Queen Frigga sat comfortably in the grand stands, her regal presence commanding the space around her as she observed the tournament with quiet grace. Her sharp eyes scanned the competitors, each one showcasing their unique skill, but it was when she spotted a familiar figure among the archers that a curious spark lit within her.
She turned slightly toward Odin, her voice laced with intrigue. "Odin," she began, her gaze never leaving the target where the archers took their positions, "do you see that young woman down there?" She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. "The one with the bow, the one who just released the arrow—there's something about her. She bears a striking resemblance to Cul Borson."
Odin, who had been quietly surveying the crowd, slowly shifted his focus toward the young woman in question. His sharp eyes, accustomed to noting even the smallest details, narrowed slightly as he studied the figure on the field.
"Are you certain?" Odin's voice was low, deep, and deliberate, carrying the weight of a king's wisdom. His mind began to race, processing the information.
Frigga's expression darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She nodded solemnly, her voice filled with a mixture of recognition and caution. "Yes, my husband. It is Skadi, daughter of Cul Borson, the Serpent," she replied, the weight of her words settling between them. "What could bring her here? What are her intentions?"
Odin's eyes never wavered from Skadi, his brow furrowing deeper as the implications of her presence began to take shape in his mind. Skadi, the daughter of the treacherous Cul Borson, known for his venomous dealings and dangerous alliances, was a presence that could not be ignored.
A subtle tension gripped Odin's features as he leaned closer to Frigga, his gaze fixed on the young archer now participating in the competition. His voice, when it came, was heavy with the burden of experience. "Her father was a serpent—slithering in the shadows of Asgard's enemies. What is it she seeks here, and why now?"
Frigga's gaze never left Skadi, her mind racing through possibilities. "She comes alone, as far as I can tell. But even the smallest ripple can have deep consequences, Odin. If she is here with hidden intent… we must tread carefully."
Odin's jaw clenched, his mind calculating the risks. His hand rested lightly on his knee, though his powerful form radiated the kind of quiet authority that could silence a storm. "I will keep a close eye on her," he muttered, his voice steady and laced with resolve. "But I must know more. I will learn the truth behind her presence here before any decisions are made. Asgard will not fall prey to the machinations of another serpent."
Frigga studied Odin's face for a moment, her expression softening with understanding. "We must always be vigilant, my love. But remember—she is still her father's daughter. Whatever her intentions may be, they are bound to be complicated."
Odin gave a slight nod, his eyes never leaving Skadi, his mind working behind the mask of calm that he wore so well. "We will see what she does. And we will be prepared for whatever comes."
Frigga placed a gentle hand on his, offering the unspoken comfort of shared understanding. "Together, we will protect Asgard," she said, her voice carrying the quiet strength of a queen who had lived through countless trials and still stood unwavering.
Odin's gaze softened ever so slightly as he turned to her. "Together, always."
With that, they both returned their attention to the tournament, their minds occupied by the shadows of the past and the potential storm that Skadi's presence might herald. The competition continued around them, but the eyes of the Allfather and the Queen of Asgard were now trained on one particular participant—Skadi Culsdottir, daughter of the Serpent.
—
The competition surged onward, the air thick with anticipation as the tournament progressed. Hannah, Bjorn, and Astrid had dazzled the crowd with their impeccable aim and unshakable focus, earning their places in the next round. Their names were met with raucous cheers, the audience fully invested in their journey. The three archers exchanged nods of mutual respect before stepping aside, leaving the field open for the final grouping of contestants.
A hush fell over the crowd as the tournament official stepped forward, his deep voice resonating through the grounds. "Viggo, son of Ullr, step forward!"
From the edge of the field, an 11-year-old boy emerged, his posture confident but not arrogant. Viggo had a quiet intensity about him, his dark blond hair slightly tousled and his sharp green eyes locked onto the target ahead. Clad in simple yet well-crafted leather armor, his every movement exuded the discipline of someone far older. He tightened his grip on his bow and inhaled deeply, steadying himself as he walked toward the shooting line.
In the stands, Loki leaned lazily against the back of his seat, a mischievous glint in his emerald eyes. Beside him, Bellatrix Lestrange—now clad in a flowing Asgardian gown accented with dark, intricate embroidery—watched the proceedings with a calculating smirk. She radiated an air of wicked delight, like a storm contained within human form.
"Look at him," Loki drawled, gesturing toward Viggo with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. His voice carried that signature silky tone, simultaneously mocking and charming. "A boy, barely more than a sapling, yet poised like a seasoned warrior. Tell me, Thor," he turned to his brother, who sat on his other side, "how much gold are you willing to lose today?"
Thor raised an eyebrow, clearly already suspicious. "What are you on about, Loki?" His deep voice rumbled with curiosity and mild irritation, but the spark of competitive fire in his eyes was unmistakable.
"I'm proposing a wager," Loki said smoothly, leaning in closer. "I'll put up ten ingots of purest gold that young Viggo here will outshoot every other contestant in this round."
Thor's lips twisted into a confident grin. "Ten ingots, is it? Very well, brother. I'll take that bet."
Bellatrix chuckled softly, her laughter low and dangerous. "Oh, Thor," she purred, her accent rolling like silk over steel. "You should know better than to trust a snake when it offers you a deal." Her dark eyes flicked toward Loki, and for a moment, her smirk mirrored his.
Loki pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Bellatrix, you wound me. I am merely a spectator who recognizes talent when he sees it."
Meanwhile, on the field, Viggo was preparing his first shot. The world seemed to shrink around him, the noise of the crowd fading into nothing. He drew the bowstring back with practiced ease, his muscles taut but steady. The moment stretched long, his focus unbroken. Then, with a sharp exhale, he released the arrow.
It flew straight and true, slicing through the air like a hawk diving for its prey. A resounding thunk echoed across the grounds as it struck the center of the target—a perfect bullseye.
The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, but Viggo didn't flinch. He was already notching his second arrow, his expression a portrait of calm determination. He released, and the second arrow split the first cleanly down the middle.
The stands erupted into gasps of astonishment.
"Well, well," Loki murmured, his grin widening as he cast a sidelong glance at Thor. "It seems I've chosen my champion wisely."
Thor leaned forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing as he studied the boy on the field. "That was… impressive," he admitted begrudgingly.
Bellatrix tilted her head, her dark curls catching the light. "Impressive doesn't begin to cover it," she said, her voice rich with intrigue. "The boy's precision is unnatural. Perhaps there's more to him than meets the eye."
Viggo took his final arrow, his hands steady despite the pressure. He nocked it, drew back, and released in one smooth motion. The arrow struck the target dead center, splitting the previous two arrows in a breathtaking display of skill.
The crowd surged to its feet, cheering wildly as Viggo stepped back, lowering his bow and offering a small, humble bow to the audience.
Loki clapped his hands slowly, his grin downright predatory. "And there it is. Perfection." He leaned toward Thor, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "I'll take my winnings now."
Thor crossed his arms, his expression a mixture of begrudging admiration and mild annoyance. "Fine, brother. But don't think for a moment that I'm impressed by your antics."
Bellatrix leaned in, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she whispered to Loki, "You always did have a knack for spotting the dark horses."
Loki turned to her, his smirk never faltering. "And you, my dear Bellatrix, always know how to make a victory feel even sweeter."
As Viggo left the field, his head held high but his demeanor modest, one thing was clear: the young son of Ullr had not only secured his place in the tournament but had also captured the attention—and the curiosity—of Asgard's most formidable figures.
—
As Viggo stepped away from the shooting line, his display of unparalleled skill left the arena buzzing with excitement. The sharp precision with which his arrows split the previous ones had set him apart from the competition, and every eye lingered on him, a mix of admiration and curiosity in their gazes.
In the section of the stands reserved for the other contestants who had already qualified, Haraldr and his friends were practically on the edge of their seats.
"Did you see that?!" Haraldr exclaimed, his tone filled with excitement and just a touch of envy. His bright green eyes were wide as he turned to his friends. "He made that look so easy! I mean, splitting arrows? Come on!"
Beside him, Susan Bones, her strawberry-blonde hair catching the sunlight, leaned forward with a soft smile, her tone thoughtful but tinged with admiration. "It wasn't just his aim—it was the way he held himself, so calm and composed. Like he's been doing this for years. Who even is this kid?"
"Viggo, apparently," Draco Malfoy drawled, his tone carrying the faintest edge of a challenge as he brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "Son of Ullr, the announcer said. Though why that matters, I can't say. What matters is that he's competition, and he's damn good." His sharp, platinum-blond hair gleamed in the light, and he smirked. "Too good, maybe."
Neville Longbottom, sitting next to Draco, shook his head, his expression a mixture of awe and genuine admiration. "Oh, come off it, Draco. You saw it as well as I did—he's not just good; he's extraordinary. Did you see the way he drew his bow? Smooth, controlled... and he didn't even flinch. You can't fake that kind of skill."
Hannah Abbott, her soft features alight with enthusiasm, nodded fervently. "Neville's right. He didn't even look nervous! I mean, I thought I was getting better, but now I feel like I'm just throwing sticks at a tree compared to him." She giggled self-deprecatingly, then glanced at Susan. "If he keeps this up, I think we'll all be fighting for second place."
"Maybe he's got some enchanted arrows," Draco muttered, though his eyes flicked toward Viggo with a spark of curiosity. "Or maybe he's just showing off."
"Or," Luna Lovegood interrupted in her usual dreamy tone, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders like liquid sunlight, "he could be part bowtruckle. That would explain his connection to the wood."
Draco groaned, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Lovegood—"
"I'm serious," Luna replied, her pale blue eyes wide and sincere as she turned to look at him. "Bowtruckles are guardians of trees, you know. If he has their blessing, it would make sense that his arrows always find their mark."
Susan hid a laugh behind her hand, her eyes twinkling. "You know, Luna might be onto something. He did look pretty in tune with that bow."
"Well," Haraldr said, cutting in with a grin, "whether it's bowtruckles or just raw talent, I want to know how he got that good. If I can learn even half of what he knows, I might stand a chance."
Neville nodded in agreement. "Same here. We should talk to him after the competition."
"You mean," Draco said with a smirk, "you lot are just going to go up to him and say, 'Hi, we think you're amazing, please teach us your ways?' Subtle."
"Subtle's overrated," Susan quipped, crossing her arms and flashing a grin at Draco. "Besides, you're coming with us, Malfoy. Don't pretend you're not just as curious as we are."
"Fine," Draco muttered, though he didn't argue further.
Hannah leaned in, her voice hushed but excited. "Do you think he'd train with us? Like, if we asked?"
"We won't know until we try," Neville said firmly.
As the group fell into a lively discussion about how best to approach Viggo, Luna tilted her head, gazing at the young archer with a soft, curious smile. "I think he'd like us," she said simply, her tone thoughtful. "He seems kind. And kind people always find their way to other kind people."
The group fell silent for a moment, taking in her words before Susan finally broke it with a quiet laugh. "Well, let's hope you're right, Luna. Because I, for one, wouldn't mind having someone like Viggo on our side."
With that, they turned their attention back to the competition, each of them silently resolving to seek out Viggo when the opportunity presented itself. After all, anyone with that kind of skill—and that much composure under pressure—was someone worth knowing.
—
Algrim stepped forward onto the raised platform, his imposing figure silhouetted against the gleaming Asgardian sun. Dressed in dark armor befitting his station, his presence commanded the attention of all in the arena. When he spoke, his deep, resonant voice rolled through the air like thunder, silencing the murmurs of the crowd in an instant.
"Contestants! Esteemed guests! Hear me now!" he began, his tone measured yet brimming with authority. His gaze swept across the gathered competitors and the eager spectators, ensuring all eyes were on him. "We have witnessed great skill and determination this day. Two hundred of you began this journey, each vying to prove your worth. But now, only fifty remain!"
A ripple of whispers coursed through the crowd, spectators exchanging excited glances, while the remaining contestants straightened, their expressions sharpening with resolve.
Algrim's lips curled into a faint, approving smile. "You have earned your place here," he continued, his voice lowering slightly, drawing everyone in as though he spoke directly to each of them. "But your journey is far from over. The trials ahead will separate the truly exceptional from the merely skilled. Now, we test not just your aim—but your endurance, your focus, and your mettle."
He let the gravity of his words sink in before raising his arm to gesture toward the far end of the arena. As if on cue, the targets began to shift and retreat, the crowd gasping as they watched the distance between the archers and their marks double.
"For the next round," Algrim announced, his tone carrying a challenge, "the targets will be placed at twice the distance. The grouping will be thus: five sets of ten participants each. This is no simple game of marksmanship. Only the finest will endure and advance. The rest…" He paused, allowing the silence to linger like a blade suspended in the air. "Will fall."
In the stands, a murmur of anticipation grew louder, the energy of the crowd electrified by Algrim's proclamation.
One contestant, a tall, wiry elf with golden hair, muttered under his breath, "Twice the distance? This just got a lot more interesting."
Beside him, a young Asgardian girl gripped her bow tightly, her knuckles white. "Interesting for some," she said, her tone clipped. "For others, it's going to be a disaster."
Algrim, as though hearing their exchange, allowed a small, knowing smile to touch his lips. "Your skill brought you here," he said, his voice rising again, carrying easily to the farthest corners of the arena. "But skill alone will not suffice. You must summon every ounce of your courage and resolve. Show us the fire that burns within you. Show us why you belong here!"
His piercing gaze locked briefly onto the contestants gathered below, his dark eyes gleaming with a mixture of scrutiny and challenge. "Prove yourself to Asgard and beyond," he declared, raising his arms dramatically. "Let the next round... BEGIN!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause, their voices a deafening roar of excitement. Contestants began to step forward, their faces a mixture of determination, tension, and quiet confidence.
In the stands, one spectator leaned over to his companion, whispering, "He really knows how to put on a show."
"That's Algrim for you," the other replied with a grin. "Doesn't just command the arena—he owns it."
Algrim stepped back, his arms crossed, as his watchful gaze followed the contestants preparing to take their marks. Though his expression remained stern, there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He had set the stage. Now, it was their turn to rise to the challenge.
—
As the first grouping of archers stepped onto the tournament grounds, Sigrun and Bjorn found themselves standing shoulder to shoulder. The siblings, both with vibrant red hair catching the light of the sun, couldn't have been more different in their demeanor. Sigrun stood tall, her posture exuding grace and precision, her bow resting lightly in her hand. Bjorn, on the other hand, rolled his shoulders, his larger frame practically radiating energy as he flashed a wide grin, the picture of cocky confidence.
Sigrun nudged him lightly with her elbow, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I hope you've been practicing, Bjorn. I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of all these people."
Bjorn barked out a laugh, the sound deep and booming. "Practicing? Please. I was born for this," he shot back, tossing a wink at the crowd as though the tournament were his stage and they his audience. "But don't worry, little sister. I'll make sure to give you some pointers when this is over."
Sigrun raised a perfectly arched brow, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Oh, how generous of you. But let's see if you can actually hit the target before you start handing out advice."
Bjorn placed a hand dramatically over his chest, pretending to be wounded. "Such little faith in your big brother. It's almost hurtful."
"Almost," Sigrun deadpanned, turning her attention back to the targets, her expression shifting into one of steely focus.
The official called for the archers to ready themselves, and the siblings exchanged one last glance, the teasing glint in their eyes replaced by determination.
"Let's make this interesting," Bjorn said under his breath, notching his arrow.
"Name your terms," Sigrun replied, her voice steady as she did the same.
Bjorn smirked. "Loser has to carry the other's gear for the rest of the tournament."
"You're on," Sigrun said, her tone calm, though a flicker of competitive fire lit her expression.
The signal was given, and the archers loosed their first arrows. Both Sigrun and Bjorn's shots flew true, their arrows thudding into the target with satisfying precision. The crowd murmured in approval, watching as the siblings matched each other shot for shot, their contrasting styles equally impressive.
Bjorn's strength allowed him to draw his bow with ease, each release a powerful, confident strike that seemed to echo across the grounds. His arrows hit with force, some landing so close together that they split the wood of the shafts already embedded in the target.
Sigrun, in contrast, moved with a dancer's grace. Her shots were precise and deliberate, her every movement calculated. She didn't waste a second, her arrows finding the bullseye with a quiet elegance that belied her sharp focus.
By the final shot, the tension between the two was palpable, though neither would let it show. Bjorn glanced at Sigrun out of the corner of his eye, a hint of admiration creeping into his expression.
"You're holding up better than I expected," he admitted, his voice grudgingly respectful.
Sigrun tilted her head, a playful smirk on her lips. "And you're not as rusty as I thought you'd be."
Their final arrows flew, and the crowd erupted into cheers as both siblings' shots landed squarely in the center of the targets, splitting their previous arrows in a display of unparalleled skill.
When the official announced their names among the qualifiers, Bjorn threw an arm around Sigrun's shoulders, pulling her into a rough, affectionate hug.
"Well, I suppose I'll let you carry your own gear this time," he said, grinning down at her.
Sigrun laughed, shoving him lightly. "Don't get used to it. I'm still going to beat you in the finals."
Bjorn's grin widened. "Bring it on, little sister."
As they walked off the field, the banter between them continued, their bond evident in the way they pushed each other to be better. The crowd, still buzzing with excitement, watched the siblings with admiration, already anticipating their future performances in the tournament.
—
As the archery competition unfolded, the vibrant hum of the crowd mixed with the sharp thwack of arrows hitting their marks. Thor, seated comfortably on a raised dais alongside Loki, leaned forward, his blue eyes scanning the field with interest. A flash of fiery red hair caught his attention, and his grin widened, the kind of boyish excitement only he could manage.
He nudged Loki's arm with a little too much force, causing his younger brother to nearly spill the wine in his goblet.
"Look, brother!" Thor exclaimed, pointing toward the field. "Do my eyes deceive me, or are those Volstagg's youngest? Bjorn and Sigrun, if I'm not mistaken?"
Loki, now dabbing a stray drop of wine from his sleeve with a look of mild irritation, followed Thor's gaze. His sharp green eyes landed on the pair—Bjorn's hulking frame, all confidence and swagger, and Sigrun's lithe figure, moving with the grace of a dancer. A slow, amused smirk crept across his face.
"Well, well," Loki drawled, swirling the wine in his goblet lazily. "The heirs to Volstagg's infamous appetite for glory—and probably mead—have taken to archery. How quaint."
Thor laughed, his booming voice carrying over the din of the crowd. "Quaint? Brother, look at them! They have their father's spirit!" He gestured grandly, nearly knocking over a passing servant.
Loki raised a skeptical eyebrow, though the corner of his lips twitched upward. "Spirit, yes. But let us hope they've inherited a sharper aim. Volstagg's idea of precision involves hitting anything that moves, preferably while holding a turkey leg in the other hand."
Thor let out another hearty laugh, clapping Loki on the back, though he didn't notice the wince his forceful gesture elicited. "You jest, but watch closely. Bjorn has the strength of a warrior, and Sigrun… she moves like a hawk stalking its prey. They'll make their father proud today, mark my words."
Loki tilted his head, his smirk widening as he observed Bjorn nock an arrow with practiced ease, then raise it dramatically above his head to draw out the crowd's cheers. "Ah yes, Bjorn seems to be enjoying the spotlight. He'll be insufferable if he wins."
"And Sigrun?" Thor asked, genuinely curious.
Loki leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine thoughtfully. "Calculating. Focused. She may not need the crowd's approval to shine, but she'll take their admiration when it's earned." He gave Thor a sidelong glance, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "Much like myself, really."
Thor barked a laugh. "Sigrun? Like you? You flatter yourself, Loki. She's nothing like you. She's disciplined, honorable."
Loki feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. "Such biting words, dear brother. But if you insist on underestimating me, I shall take it as a compliment. After all, it is my cunning that allows me to spot talent."
The two watched in silence for a moment as Sigrun loosed an arrow, the shaft slicing cleanly through the air before embedding itself in the center of the target. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Loki gave an appreciative nod.
"Well, perhaps she's not entirely unlike me," Loki murmured, lips curling into a sly smile. "She does have a knack for stealing the spotlight."
Thor elbowed him playfully. "You see, brother? You do admire them!"
"I admire potential, Thor," Loki replied smoothly, raising his goblet in a mock toast toward the field. "And they have it in spades. But let us not forget—the true test is yet to come."
Thor, now fully invested in the competition, leaned forward again, his enthusiasm boundless. "I'll wager they both make it to the final rounds."
Loki arched a brow, intrigued. "And if they don't?"
Thor grinned, his eyes twinkling with the same reckless confidence that had gotten him into trouble countless times before. "Then I'll polish Mjolnir myself for a week."
Loki's laughter was rich and full of mischief. "Now that is a wager worth taking. Let us see if Volstagg's children truly live up to your faith, or if Mjolnir is about to shine brighter than ever."
As Bjorn unleashed an arrow that struck so hard it caused the target to quiver, Thor let out an exuberant cheer, while Loki leaned back with a satisfied smirk, already enjoying the game more than the competition itself. The brothers, each in their own way, found themselves thoroughly entertained, the rivalry on the field rivaled only by their own banter.
—
Volstagg stood in the midst of the cheering crowd, a towering figure of pride and joy as he watched his children, Sigrun and Bjorn, take aim and release their arrows with precision. His large frame, draped in the vibrant, colorful garb befitting a warrior of his stature, seemed to grow even larger in his pride. His chest swelled with every successful shot, his face lighting up in that familiar, boisterous grin that could be heard long before it was seen.
"Bravo! Bravo, my brave ones!" Volstagg's voice boomed across the arena, easily cutting through the cheers of the crowd. His hands clapped together so forcefully that they echoed in the distance, and his hearty laughter joined in the symphony of approval, ringing out like the sound of a thunderstorm in full force.
As Sigrun let fly an arrow that struck the center of the target with pinpoint accuracy, Volstagg's eyes sparkled with pride. "That's my daughter! You see that? A true warrior's aim! A mark of Volstagg's blood!" He shouted, thumping his chest with his large fist in his typical, exuberant manner. Around him, other spectators looked on, some bemused by his antics, others with a knowing smile at the proud father.
Beside him, a few others were beginning to laugh, the infectiousness of his enthusiasm undeniable. A couple of fellow warriors even raised their mugs in salute to the boisterous father.
As Bjorn followed suit, releasing an arrow that sailed through the air with a smooth, practiced motion, hitting its mark with a resounding thud, Volstagg's grin stretched wider still. His deep, rich voice rang out again, this time with even more fervor. "My son! A future champion! That boy could hit a dragon's eye from a mile away! Ah, the gods have truly favored me with fine children!" His laughter rolled through the crowd once more, and he slapped a passing soldier on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet in the process.
His pride was palpable, and every part of Volstagg seemed to radiate with the warmth of a father's love. "Look at them! They are a living testament to everything I've worked for!" He chuckled to himself, his voice not just full of pride, but brimming with the kind of joy only a father could feel. "Sigrun, Bjorn...you make your old father proud. No finer children have ever walked the earth. No one can match the strength and valor of Volstagg's blood!"
As Sigrun released another arrow with the kind of sharp, focused determination that was clearly inherited from both her mother and her father, Volstagg wiped a stray tear from his eye, a rare moment of vulnerability for the otherwise loud and larger-than-life warrior. His voice softened, though it still held a deep sense of pride. "You've made me the proudest father in all the realms," he muttered to no one in particular, his booming laughter now quiet but still filled with the intensity of his adoration.
His arms shot into the air as the crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch, and he waved them down to get the attention of everyone around him. "Let the heavens bear witness!" he shouted. "These two are destined for greatness. You see it? These are the children who will carry our name forward—strong, brave, unyielding! Not a single enemy shall stand against them!" His voice filled with passion, and Volstagg, overcome with joy, turned to the spectators near him, pulling them into his embrace and causing them to laugh. His boisterous, infectious laughter spread like wildfire through the crowd.
As the final rounds drew nearer and the tension in the air began to build, Volstagg remained ever present, his support unshaken. He was a rock among the ever-changing waves, standing steadfastly by his children's side, raising his voice at every opportunity to cheer them on.
"Victory is in your blood," he shouted as Sigrun and Bjorn stood side by side, arrows drawn. "Let it flow through you like a mighty river, unbreakable and unstoppable!"
It was in that moment, watching his children fight for their place, that Volstagg felt his heart fill with an overwhelming sense of fulfillment. His laughter softened, but his grin never wavered. He was not just a warrior. He was a father—proud, fierce, and full of love for his children. And no matter what the outcome of the tournament was, Volstagg knew that his legacy was in capable hands. The world could hear his boastful laughter and his proud declarations, but only he knew the quiet, profound sense of contentment he felt deep within his heart.
As Bjorn's arrow hit its mark once more, Volstagg thumped his chest and raised his mug high, his voice carrying across the tournament grounds. "To my children! To the future!"
---
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