Half an hour ago..
From the stone-carved balcony above the training grounds, Odin and Freya watched in silence. Freya's eyes shimmered with a blend of pride and concern, her fingers gently twisting the edge of her silk shawl. Beside her, Odin stood with military precision—hands clasped tightly behind his back, expression carefully neutral. Only the faint tension in his jaw betrayed his thoughts.
"She's not the same little girl from two years ago," Freya murmured, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on Lara as she dipped and spun, effortlessly evading her brothers' strikes. The girl moved with lethal grace—each step measured, each parry smooth. A tremor of sadness in Freya's voice was softened by admiration. "She is no longer my little girl. Somehow, I could feel the change in her. She's a bit colder and distant."
If Lara had heard what Freya said, she would have cried, for she knew that as long as she could remember, she had shown her warmest self last night.