The God of Valor

The crowd hushed as Sigrun stepped forward to the firing line, her red hair gleaming like molten fire under the fading light of the sun. Her youthful face was a mask of calm focus, but her green eyes betrayed a flicker of nerves as she scanned the target set impossibly far away. The air was heavy with anticipation, every spectator leaning forward in their seats, caught between silence and the pounding of their own hearts.

Bjorn, standing nearby, leaned in slightly and murmured, "You've got this, Sigrun. Just like practice. Breathe, aim, release." His deep voice carried a steady reassurance, but his broad shoulders were tense with sibling pride and anxiety.

Sigrun didn't respond, but the subtle lift of her chin and the slight smirk tugging at her lips said it all: I know I've got this.

She nocked an arrow, her slim fingers deft and precise, and took a deep breath, drawing back the bowstring with a strength that belied her lean frame. The string creaked softly under the tension, the sound almost swallowed by the stillness of the stadium. Her green eyes narrowed, locking onto the distant target, her focus so intense it felt like she had willed the world to quiet around her.

In the stands, Volstagg leaned forward, his larger-than-life presence drawing a few wary glances from nearby spectators. His expression was one of unbridled pride, his booming voice whispering (as much as Volstagg could whisper), "Look at her, Thor! The poise, the strength, the precision—truly the mark of her father's bloodline!" His grin was so wide it threatened to split his face in two, and his thick fingers stroked his braided beard as though to punctuate his satisfaction.

Thor, seated beside him, smirked, leaning back with the casual confidence of someone who had been around countless competitions. "I'll admit, Volstagg, she has your spirit—and perhaps a bit more grace." His eyes twinkled with amusement, earning him a hearty chuckle from Volstagg, who swatted Thor's shoulder like a man who didn't realize his own strength.

"Grace is well and good," Volstagg replied, his voice carrying despite his attempt at subtlety. "But what wins competitions is guts! And my girl has guts in spades! Watch her now—this is what the daughter of Volstagg the Valiant does!"

Back on the field, Sigrun blocked out the murmurs and cheers of the crowd, her world shrinking down to the bow in her hands, the arrow resting against her finger, and the target waiting far in the distance. She let out one last steadying breath, her muscles taut, her stance flawless.

And then, she released.

The arrow flew straight and true, slicing through the air with a whistle that seemed to echo in the silence. Time slowed as every pair of eyes tracked its flight, breaths held as though the act of exhaling would disrupt its trajectory. It struck the target with a resounding thunk, dead center in the bullseye.

The stadium erupted. Cheers and applause thundered across the grounds, spectators leaping to their feet in celebration. Sigrun's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile as she lowered her bow and stepped back, tilting her head toward her brother.

Bjorn's grin could have lit up the entire field as he clapped her on the shoulder, his enthusiasm infectious. "You nailed it, Sigrun! That was perfect—absolutely perfect! Father's going to—"

"—Burst with pride?" Sigrun quipped, raising a brow as her smirk widened. She turned to glance up at the stands, where Volstagg was already halfway out of his seat, gesturing wildly.

"By the gods!" Volstagg bellowed, his deep voice booming over the noise of the crowd. "THAT'S MY DAUGHTER! Look at that aim, that strength! A true warrior! Did you see that, Thor?" He grabbed Thor's arm in excitement, nearly shaking him out of his seat. "Dead center! A bullseye! Did I not say she had the guts for greatness?"

Thor chuckled, his amusement tempered by genuine admiration. "Indeed, Volstagg. I stand corrected—she's not just a warrior; she's an artist with the bow."

"An artist with the blood of a lion! That's what she is!" Volstagg declared, thumping his chest proudly.

On the field, Sigrun rolled her eyes at the spectacle her father was making, but there was no mistaking the warmth in her gaze as she looked toward him. Bjorn, catching the fond expression, nudged her playfully. "You know he's going to talk about this for years, right?"

"Let him," Sigrun replied, her smirk softening into something genuine. "I earned it."

Her success had set a high bar for the rest of the contestants, the pressure mounting as they prepared to follow her flawless performance. But for now, Sigrun basked in the moment, knowing she had made her mark.

—

With the roar of the crowd still echoing in his ears from Sigrun's stunning bullseye, Bjorn strode confidently to the line, his towering frame and fiery red hair making him an imposing presence. His steps were measured, his posture relaxed but purposeful. The cheers for Sigrun began to fade, replaced by an eager buzz of anticipation as the audience prepared to see if the elder sibling could match—or even surpass—his sister's feat.

Bjorn cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Sigrun, who stood off to the side, her bow slung over her shoulder and a proud smirk on her face. She caught his eye and gave him a playful salute. "No pressure, Bjorn," she called, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. "Just try not to embarrass yourself in front of half of Asgard."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Thanks for the pep talk, Sigrun. Truly inspiring," he shot back, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a grin. Turning back to the task at hand, he rolled his shoulders, letting the tension melt away as he prepared for his shot.

In the stands, Volstagg leaned forward, his massive hands gripping the edge of his seat. His voice boomed, though he was clearly trying—and failing—to keep it down. "Watch him, Thor! That's my boy, Bjorn! Look at that stance—solid as a mountain! You know, I taught him that myself."

Thor, sitting beside him with his usual air of amused confidence, raised an eyebrow. "Oh, did you now? And here I thought Bjorn was simply born with the instincts of a warrior. Though perhaps it does run in the family," he teased, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth.

Volstagg laughed heartily, slapping Thor on the shoulder hard enough to make the god of thunder shift in his seat. "Of course it runs in the family! The blood of warriors, my friend—unstoppable! Just you wait, Thor. Bjorn's about to show everyone why the sons of Volstagg are second to none!"

Back on the field, Bjorn ignored the noise from the stands, his focus narrowing to the target ahead. He nocked his arrow with practiced ease, the feathers brushing lightly against his fingertips. Taking a deep breath, he drew back the bowstring, the tension in the string matching the mounting anticipation of the crowd. His broad shoulders flexed, the cord creaking faintly under the strain.

The world seemed to fall silent as Bjorn steadied his aim. His fiery red hair caught the sunlight, making him appear almost larger than life—a warrior straight out of legend. He exhaled slowly, the breath steady and measured, and released.

The arrow soared through the air, slicing a clean path toward the target. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stretch, the crowd collectively holding its breath. Then came the satisfying thunk of wood meeting wood, the arrow embedding itself just outside the bullseye—a shot that was impressive, if not quite perfect.

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, recognizing the skill it took to land a shot so close to the mark. Bjorn straightened, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He turned, slinging his bow over his shoulder, and strode back toward Sigrun, who was waiting with her arms crossed and an infuriatingly smug look on her face.

"Not bad, Bjorn," she said, her tone teasing but laced with genuine pride. "Close, but not quite a bullseye. Looks like little sister's still got the edge."

Bjorn chuckled, shaking his head. "You'd better enjoy that edge while you can, Sigrun. This round isn't over yet." He reached out to ruffle her hair, earning a swat at his hand.

In the stands, Volstagg let out a bellowing laugh, clapping his massive hands together. "HA! Did you see that, Thor? A hair's breadth from perfection! That's my son—strong, steady, and sharp as a frost axe!"

Thor smirked, nodding in approval. "He's got a steady hand, no doubt about that. Perhaps a bit more practice and he'll be able to match his sister," he added with a teasing lilt.

Volstagg waved him off with a hearty guffaw. "Match? Ha! Bjorn chooses not to outshine his sister—it's called strategy, Thor. Strategy!"

Thor chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "If you say so, Volstagg. Regardless, they've both done you proud."

On the field, Bjorn and Sigrun shared a quiet moment, their sibling rivalry tempered by mutual respect. "We're both in the running," Sigrun said softly, offering him a genuine smile. "Father's going to be unbearable about this, isn't he?"

Bjorn laughed, the sound rich and carefree. "Oh, absolutely. But you know what? Let him. We've earned it."

—

As Bjorn stepped back from the line, his confident smirk lingering, the announcer's voice rang out over the crowd. "Next up: Susan Bones!"

A fresh wave of cheers rippled through the audience, mingling with lingering applause for Bjorn's performance. Susan stepped forward, her auburn hair catching the sunlight, her emerald-green eyes scanning the sea of faces until they landed on her aunt, Amelia Bones, and her godfather, Sirius Black.

Amelia stood tall and regal, her hat tilted just so, clapping enthusiastically but with a poised dignity befitting her. Next to her, Sirius was the complete opposite, wildly pumping his fist in the air and shouting, "Show them how it's done, Susan!" His roguish grin widened when Susan flashed a small smile in their direction.

From the sidelines, her friends were just as vocal. Haraldr, standing beside Draco, cupped his hands around his mouth. "You've got this, Bones!" Neville gave her a reassuring nod, his easy grin full of pride, while Luna clapped softly, her dreamy expression entirely unruffled. Draco, arms crossed and looking every bit the Malfoy heir, smirked faintly. "Don't embarrass us, Bones," he drawled, though there was an unmistakable glimmer of encouragement in his silver eyes.

Susan took a steadying breath, letting their voices and the roar of the crowd fade into the background. She tightened her grip on her bow and nocked an arrow with practiced precision. Her gaze fixed on the distant target, her mind honing in on the single, immovable point amidst the lively chaos around her.

The crowd hushed once more, the tension building like the slow intake of a collective breath. Susan pulled back the bowstring, the creak of the taut string the only sound. Her shoulders were steady, her stance perfectly aligned, a testament to years of training.

And then, she released.

The arrow soared through the air, a sleek streak of polished wood and steel slicing toward its destination. Time seemed to stretch as the crowd leaned forward, eyes wide and breath held.

Thunk.

The arrow buried itself just inside the bullseye. The precision of the shot sent a ripple of excitement through the arena before the dam burst, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

Amelia rose to her feet, her usually composed demeanor giving way to unguarded pride. "Excellent work, Susan!" she called, her voice carrying over the applause.

Next to her, Sirius was practically bouncing on his heels. "That's my girl! I taught her everything she knows!" he shouted, earning a raised eyebrow and a skeptical glance from Amelia.

"Oh, really? And when exactly did you become an expert archer, Sirius?" she asked, her tone dry but amused.

Sirius grinned, unrepentant. "I'm excellent at moral support."

On the sidelines, Haraldr turned to the others, his grin wide. "Susan's a beast with that bow! Did you see that shot?"

Neville nodded, his eyes following Susan as she stepped back from the line. "She's been practicing for weeks. I knew she'd pull it off."

Luna's soft voice cut through their chatter, her tone thoughtful. "The Nargles must be quite fond of her today."

Draco rolled his eyes, though there was no real venom in it. "Or maybe, just maybe, it's because she's actually good, Lovegood."

Susan joined the line of qualified contestants, her cheeks flushed with satisfaction as the cheers gradually subsided. Hannah Abbott, her best friend and next up to the line, stepped forward, giving Susan a determined but nervous smile.

"Good luck, Hannah," Susan said, her voice soft but brimming with encouragement.

"Thanks, Susan," Hannah replied, her hands tightening on her bow. "You've set the bar pretty high, though."

Susan's lips quirked into a grin. "You'll do great. Just breathe and focus. You've got this."

As Hannah approached the line, the arena buzzed with renewed anticipation, the crowd eager to see how the competition would unfold. Susan leaned back, arms crossed, her gaze flickering between Hannah and the target. Her shot had been solid, but she knew the day was far from over—and every archer stepping up would bring their A-game.

—

As the contestants prepared for the final round, the announcer's voice rang out. "Next to the line: Hannah Abbott!"

A soft ripple of applause and cheers greeted Hannah as she stepped forward, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back into a simple braid. Her hazel eyes scanned the crowd nervously until they landed on her parents, Damara and Giffard Abbott, seated near the front. Damara's kind, encouraging smile and Giffard's enthusiastic thumbs-up steadied her nerves, though her hands still trembled slightly as she adjusted her grip on her bow.

"Breathe, Hannah," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, the leather of her boots creaking softly. Her friends' voices reached her faintly from the sidelines, offering support.

"You've got this, Hannah!" Neville called, his smile bright and genuine.

"Focus on the target," Susan added, her tone calm and reassuring.

Even Luna chimed in, her dreamy voice carrying an air of certainty. "The wind is on your side today, Hannah. It's a good omen."

Draco, leaning against a nearby post with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "Just don't embarrass us, Abbott." His tone was teasing, though the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his approval.

Hannah let out a quiet laugh despite herself. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Malfoy," she muttered under her breath.

She took her place at the line, the weight of the moment settling over her. The crowd grew silent, the hum of anticipation filling the air. Hannah nocked her arrow, her fingers trembling slightly against the string. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, and when she opened them again, the target was all she saw.

Her movements were steady now, her stance firm as she drew back the bowstring. The tension in her arms was matched only by the tension in the air. Time seemed to stretch as she held her aim, her hazel eyes narrowing with determination.

Release.

The arrow flew true, slicing through the air with a faint whistle. The crowd collectively held their breath as it struck the target with a solid thunk.

It landed just shy of the bullseye, slightly off-center but still an impressive shot. A mix of applause and cheers filled the arena, warm and encouraging despite the slight miss.

In the stands, Damara clutched Giffard's arm, exhaling in relief. "She did well," she murmured, her voice filled with pride.

Giffard nodded, clapping loudly. "That's our girl! Well done, Hannah!" he shouted, his deep voice carrying over the applause.

Hannah stepped back from the line, her cheeks flushed, a bittersweet smile playing on her lips. She was proud of her effort, but the slight edge of disappointment was hard to ignore. She joined her friends, Susan immediately reaching out to give her a quick squeeze on the shoulder.

"You were brilliant, Hannah," Susan said earnestly.

Hannah managed a small laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Not quite brilliant, but thanks. I guess there's still plenty of room for improvement."

"You've got nothing to be ashamed of," Neville added, his tone gentle. "That was a great shot."

Luna tilted her head, her soft smile serene. "You were steady, like the roots of an old tree. It was lovely to watch."

Draco's smirk returned as he quipped, "At least you didn't trip over your own feet. That's something."

Hannah snorted, the tension easing as her friends surrounded her with support. "Thanks for that, Malfoy."

As the next contestant stepped forward, Hannah took a deep breath and joined the others, her heart still pounding but her spirits lifted by the camaraderie around her. She hadn't been perfect, but she had given it her all—and that was something to be proud of.

—

The moment Astrid's name was called, the crowd fell into a hush. She stood tall at the line, her calm demeanor belying the intensity in her eyes. A faint breeze stirred her golden hair, but she paid it no mind, her focus entirely on the target ahead.

Her twin brother Leif, standing just to the side, gave her a nod of encouragement. His eyes were sharp, filled with a quiet pride as he watched her with an almost protective gaze, though there was a playful spark in them, as if to say, You better not mess this up, Astrid.

Astrid's gaze lingered on him for a moment, a brief, silent communication passing between them. Despite their years in the orphanage, separated from their parents, they had an unspoken bond that was more steadfast than any shared blood. They had only each other in the world, and that had made them stronger.

Astrid took a deep breath, her fingers steady as she nocked her arrow. She glanced at the target, the distance, the wind, everything coming together in her mind as she prepared to take her shot.

"You've got this, Astrid," Leif murmured under his breath, barely loud enough for her to hear. His words were a quiet but firm reassurance, his hand brushing over the hilt of the dagger at his side as he stood back, poised and ready.

Astrid didn't respond; she didn't need to. The bond between them said it all. Instead, she let the silence envelop her, narrowing her eyes at the target as the world seemed to fade away. Her fingers flexed once around the bow, a practiced motion, before drawing the string back with a fluid precision.

The hush in the crowd deepened, a quiet anticipation hanging heavy in the air as the moment stretched out. She exhaled, and then—

Thwack!

The arrow was released with a sharp whistle, cutting through the air like a comet on a collision course with destiny.

The crowd watched in awe as the arrow sped toward the target, gliding through the air with perfect precision. It struck with a satisfying thud, burying itself neatly into the bullseye, so close to the center that it nearly split Bjorn's arrow in two.

The audience erupted into applause. Some stood, others cheered loudly, their voices carrying across the grounds. Leif's face split into a wide grin, his fist raised high as he shouted, "That's my sister!" His voice was filled with pure pride, and his eyes locked with Astrid's for a split second as they shared a knowing look. He didn't need to say more; they both knew she had nailed it.

"Incredible," Haraldr murmured to Susan, his gaze lingering on Astrid's shot. "That girl is something else."

Susan nodded, her eyes wide with admiration. "She's amazing," she agreed, her voice filled with awe.

Astrid stepped back from the line, her smile small but sincere. She didn't bask in the applause; instead, she moved toward the group of successful contestants, her steps light. The thrill of hitting the bullseye was there, but there was also a quiet satisfaction in knowing she had done what she came here to do.

Leif joined her at her side, slinging an arm around her shoulders in a rare display of affection. "Told you," he said with a grin. "Not bad for an orphan."

Astrid rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the grin that tugged at her lips. "I'm not your pet project, Leif."

"You don't need to be," he teased back. "You're already a star."

Their exchange was playful, a moment of lightness amidst the tension of the competition. Even after all the hardship they had faced, they still found moments of humor, of joy, that made it all worth it.

Susan, Neville, and the others gave her enthusiastic applause as she joined them. "Well done, Astrid!" Neville exclaimed, clapping her on the back.

"You were perfect!" Susan added, her voice full of admiration.

Luna gave a soft, dreamy smile. "You were the most balanced shot I've seen today."

Draco, who had been silent for a moment, finally quipped, "Well, I suppose that was... acceptable." He gave a half-smirk, but there was no mistaking the genuine respect in his tone.

Astrid laughed lightly, the sound a mixture of relief and happiness. "Thanks, Draco."

She joined the others, standing alongside her twin brother Leif, feeling the weight of the competition lift slightly, though there was still more to be done. But for now, she allowed herself to bask in the glow of a job well done—of proving, once again, that despite the odds, the Abbott twins had come to play.

—

Leif's breath caught in his throat as his name was called. He was next. His heart hammered in his chest as he made his way to the line, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him, his family among them, their hopeful faces staring from the stands. Astrid, ever the steady presence at his side, gave him an encouraging smile. She didn't need to say anything; her unspoken support was enough.

Leif glanced back at the stands, locking eyes with Astrid for a brief second. Her face was calm, but there was an intensity in her eyes—an intensity that told him to just breathe. But the pressure was undeniable. It wasn't just the eyes of his peers on him—it was the weight of his family's expectations, the hope that this moment would be his chance to prove something.

He positioned himself at the line, his hands trembling slightly as he nocked the arrow. His fingers felt stiff, but he forced himself to relax. He had practiced this for years, hadn't he? He'd trained until his muscles burned, until his bowstring had become a familiar extension of his arm. But still, his hands betrayed him now. His palms were slick with sweat, his grip not quite as steady as it should have been.

Leif drew the bowstring back, trying to steady his breath. His eyes locked on the target ahead, focusing on the center as his mind shouted commands at his body. His heart was a relentless drumbeat in his chest, and the world seemed to blur around him, the pressure mounting until it felt almost suffocating.

He released the string with a sharp twang, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. But the arrow veered off course, flying wide to the left of the target. It missed completely, landing somewhere beyond the mark.

The crowd murmured in sympathy, a soft wave of murmurs, as Leif's heart sank. He stepped back, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep into his cheeks. His breath was unsteady, and he could feel Astrid's gaze on him from where she stood among the other contestants. He didn't need to look at her to know that she was watching, waiting, believing in him.

Astrid's voice echoed in his mind, as clear and steady as ever: You've got this, Leif. Just focus.

He quickly retrieved another arrow from his quiver, doing his best to shake off the disappointment. He was determined, even if the fear was gnawing at him. This was his chance, and he refused to let it slip away so easily.

Leif positioned the arrow again, his grip tighter this time, his fingers aching with the tension in his hands. His thoughts were a blur, a whirl of Focus. Steady. You've done this before. Just breathe.

Drawing back the string again, he aimed carefully, trying to ignore the quiver in his hands. The target was clear in his mind. He could do this. He had to.

Release.

This time, the arrow flew, but it didn't find its mark. It veered right, completely missing the target by a wide margin.

The silence that followed was deafening. Leif stood frozen for a moment, the weight of the failure sinking into him like a heavy stone. The crowd was still—waiting for his next move. A few sympathetic murmurs trickled through the stands, but the realization hit him hard: he hadn't made it.

Astrid's face was a mixture of concern and quiet encouragement as she watched him step back from the line. Her expression didn't change, but her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She was proud of him, no matter what.

He exhaled sharply and, without meeting anyone's eyes, turned toward the edge of the field. He didn't want to face his family just yet, didn't want them to see the look of disappointment in his eyes. The weight of it all felt crushing—he hadn't just let himself down, but also everyone who had believed in him.

But just as he was about to retreat into the shadows, a voice called out to him.

"Leif," Astrid's voice rang clear through the murmurs of the crowd, strong and steady as ever. "You've done more than enough. We'll get them next time."

She was there, standing in front of him, her eyes unwavering. Her presence was like a quiet anchor, steadying him. Astrid never doubted him. Not once.

Leif swallowed thickly, trying to push the lump in his throat away. He looked up at her, finally meeting her gaze. Her smile was small but warm, her pride in him as clear as the morning sky.

"Thanks," Leif muttered, his voice rough. He stood a little taller now, feeling her support seep into him like a balm for his bruised ego. Astrid was right. It wasn't the end. It wasn't even the beginning of the end. It was just one shot in a lifetime of opportunities.

Still, as he glanced back at the stands, where his family looked at him with nothing but love, he promised himself this: Next time, I'll get it right.

And as they moved off the field, Astrid didn't need to say a word. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and together, they walked back into the shadows of the competition, ready for whatever came next.

—

As the announcer called Skadi Culsdottir to the line, a murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd. Whispers of her lineage—daughter of Cul Borson, Odin's estranged elder brother—swirled like the wind among the spectators. But Skadi walked with a quiet, deadly grace, utterly indifferent to the chatter. Her pale green eyes, sharp as a frostbitten blade, stayed locked on the target ahead.

Frigga and Odin, seated on high, exchanged subtle glances. Frigga's expression was one of cautious curiosity, while Odin's was more guarded, a storm of emotions simmering beneath his stoic facade. Skadi was a reminder of old wounds, but also of undeniable strength.

Clad in dark leather armor accented with icy blue details, Skadi looked every bit the warrior her bloodline demanded. Her long braid, as dark as the midnight sky, swung behind her as she took her position. The bow in her hands was intricately carved with runes, a gift from Cul himself—a weapon of rare craftsmanship and deadly precision. She ran her fingers over its surface briefly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Let them watch. Let them remember.

The crowd hushed as Skadi nocked an arrow, her movements unhurried but deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey. She rolled her shoulders back, steadying herself. For a moment, her eyes darted to the royal box, meeting Odin's gaze with a flicker of defiance. The All-Father's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Frigga, in contrast, offered a small, almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.

Skadi drew the bowstring back, her muscles taut but controlled. The target seemed impossibly far, but she didn't waver. Her mind silenced the crowd, the expectations, the history. There was only her and the target—a single, unwavering goal. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool air like a whisper of frost.

Release.

The arrow flew with a sharp, clean whistle, slicing through the air like a blade. Time seemed to slow as it arced toward its destination. With a resounding thud, it struck the bullseye dead center, splitting one of Bjorn's earlier arrows in two.

For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air. Then, as if on cue, the crowd erupted into thunderous applause, cheers rolling like waves. The precision of her shot left no room for doubt—Skadi Culsdottir was a force to be reckoned with.

In the royal box, Odin's expression remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something akin to respect. Frigga, ever the diplomat, allowed herself a small, approving smile.

As Skadi lowered her bow, she turned her head slightly, her gaze sweeping over the crowd. She caught sight of Bjorn, who stood with his arms crossed, nodding at her in grudging acknowledgment. Haraldr, standing nearby, gave an impressed whistle.

"Well," Haraldr muttered to Astrid, who stood beside him, her arms folded. "She's not here to make friends, is she?"

Luna smirked. "Would you be? Look at her. She's ice and steel."

Skadi stepped back from the line, her expression unreadable, though her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. She passed by the other competitors with a confident stride, her presence commanding respect—or, at the very least, unease.

"Nice shot," Susan Bones offered as Skadi walked by, her voice friendly but cautious.

Skadi paused, tilting her head slightly. "Was there ever a doubt?" she replied, her tone as cool as the northern winds.

She stopped near the edge of the field, leaning against a pillar with an air of calm detachment. From her vantage point, she could feel the weight of Odin's gaze still on her. Without looking, she raised her chin slightly, a silent message to the All-Father: I am my father's daughter, but I am also my own.

Above her, Frigga leaned closer to Odin, her voice low but firm. "You see it, don't you? The strength. The fire. She could be an ally, Odin, not a threat."

Odin grunted, his one eye narrowing as he continued to watch Skadi. "Strength, yes. But fire can burn just as easily as it can warm, Frigga. She is still her father's child."

"And yet," Frigga replied with quiet confidence, "she is here, under your roof, proving her worth on your terms."

Skadi, unaware—or perhaps all too aware—of their conversation, allowed herself a small, fleeting smile. She wasn't here to prove herself to Odin or Asgard. She was here to remind them all that the blood of Cul Borson still ran strong.

—

As the final contestant was called to the line, a ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd. The announcer's voice rang out, "Viggo Ullrson, step forward!" All eyes turned toward him. Loki leaned back in his seat with a smug expression, his sharp green eyes glinting with mischief. Bellatrix, seated beside him, leaned forward, her dark hair falling over one shoulder as she watched with rapt attention, her lips curling into a faint, wicked smile.

"Let's see if the son of Ullr lives up to the name," she purred, her voice soft but dripping with intrigue.

Loki smirked, casting her a sidelong glance. "Oh, he will," he said, his tone smooth as silk. "Viggo has a knack for… rising to the occasion. Let's just hope he doesn't buckle under all these watchful eyes."

Thor, seated on Loki's other side, rolled his eyes, clearly less enthused by his brother's theatrics. "He's a skilled archer, Loki, not a circus performer. Stop acting as if you've placed a wager on him."

Loki tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Who says I haven't?"

Thor let out a frustrated sigh, crossing his arms, but his gaze inevitably wandered to the field where Viggo now stood, his presence commanding and composed.

Viggo stepped up to the line, his tall, broad-shouldered frame exuding quiet confidence. His dark blonde hair, tied back neatly, gleamed under the sunlight, and his piercing blue eyes were locked on the target ahead. The crowd's buzz faded as they watched him, captivated by his focus.

In the stands, Ullr stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest. The god of archery's pride was evident in the faint, approving smile tugging at his lips. For Ullr, this wasn't just about a contest—it was about legacy.

Viggo inhaled deeply, letting the world around him fall away. He nocked his arrow with practiced precision, the bow fitting comfortably in his strong hands. His fingers brushed the string, steady and deliberate.

Bellatrix's eyes narrowed as she watched him, her lips parting slightly in fascination. "He's almost… elegant, isn't he?" she murmured, her tone laced with both admiration and a hint of envy.

"Almost?" Loki teased, his voice a low murmur. "Let's not be stingy with our praise, Bellatrix. The boy's a masterpiece in motion."

Viggo drew back the bowstring, his muscles taut, the tension visible but controlled. The field seemed to hold its breath along with the crowd. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the target as though reading its very essence. Then, without hesitation, he released.

The arrow flew like a bolt of lightning, slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. It struck the target dead center, splitting the previous contestant's arrow clean in two. The impact sent a satisfying crack echoing through the field, and for a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence.

Then the crowd erupted. Cheers and applause roared through the air, louder than for any other contestant. Viggo lowered his bow, his expression stoic but his eyes gleaming with pride. He turned his gaze briefly toward the stands, where Ullr gave him a single, approving nod.

Loki chuckled, clapping lazily. "What did I tell you?" he drawled, leaning toward Thor. "The boy's flawless."

Thor grunted, clapping politely but unable to suppress a faint smile. "He's talented, I'll give you that. But don't let it go to your head, Loki. The boy's skill isn't your accomplishment."

"Oh, Thor," Loki said with mock pity. "If only you understood the joy of recognizing greatness before anyone else does. It's like being the first to claim a treasure."

Bellatrix, still watching Viggo with an almost predatory interest, leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. "He's more than talented," she mused, her tone low and sultry. "He's dangerous. Precision like that… it's not just skill. It's instinct. Controlled power."

"Indeed," Loki agreed, his grin widening. "Controlled power is the most satisfying kind."

Thor ignored their commentary, his gaze fixed on Viggo, who had stepped back from the line to join the other contestants. As the applause began to die down, Viggo allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smile. He met Ullr's eyes again, and for a brief moment, father and son shared a silent understanding: Legacy secured.

As the announcer declared the end of the round, Loki rose from his seat, straightening his jacket with a flourish. "Well, this has been delightful," he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Shall we congratulate the victor?"

Thor groaned. "It's not over yet, Loki. There's still the final round."

Loki smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, I know. But tell me, brother—do you honestly think anyone here can outshoot that?" He gestured toward Viggo, who stood tall among his peers, the picture of unshakable confidence.

Thor didn't respond, but the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed his agreement. For now, even he had to admit it: Ullr's son was the one to beat.

---

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