The hall was silent, save for the crackling of a fire in the great hearth. Shadows danced along the stone walls, and the air held the cold weight of discipline and old battles. Tyr sat upon a carved wooden bench, his massive frame still despite the lingering ache in the stump of his missing hand. His cloak, damp from the mist outside, was draped across his shoulder, revealing the intricate scars etched into his skin like runes of sacrifice.

She entered quietly—young, unsure, yet carrying the steady grace of one trained in silence. Her eyes flicked to his form: broad-shouldered, weathered, proud. One hand rested idly on the hilt of a sword, but it was the empty space where his right hand should be that drew her gaze.

"You are the new one," Tyr said, his voice low and even, like a calm before a storm. "They send you to tend to a broken god."