammering as his senses struggled to recalibrate.

“An old place,” Heimdall said. “And one of mystical weight.”

“That’s enough,” Harry replied, voice rougher than he intended.

Heimdall inclined his head. “Prepare yourself then, sorcerer. At dawn, the bridge opens.”

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Dawn came without fanfare.

Freyja met him at the edge of the bridge, her presence a steady warmth against the constant pressure of the chamber. She rested a hand briefly against his chest, as if feeling the rhythm there, then stepped back without ceremony.

“Go well,” she said.

"I'll manage." Harry met her gaze. "I've had practice."

Her smile was sad and knowing. "Yes. You have."

She reached into the folds of her dress and withdrew something wrapped in dark cloth. When she unfolded it, Harry's breath caught.

A vambrace.

It was beautiful in the way weapons were beautiful—functional, lethal, and utterly without pretense. Asgardian steel, dark as a moonless sky, etched with patterns that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. Runes, he realized. Not the crude carvings he'd seen in Ancient Runes class, but the real thing. Living script that pulsed faintly with power.

"This is too much," Harry said quietly.

"It is a gift," Freyja replied, which wasn't a denial. "Asgardian steel does not corrode. Does not dull. And the runes will serve you well—protection, primarily, though there are other functions woven in. You will discover them as you have need."

She held it out to him.

Harry took it carefully, surprised by the weight. It was heavier than it looked, but not uncomfortably so. The metal was cool against his palm, warming slowly as his magic brushed against the runes. They responded, brightening for just a moment before settling back into dormancy.

"I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing." Freyja's hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "You came to us broken, Harry Jamesson. You leave whole. That is payment enough."

Harry's throat tightened. He wanted to argue that he wasn't whole, that he was still a mess of scar tissue and bad memories held together by spite and stubbornness. But she wouldn't believe him, and maybe—just maybe—she was more right than he wanted to admit.

"Thank you," he managed.

Loki stood a short distance away, arms folded, expression unreadable. When Harry met his gaze, the god inclined his head once. Not in farewell or reassurance, nay, Loki was too perfect for that. But it was something all the same.

Heimdall raised the sword.

The Bifrost answered with a rising hum, light spilling outward as the runes embedded in the bridge flared to life. Harry drew a slow breath, feeling the familiar strain of Asgard’s energy pressing at the edges of his core, sharper now that he knew what to look for.

Then the light took him.

The transition was violent even through the vambrace’s protection, reality stretching and folding around him in ways his body protested instinctively. For a brief, disorienting moment, there was no sense of up or down, no sense of self beyond the pressure of existence being forced through too narrow a space.

Cold air slammed into his lungs.

Harry staggered as his boots struck uneven ground, breath tearing from his chest as the thin atmosphere burned. Snow-dusted stone crunched beneath his feet. He straightened slowly, forcing his breathing to steady, and looked up.

Mountains rose around him, vast and unmoved, their peaks cutting cleanly against the pale sky. Below, nestled into the valley as though the land itself had made room for it, spread a city of stone and masonry, far removed from the concrete jungles that had spawned across the globe.

Kathmandu.

His magic felt different here. Not weaker—just quieter, subdued beneath layers of human presence. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit. But beneath it all, deeper than noise or construction, he felt the steady pulse he had sensed through Heimdall’s sight.

Ancient. Patient.

Harry adjusted the strap at his wrist and started down the path toward the city, boots crunching softly against the stone.

He didn't notice the eyes watching him.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

High above the city, in a sanctuary that existed in more dimensions than three, the Ancient One stood on a balcony with tea cooling in her hands. Eyes staring up at the skies, from whence a beam of inter-dimensional energy had pierced towards Earth, the Sorcerer Supreme looked down at the landscape below, where she could make out the remains of the energy signature lingering amongst the runes burnt into the ground.

Bifrost.

The Asgardians had come to Earth.

She let her awareness expand, flowing outward the way water flows downhill—effortless, inevitable. It found him quickly, a scant few steps away from the site. A young man walking down the mountain path, shoulders bent with exhaustion that went deeper than tired muscles. She would have assumed him to be a traveller, were it not for the power brimming inside him. Human at the core, she thought, but wrapped in something that tasted of distant realms and wild places. Asgardian resonance, certainly. But beneath that, something rawer.

Interesting.

He moved like someone trained to survive. Alert without paranoia. Cautious without fear. And there, strapped to his forearm beneath simple cloth—Asgardian steel. Vanir runes etched into metal that would never dull, protections woven so deep she'd need hours to unravel them all.

A gift. Not plunder.

Someone had cared enough to arm him well, and on Asgard, that list narrowed down to but a few people.

The Ancient One sipped her tea. Grimacing, she morosely looked at the cup for a moment. Her tea had gone cold.

"Master?" Wong's voice, behind her. Careful as he stepped inside the chamber, "Is something wrong? The Charm of Vishanti has started to chime inside the main hall."

"We have a visitor." She didn't turn. "From Asgard."

Wong stepped up beside her, following her gaze toward the mountains, no doubt feeling the lingering remains of the Bifrost. His jaw tightened. "Should I alert the other Masters? Prepare the wards?"

"No."

"But—"

"He is not a threat, Wong." She set the tea down on the balcony railing, watching it wobble slightly. "Not to us."

"You're certain?"

"I'm curious." She turned to face him then, and her smile was the kind that made senior Masters remember she'd been doing this for centuries. "Observe him. But do not interfere. I have a feeling his path will intersect with ours when the time is right."

Wong bowed, though his posture stayed stiff. "As you say, Master."

He left.

The Ancient One stayed, watching the young man disappear into Kathmandu's winding streets. The city swallowed him whole—another face in the crowd, another soul seeking something it had lost.

She wondered what had brought him here. What strange currents had pulled him from Asgard's golden halls to Nepal's dusty roads.

And what had carried him to Odin’s grand realm in the first place?

Time would tell.

It always did.