The old man—Odin—looked at the woman and said gravely, his voice heavy with the weight of old grudges:
"Frigga, that lecherous fool reached out just now."
Frigga raised an eyebrow, a faint frown creasing her brow. But as realization dawned, her expression softened with a knowing smile.
"Zeus, I take it?"
Odin gave a small, sharp nod.
"So why summon me, husband, if you already have his message?" she asked, her voice calm but curious.
With a wave of his hand, a second throne emerged beside his, carved from the same celestial stone and lined with runic threads of starlight.
"Sit, Frigga. We need to talk."
The seriousness in his tone made her pause. She recognized that look—the same expression he wore before every war, every battle that threatened to shake the very roots of the realms.
Without another word, Frigga seated herself gracefully beside him, her eyes studying him with quiet concern.
