The smell of sizzling meat filled the streets of New Mug City. Market stalls lined every corner, smoke and spice twisting into the air like warm laughter. Thunder-shaped banners whipped in the breeze overhead, and people cheered between bites of meat skewered on bones carved like miniature hammers.
Fen walked beside Thory, chewing slowly as he tried to make sense of the city's sudden energy. Thory, meanwhile, was already halfway through her second hammer-meat skewer, tearing into it like a starved wolf.
"Why is it so loud? And… packed?" Fen asked, eyeing the sea of cheering townsfolk.
Thory grinned with meat in her teeth. "Look around you, knucklehead! It's a festival! The Festival of Feast and Thunder—to honor the mighty Thor!" She threw her arms up, nearly knocking over a passing juggler. "We should celebrate!"
Fen blinked as he took in the scene around him. There were men and women dancing in the square, beer mugs sloshing, children in capes and fake beards roaring like thunder gods, and stalls selling everything from lightning-shaped pastries to hammers made of sweetbread.
"They really go all in for this," Fen muttered, dodging a small kid swinging a wooden hammer at a cabbage stand.
Thory laughed. "Drinking contests, arm wrestling, thunder-themed music—and look, look! They're selling Thor masks!"
With a tug, she pulled Fen through the crowd and into a busy costume shop draped in capes and metallic props. Before he could protest, she tossed a red cloak over his shoulders and popped a winged helm on his head.
"There," she declared. "Now you look ridiculous and festive."
Fen sighed but couldn't suppress a half-smile as Thory clapped him on the back. They stepped back into the square where drums pounded like thunder and fire-dancers whirled beneath blue lanterns shaped like storm clouds.
But in the shadows of a tall brick wall, just above the light and laughter, someone was watching.
A figure, cloaked and still, stood behind a rack of forged trinkets, eyes following Fen and Thory. The wind caught the corner of their hood, revealing just the faintest glint of a metal mask underneath—one not sold at any stall.
The festival roared on, but the storm was far from over.
Fen's nose twitched. Amid the feast's smoke and sweat and thunderbread, he caught a scent—cold metal, sharp wind, something he hadn't smelled since Littleroot. The scent of a Valkyrie.