The God of Valor

The dueling grounds were alive with tension as Neville Longbottom strode to the center, the heavy Viking axes in his hands feeling like an extension of his own body. The cool steel of the blades seemed to hum with the promise of battle, and Neville's grip tightened as he stared down his opponent. Across from him stood Magnus, a mountain of a boy, towering and broad-shouldered, his fierce blue eyes locked onto Neville with an intensity that made the air between them crackle. The crowd's murmurs softened as the duel began.

Neville's heart pounded in his chest, but his resolve was stronger than ever. This wasn't just a duel for pride—it was for his place, for proving to himself that he could be more than the shy, nervous boy who had once struggled with even the simplest of spells. No, he wasn't that boy anymore. With each battle, he grew stronger. And today, today would be no different.

"Ready, Longbottom?" Magnus's voice was low and guttural, almost mocking, as he gripped his own axe in one massive hand. "I don't want to embarrass you too quickly."

Neville's jaw tightened, the fire of determination lighting his eyes. He squared his shoulders and hefted both axes, his stance firm. "You're in for a surprise," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Magnus.

The duel began with a flurry of movement. Magnus, with his sheer size and strength, launched the first strike—a mighty overhead swing meant to cleave Neville in two. The crowd gasped, but Neville was already moving. He ducked under the swing, his feet light and swift on the gravelly ground.

"Come on then!" Magnus roared, grinning as he followed up with a horizontal swipe aimed at Neville's ribs.

Neville raised one axe to block, the impact rattling through his bones, but he held firm. He twisted to the side, using the momentum to slide into an attack of his own. His left axe darted toward Magnus's exposed flank.

But Magnus was fast—too fast for someone of his size. He spun away, his thick arms blocking Neville's strike with a defiant crash. The blow sent Neville stumbling back, but he quickly regained his footing, eyes locked on his opponent.

"Not bad, Longbottom," Magnus grunted, breathing heavily as he circled. "You've got some fight in you after all."

Neville grinned through the sweat dripping down his face. "You've got no idea," he muttered, even as his muscles screamed for respite.

The duel escalated as both boys danced around each other, axes flashing in the air. Magnus swung high, then low, aiming for Neville's legs, but Neville's reflexes were sharp, his movements almost instinctual now. He parried a brutal overhead strike with one axe and countered with a quick thrust of his other, aiming for Magnus's exposed chest.

Magnus staggered back just in time, the tip of Neville's axe grazing his shoulder. He hissed in pain, eyes flashing with new fury.

"You've got some guts, I'll give you that," Magnus growled, his voice now tinged with a more serious edge. "But you're going to need more than guts to beat me."

Neville's grip tightened on his axes, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Every strike, every block, sent waves of exhaustion through him. But he couldn't back down—not now, not when he was so close. He could feel it—he was pushing Magnus. The bigger boy was slowing down, his swings growing less controlled as the duel wore on.

"Come on, Magnus!" Neville called, his voice rising with determination. "Let's see if you can keep up!"

Magnus snarled, charging forward with a roar, his axe raised to bring the duel to an explosive climax. But Neville, his mind clearer than ever, read the move. He sidestepped just as Magnus swung, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow. In one fluid motion, Neville pivoted, bringing both axes down in a cross, catching the massive boy's weapon in a lock that left them both momentarily tangled.

For a brief moment, they were face-to-face, breathing heavily, their weapons pressed against one another. Neville's heart pounded in his chest as he pushed back against the pressure, his eyes meeting Magnus's with unyielding resolve.

"You're not going to win this," Neville said through clenched teeth.

Magnus's grin faltered for the briefest moment before his face darkened. With a sudden, powerful shove, he broke the deadlock and sent Neville stumbling backward. The crowd roared as the boys repositioned, ready for the next round of their brutal contest.

Neville's heart raced in his chest. He was getting tired—his arms ached, and his legs were beginning to feel like lead. But he refused to stop. His hands tightened around the handles of his axes, and with a grunt, he charged again.

The two boys clashed once more, a whirlwind of steel and strength. Neither willing to give an inch. The crowd held its collective breath, waiting to see who would falter first.

—

Alice sat on the edge of her seat, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her eyes never leaving Neville as he clashed with Magnus in the arena. Each swing of his axes, each shift in his stance, filled her with a mixture of awe and pride. She had always known Neville had it in him—he was a Longbottom, after all—but seeing him fight with such intensity, such focus, was something else entirely.

Beside her, Frank leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest of his seat, his face split into a grin that made Alice's heart swell. His chest puffed out with every swing Neville made, and his expression radiated pride.

"That's my boy," Frank murmured, his voice thick with emotion, eyes never leaving Neville. "Look at him. Never backing down. He's got the spirit of a true fighter."

Alice's smile mirrored his, though she couldn't help but feel a tiny flicker of worry every time Magnus's axe came too close to Neville. But she knew her son. He was strong, stronger than he often gave himself credit for.

Eirlys, sitting on the other side of Alice, watched with a quiet but intense pride. The Viking woman's sharp eyes never strayed from the duel. She was calm, yet there was something about her presence that made the air feel charged. She had seen countless warriors in her time, but Neville's courage seemed to stir something deep within her.

"He's truly a warrior," Eirlys said softly, her voice carrying a note of motherly affection that only another mother would recognize. Her hands, folded neatly in her lap, were clenched slightly, as though she too could feel the weight of every blow landed on the field.

Alice glanced over at her, her smile deepening. "He is," she agreed, her voice a little choked with emotion. "He really is. I've never seen him fight like this before. He's grown into such a strong, determined young man."

Frank nodded, his gaze locked on Neville as the boy sidestepped another powerful swing from Magnus. "He's always had it in him. Just needed a little... confidence."

Eirlys's lips quirked in a small smile, but her eyes remained sharp, studying the movements of the two boys with a trained, perceptive gaze. "It's more than confidence," she replied, her voice thick with approval. "He's got the heart of a warrior. You can see it in the way he moves. The way he thinks. He's calculating, but he doesn't hesitate."

Alice looked back at Neville, a wave of pride washing over her as he drove Magnus back once again. "He's certainly not backing down."

Frank chuckled softly, a warm, full-hearted laugh that made his entire face light up. "Wouldn't expect anything less from our boy." He leaned a little closer to Alice, as though sharing a secret. "He's always been more than people give him credit for. And this—" he nodded toward the dueling field, where Neville and Magnus were locked in a fierce struggle "—this is proof."

Eirlys's gaze flicked over to Frank, her eyes sharp but approving. "You've raised him well."

Alice nodded, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak, but she managed, her voice thick with emotion. "We've both done our part. And Neville—he's done the rest. Look at him go."

For a moment, the three of them sat in silence, each of them watching Neville's every move, silently willing him to succeed, to prove to everyone—and to himself—that he was more than capable. That he was a warrior, just like the ones they had known in their pasts.

Finally, as Neville and Magnus exchanged another brutal round of blows, Alice leaned a little closer to Frank, her voice a whisper. "I think he's got it. I think he's going to win."

Frank's grin widened, and he nodded firmly. "I think so too, love. I think so too."

—

The duel had escalated into a brutal, near-violent clash. Neville's arms ached from the force of each swing, the Viking axes in his hands feeling heavier with every passing moment. Magnus, a towering boy from Alfheim, had the advantage in size and strength, but Neville—Neville—had something more: an unyielding determination that burned like a fire inside him.

His breath came in ragged gasps, sweat dripping down his brow, but Neville was far from ready to give up. His eyes locked onto Magnus, who stood tall and seemingly unbothered, ready to strike with the brute force that had brought him this far. The crowd around them was electric, their cheers and gasps rising and falling with every move, as if the arena itself were a living, breathing organism caught in the ebb and flow of the battle.

Neville's grip tightened on his axes as he saw his opening. Magnus swung with all his might, the weight of his blade sending a shockwave through the air, but Neville was quicker. He ducked low, rolling under the wild arc of Magnus's swing, and with a burst of speed, brought one axe up in a vicious upward strike. The axe collided with Magnus's side with a satisfying clang that reverberated throughout the arena. Magnus staggered, his expression flashing with surprise for the first time in the fight.

"Not bad, Longbottom," Magnus grunted, rubbing his side as he regained his footing. His eyes gleamed with respect, but his pride still shone through. He wasn't used to being challenged like this, especially not by someone like Neville. "But you'll need more than that to beat me."

Neville didn't respond at first. Instead, he took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead. His stance was wide, knees slightly bent, and though his body screamed with exhaustion, his eyes remained laser-focused on Magnus.

"You're right," Neville finally spoke, his voice rough but filled with determination. "But I'm not done yet."

With those words, he surged forward again, faster this time, his axes dancing through the air in a flurry of controlled chaos. Magnus tried to counter, swinging his own weapon with precision, but Neville was a step ahead. He ducked beneath one swing, then sidestepped another, and with a sudden burst of energy, Neville brought both axes crashing down in a double strike. One struck Magnus's shield, the other found its mark, cutting across his leg.

Magnus let out a grunt of pain but stayed on his feet, gritting his teeth. "You're tougher than I thought," he muttered, clearly impressed. But the respect in his voice didn't stop him from going on the offensive again.

But Neville, with his back against the ropes, refused to give up. He pivoted to the side, narrowly avoiding a blow that could have ended him, and once more found his rhythm. There was a moment—just a split second—when Neville's eyes flicked over to his parents in the stands. His father, Frank, was leaning forward with a look of quiet pride, and his mother, Alice, wore a smile so full of love that it grounded him. He was doing this—not just for himself, but for them. For everything they had sacrificed.

With renewed energy, Neville surged forward again, his movements fluid, his strikes sharp and precise. The crowd gasped and cheered as he battered through Magnus's defenses, and with one last, Herculean effort, Neville brought both axes down in a thunderous clash that knocked Magnus's sword from his grasp.

The Viking boy stumbled back, his face contorted in disbelief as he held up his hands in surrender. "Enough, Longbottom. You've won."

Neville's chest heaved with heavy breaths, sweat and dirt streaking his face, but a triumphant grin broke across his lips. He stood tall, his axes held loosely in his hands, his body shaking with the remnants of adrenaline. But there was no more fight left in him. The battle was over.

The crowd erupted into applause, the sound deafening, as Neville raised his arms in victory. His heart pounded in his chest, his entire body a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. He had done it—he had done it.

Magnus, though clearly disappointed, nodded in respect, his voice gruff as he met Neville's eyes. "You've got the heart of a warrior, Longbottom. I've never fought anyone like you."

Neville gave him a tired but appreciative nod. "You were a tough opponent, Magnus."

The crowd's cheers intensified, and Neville's parents were on their feet, clapping and shouting his name. Frank's grin was impossibly wide, and Alice's eyes shone with tears as she cheered her son on, her voice breaking the noise of the arena. "Neville!" she cried, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of applause, but filled with more love and pride than he could ever have imagined.

Even Eirlys, sitting beside them, looked at Neville with a smile full of approval. "A warrior indeed," she murmured softly.

Neville, still panting, felt a swelling warmth in his chest as he absorbed the cheers. He had fought hard. He had fought with everything he had. And in that moment, standing victorious in front of the crowd, Neville Longbottom knew he had earned not only the respect of his opponent but the admiration of every person watching. And in the depths of his heart, he finally believed it too.

—

The first round of the tournament had come to a close, and the air in the arena crackled with electric anticipation. The crowd buzzed with excitement, discussing the incredible performances they'd just witnessed. The tension was thick, the murmurs rising into excited chatter as the contestants gathered together, their hearts still racing from the fierce battles they had fought.

Leif stood tall near the edge of the arena, his broad shoulders squared and his jaw clenched. The intensity in his eyes was matched only by the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. The crowd had been in awe of his swift, almost predatory movements—his every strike calculated and executed with precise, controlled power. His opponent had never stood a chance, not when Leif was moving like a shadow in the moonlight. The Viking blood running through his veins had served him well today, and it was clear that he was more than ready for whatever came next.

Astrid, her blonde hair still tangled and windswept from the battle, walked with a quiet grace, her posture poised and elegant. She was the picture of composure, though there was a fire in her blue eyes that burned fiercely. Her battle had been a display of controlled beauty—graceful strikes that seemed to flow effortlessly into each other, her movements a deadly dance that captivated everyone watching. Her opponent had underestimated her, and it was a mistake he would regret for the rest of his life. "Well," she said, smiling slightly, "that was almost too easy." Her voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it, as though she could slice through the tension in the air just as easily as she had her opponent.

Hannah, still panting from her match, wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her face flushed with exertion. She had fought with a raw, unrelenting spirit, refusing to be intimidated despite the size and strength of her opponent. There was a quiet resilience in her every move—an almost stubborn determination that had carried her through the toughest moments of the battle. She didn't win by sheer power, but by outlasting her opponent and finding strength in her refusal to back down. Her eyes were wide, still brimming with adrenaline. "I didn't think I had it in me," she muttered, her voice hoarse from the exertion. But there was a quiet pride in her eyes as she looked around at the others, the quiet girl who had proven everyone wrong.

As they walked off the arena floor, the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers echoing across the arena. Leif gave a casual wave, his confidence unmistakable, while Astrid acknowledged the applause with a nod, her expression serene but her eyes sparkling with the thrill of victory. Hannah, for her part, smiled shyly, looking somewhat embarrassed by the attention but grateful all the same. Her hands were still shaking, but there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that she had earned her place in the next round.

"Well, that was a show," Leif said, his voice deep and steady as he slapped a hand onto Astrid's shoulder. "Not bad, you two."

Astrid arched an eyebrow, her smile widening slightly. "You weren't so bad yourself, Leif. But don't get too cocky—there's still a lot to prove." She shot him a teasing glance before turning her attention to Hannah, who was still catching her breath. "And you," Astrid continued, "that was impressive. I didn't think anyone could outlast Bjorn, but you did."

Hannah flushed under the praise, but she couldn't help the grin that tugged at her lips. "I just kept going. I didn't give him the chance to finish it."

"You're all tough," Leif said, looking from one to the other with a mixture of admiration and respect. "I can't wait for the next round."

As the group moved toward the entrance, the tension in the air shifted—there was a subtle, shared understanding between them. They had earned their place in the second round, and now it was time to prove that their victory in the first wasn't just a fluke. Each of them had proven something different about themselves: Leif had shown his precision and deadly grace, Astrid her effortless strength and beauty, and Hannah her unshakable willpower. And now, as they prepared to face even tougher opponents, they all knew that the real test was yet to come.

"I just hope we get a good rest before the next round," Hannah said, her voice still a little breathless. "I don't know how much more I can take."

"Don't worry," Astrid replied, a playful smile on her lips. "You'll be fine. Besides, it's just the beginning. There's a whole lot more fun to come."

Leif let out a low chuckle as they walked, his confidence unwavering. "This tournament's got a lot left to offer, that's for sure. Let's see who can last to the end."

With that, the trio made their way to the rest area, the energy in the air palpable as the promise of more battles, more triumphs, and more drama loomed on the horizon. They had earned their place in the next round—but they knew better than anyone that nothing was guaranteed.

—

The afternoon sun blazed down upon the arena as the second round of the tournament began to take shape. The atmosphere was thick with excitement, each spectator chattering eagerly about the battles they'd seen and the ones to come. The competitors, fresh from their lunch break, stood in clusters, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and determination as they prepared for the next phase of the competition.

As the crowd settled, the massive figure of Algrim strode onto the platform, his powerful form silhouetted against the bright sky. His presence alone demanded attention. His dark eyes swept over the arena, and with a single, commanding gesture, he raised his hand for silence. The crowd immediately stilled, the murmurs dying down into an eager silence.

Algrim's deep voice boomed across the arena, reaching every corner with the weight of authority. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests of Asgard," he began, his tone unwavering and sure. "We now commence the second round of the one-on-one duels."

The crowd leaned in, anticipation crackling in the air. Algrim paused, surveying the fighters in the stands, his expression unreadable. "This round will determine the final 40 combatants who will participate in tomorrow's grand melee," he continued, letting the significance of his words sink in. His eyes flicked toward the competitors, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Only the finest warriors will advance. The competition will be fierce, and only those with the skill, strength, and resolve to rise above the rest will see tomorrow's battle."

His words were heavy with expectation, and the crowd responded with a collective surge of excitement—shouts, claps, and cheers echoing through the arena. Even the contestants, who had trained tirelessly for this moment, couldn't help but feel the weight of the challenge ahead.

Algrim's voice cut through the din, his authority a steady anchor in the chaos. "This round will test you all in ways you cannot yet imagine. You will face warriors of every skill and background, from across the realms. It will not be easy, but those who emerge victorious will prove themselves worthy of Asgard's greatest honor."

A low murmur of agreement rippled through the competitors, each one steeling themselves for what lay ahead. Haraldr stood tall, his eyes narrowing with focus as he exchanged a determined look with his friends. He could feel the heat of the competition in his chest, an adrenaline-fueled rush that ignited his desire to prove himself.

Beside him, Leif cracked his knuckles with a grin, clearly excited for the challenge. "Ready for another round, Astrid?" he asked, his voice low and full of competitive fire.

Astrid gave him a sharp nod, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. "You better be, Leif. I'm not going down easy."

Hannah, ever the quiet one, tightened her grip on her weapon, a determined glint in her eye. She didn't need to say anything; the fire within her was evident to all. She was ready for whatever came next.

Algrim raised his voice again, cutting through the noise like a blade. "Prepare yourselves," he commanded, his gaze sweeping over the crowd and settling on the contestants. "For the battles you are about to witness will showcase the very best of Asgardian might and prowess. The gods themselves could not have asked for finer combatants."

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers, their excitement growing with each passing second. The air seemed to hum with electricity, the tension building as the first names were called.

Algrim's gaze turned toward the vast arena, and with a commanding gesture, he motioned for the duelists to take their positions. "Let the second round of duels begin!" His voice rang out, final and resolute.

The first pair of names was announced, and the crowd shifted, eyes eager to witness the battle unfold. Haraldr's chest swelled with adrenaline, his muscles tightening in preparation for the fight ahead. The second round had officially begun, and the competition was only going to get fiercer from here on out.

Algrim stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back as he observed the proceedings with a critical eye. His voice, when he spoke again, was low and filled with quiet pride. "The true test begins now," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over the arena. The contestants would need more than strength to succeed—they would need to outthink and outlast their opponents in a brutal, unforgiving battle for survival.

—

Skadi stood just outside the periphery of the bustling crowd, her lean frame hidden in the shadow of a towering stone pillar. The arena, alive with the energy of spectators and combatants alike, held little interest for her—except for one thing. One person. Haraldr.

Her eyes, sharp and burning with intent, remained fixed on him as he stood with his friends, the list of matchups for the next round of the tournament clutched in his hands. Every movement he made, every flicker of emotion that crossed his face, seemed to ignite something dark and possessive within her. She watched with an almost predatory focus as Haraldr's laughter rang out, his gaze alight with that relentless fire she had first noticed when they crossed paths.

Her breath caught. It was that fire. That same unrelenting drive to prove his worth, to prove that he was something more than just the blood of Odin. It sickened her, that self-assuredness he carried so naturally, that unwavering belief in his superiority. She could feel her blood begin to boil. No one—no one—had the right to carry themselves with such arrogance when they carried the blood of Odin. It was hers to claim, hers to prove, hers to defeat.

"The blood of Odin will never match the blood of Cul," Skadi whispered to herself, her voice laced with venom, soft yet laden with conviction. The words fell from her lips like a prayer, a mantra she had repeated in her mind for days now. She leaned in slightly, her fingers gripping the edge of the stone pillar so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She could almost taste the satisfaction of the moment when Haraldr would fall, when his pride and confidence would be shattered beneath her boot.

She could almost hear his voice now, the boy's infuriating mixture of charm and swagger. The way he laughed, his head thrown back, carefree, as if the world bent at his feet. Her eyes narrowed. He thinks he's invincible. But I'll show him how easily that can be broken.

A quiet laugh escaped her lips, the sound low and hushed, as though she were savoring a delicious secret. Her mind replayed the possibilities: the moment in the arena when the blood of Odin would spill beneath her blade. The look on his face, that expression of shock, of defeat. It would be her finest victory, and she would make sure he understood exactly who had truly earned the right to claim superiority.

Skadi shifted slightly, drawing closer, the distance between them closing like the tightening of a noose. She observed him in minute detail, the way his fingers gripped the paper, the way his chest expanded with a deep breath, the subtle lift of his brow when he noticed an unfamiliar name in the matchup list. He was unaware. Completely oblivious to the darkness that lurked just beyond his sight.

Her fingers twitched at her side, nails digging into the hardened leather of her gloves. The desire to make herself known, to show him that she had been watching, was nearly overwhelming. But no—patience was key. She needed to bide her time, to remain hidden, to let the tension build until it became unbearable.

Skadi's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile. Soon. Soon, Haraldr, you will learn the truth about who the real warrior is. And you will bow to me.

The clattering of armor and boots on stone caught her attention, and she quickly ducked back behind her pillar, her eyes still trained on him. One of the arena guards passed by, oblivious to her presence. She was a shadow, a whisper in the wind, hidden in plain sight. It felt almost like a game—a thrilling, maddening game, and she was winning.

She couldn't resist one last glance at him. Haraldr still stood with his friends, laughing, unaware of the storm brewing just behind him. The nerve of him, so carefree, so utterly convinced that he was above it all. Her pulse quickened in anticipation.

I'll make sure he knows my name, knows my blood. He will fall before me.

Her breath quickened at the thought, and she stepped back further into the shadows. The time would come. Soon, very soon, the tournament would pit them against one another, and she would emerge victorious, leaving Haraldr no choice but to bow before her, acknowledging the bloodline that was stronger, fiercer, and more deserving of glory.

Skadi's heart beat in sync with the drums of the approaching battle, her excitement building to a fever pitch. She could almost feel the weight of the duel, the tension in the air—her victory was inevitable. She just had to wait for the right moment.

—

Meanwhile, as Haraldr continued to stand with his friends, scrutinizing the list of matchups for the second round, Susan Bones stood just a few steps away, quietly watching him and her companions. Her sharp eyes, always alert, swept across the arena, taking in the hustle of excited spectators and the movements of other contestants. She was used to observing every detail, finding patterns and cues where others might miss them.

It was when her gaze flicked across the open space near the outer edges of the crowd that something prickled at the back of her neck. She stopped in her tracks, eyes narrowing instinctively. There, just outside the bustle of the arena, by one of the stone pillars—Skadi.

Susan's brow furrowed as she studied the woman. Skadi stood still, her posture too rigid, too controlled to be casual. Her eyes—those eyes—were locked onto Haraldr, unwavering, like a hawk on a rabbit. The intensity of her gaze made Susan's skin prickle. She had seen that kind of look before, one filled with obsession, with a quiet intensity that bordered on something darker. Skadi wasn't just looking at Haraldr. She was studying him. Tracking his every movement. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for something.

"What's her deal?" Susan muttered softly under her breath, her lips barely moving as she leaned in toward Haraldr, keeping her tone casual. She didn't want to alarm him, but she couldn't ignore the unease stirring inside her. "Haraldr..." she began, but paused when she realized he wasn't paying attention, too wrapped up in his conversation with Leif and the others. His laugh was easy, his carefree energy a stark contrast to the tension Susan was beginning to feel. She stole another glance at Skadi.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the list of matchups in her hand as she let her eyes scan Skadi's posture again. There was a coldness there, something too deliberate about the way the woman stood, too predatory in the way she never broke her gaze from Haraldr. It was as if she was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Susan's mind clicked into place. "This isn't normal," she thought, her pulse quickening. Skadi had been hovering around the tournament for days now, and every time Susan had glanced over, Skadi was there, always on the periphery—never too close, but always just within reach. Now, though, it felt different. There was something more in Skadi's attention, something sharper, darker, that made Susan's stomach churn. It was as though she could feel the intent rolling off the woman like a wave.

A slight shiver ran down Susan's spine, but she didn't let it show. Haraldr was still blissfully unaware, too busy joking with Astrid about one of the other competitors' eccentricities. She felt a twinge of frustration at how easily Haraldr could be distracted by the simplest things, but she couldn't fault him for it. After all, he hadn't noticed the silent threat that seemed to linger in Skadi's gaze.

"Something's not right," Susan mused, her eyes flickering back to Skadi. She leaned in closer to Haraldr, speaking in a low, easy tone that wouldn't raise suspicion. "You know, sometimes it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for."

Haraldr didn't seem to catch the subtle warning in her voice, but he grinned, obviously thinking she was making a joke. "Yeah, but I'm not worried," he chuckled, his attention once again fully absorbed by the list. Susan let out a quiet sigh and turned back to Skadi.

She's up to something, but what?

Her lips pressed into a thin line, deep in thought. She wasn't about to jump to conclusions without evidence, but the warning bells in her head were ringing loud and clear. Skadi's presence wasn't coincidental—Susan had a sense for these things. She didn't trust that woman, not one bit. She didn't know what her game was yet, but she would figure it out.

Susan allowed her eyes to drift toward Haraldr again. His carefree laughter was almost a sharp contrast to the rising tension in her chest, but she found herself smiling despite the unease. She knew he'd never suspect a thing. He never did. But that was why she had to be the one to watch the shadows.

She took a steadying breath, feeling a sense of resolve settle in her chest. Whatever Skadi's plan was, she'd be ready for it.

"Well, whatever this is," Susan thought, her smile growing a little more mischievous, "it's not going to get past me."

She glanced once more at Skadi, her expression unreadable, before turning back to her friends. If Skadi thought she could get close to Haraldr, she had another thing coming. Susan would make sure of it.

And with that, Susan Bones began to silently plot her next move.

---

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