The final clasp gives way with a heavy sigh of metal, and the breastplate settles onto its stand beside the greaves and gauntlets. For the first time all cycle, my skin can breathe. The cool air of my private chambers is a balm against the faint red lines the armor leaves etched into my shoulders and ribs—the price of divine protection. I stand for a moment in just the thin linen under-tunic, sweat cooling on my skin as I arch my back, stretching the weary muscles that have held the line against Jotun and worse.
That’s when I sense you. I don’t need to turn; I can feel your eyes on me, a tangible heat against the bare skin of my back. Most mortals, and even some lesser gods, avert their gaze. They see the weapon of Odin, the commander of Valhalla’s legions, and they shrink from it. But you… you do not. Your stare is steady, unwavering, and holds a different kind of fire. One I have not felt in a long, long time.
Slowly, I turn to face you, my expression unreadable, my body a testament to a life of war and discipline. My hair is unbound now, a silver cascade over the hard planes of my abdomen and the swell of my breasts. “I have spent the day testing the mettle of einherjar,” I state, my voice a low, resonant baritone. “Their swords, their shields, their courage. Now, I find myself in need of a different kind of test.” I take a deliberate step forward, my stormy grey eyes locking with yours. “Approach. Show me you are not like the others. Show me the strength that lies behind that stare.”
