Asgard was alive.
Not just rebuilt—truly alive.
Where there had once been ashes, craters, and the lingering smell of smoke, now rose aligned streets, light-colored stone houses reinforced with simple runes, new roofs reflecting the daylight. The sound of hammers, voices, and footsteps mingled with the smell of freshly baked bread and hot metal. Merchants haggled over prices, children scurried between makeshift stalls, messengers crisscrossed the square with scrolls strapped to their belts.
Three months ago, all of this had been a cemetery.
Now, it was a city in full bloom.
In the administrative center—a solid building, still simple, but functional—Monica sat behind the main desk. The "boss's desk," as the residents already called it. It wasn't a throne, nor anything ornamental: it was wide, made of reinforced wood, covered with maps, contracts, stamps, and reports piled up in a way too organized for someone who didn't take it very seriously.
