Pain.
It wasn't just the physical ache of a body stripped of its immortality; it was the psychological agony of witnessing a sacrilege.
Thor might not have had a word for the specific humiliation he felt, but seeing Mjolnir—his partner, his symbol of worthiness, his very soul—dragged through the dirt on a leash was a wound deeper than any blade could carve.
He had always treated the hammer with a reverence bordering on the divine. To Thor, Mjolnir was his "bride" in battle, a constant companion that demanded excellence. And now?
This mortal was walking her like a common hound, dragging her through the gravel of a Midgardian street.
The rage that erupted within Thor was primal. It bypassed logic, ignored his current vulnerability, and burned away the last remnants of his caution. He didn't see a dangerous sorcerer; he saw a thief who needed to be broken.
With a roar that shook the windows of the nearby shops, Thor charged. He was a berserk bull, a force of nature even without his lightning, hurtling toward Emrys with murder in his eyes.
"Hmm?"
Emrys didn't even turn his head fully. Sensing the incoming mass of muscle and fury, he simply flicked his wrist. He yanked the heavy industrial cable attached to the hammer with a sharp, telekinetic snap.
Whoosh!
The hammer didn't just slide; it took flight. It arced through the air like a meteor hammer, whistling with a dull, heavy thrum before it connected precisely with the side of Thor's head.
BANG!
Thor's world turned into a cacophony of ringing bells. The impact sent him spinning backward, his boots skidding across the asphalt until he collapsed in a heap near the curb.
"Thor!" Heimdall cried out, his charred face twisting in horror. He feared the strike had pulped the prince's skull.
But the blood of the Aesir was resilient. Even without his divine mantle, Thor's physiology was far beyond that of a human. He groaned, swaying on his feet as he struggled to stand. One side of his face was already beginning to purple and swell, giving him the appearance of a lopsided gargoyle, but his eyes remained defiant.
"Put... down... my hammer!" Thor spat, blood flecking his lips. "Mortal! I am the son of the All-Father! I am Thor Odinson, the God of Thunder! You will return my weapon, you will return Heimdall's steel, and you will kneel for your crimes, or I swear by the crown of Asgard, I will make your end legendary!"
Emrys' eye twitched. He looked at the bruised, panting prince with genuine disbelief.
Is this truly Odin's blood? he wondered. How could a king as ruthless and strategically brilliant as the All-Father produce an heir with the tactical awareness of an Ogryn? No—that was an insult to Ogryns. An Ogryn at least knew when a wall was too thick to headbutt. Thor, it seemed, didn't even recognize the concept of a wall.
"What are you staring at?" Thor barked, sensing the pity in Emrys' gaze. "I remember you now! You're the one who cowered in the back of the carriage last night!"
Emrys pinched the bridge of his nose. The "Warhammer Academy" training program was going to be even more grueling than he had anticipated. He would need to burn away the idiocy before he could build a leader.
"Thor, stay your hand!" Heimdall hissed, grabbing Thor's arm. The Gatekeeper's voice was grave. "He is no mere mortal. He wields a dark sorcery—he took my armor and sword before I could even draw breath. He is a master of the ambush."
Ambush? Thor's eyes lit up. He saw an opening. Drawing himself up to his full height, he puffed out his chest, looking like a proud, albeit battered, swan. He pointed a finger at Emrys.
"In the name of the Nine Realms, I, Thor Odinson, challenge you! A formal duel! A contest of true men!"
Heimdall froze, his expression shifting from terror to a sudden, sharp understanding. He looked at Thor, then back at Emrys, a flicker of hope returning to his bloodshot eyes.
A trick, Emrys realized instantly. He had spent too much time dealing with Hive-world gangers and Rogue Trader rivals to miss the sudden shift in the air. He watched Heimdall's face—the Gatekeeper was holding back a smile.
"I'm not averse to the idea," Emrys said calmly, leaning against a lamp post while the hammer sat anchored in the dirt behind him. "But I am a merchant. I don't move a finger without a contract. What is the stake?"
"You cannot win, thief!" Thor declared, his confidence surging.
"If I win," Emrys said, his voice dropping to a cold, transactional chill, "the two of you become my servants. My 'slaves,' if that word suits your archaic sensibilities. You will follow my orders without question. If I lose, I return your trinkets and I shall kneel in the dirt and beg your forgiveness. Deal?"
Heimdall flinched at the term "slave," but Thor didn't hesitate. "No problem! It is settled!"
Thor clapped Heimdall on the shoulder, ignoring the Gatekeeper's groan of pain. "Do not worry, old friend. You know my strength. In a fair circle, I have no equal!"
"Then it's a bargain," Emrys said, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "For the sake of fairness, I'll give you a day to recover. You look like you've been through a meat-grinder."
"No need!" Thor sneered, rolling up his hospital sleeves to reveal his massive, albeit human, forearms. "I demand we settle this now! Unless you are a coward who can only fight from the shadows?"
Emrys sighed, the sound of a man watching a moth fly into a plasma coil. "I gave you a chance. Don't go crying to your father when the bill comes due."
"Worry about your own hide, Midgardian!"
Thor was practically beaming. He knew the laws of the Asgardian Holmgang. In a formal duel of honor, the use of magic was strictly forbidden. It was a test of bone, sinew, and martial skill—areas where he had spent centuries becoming the undisputed champion of the heavens.
He looked at Emrys and suppressed a laugh. Without your parlor tricks and shadow-magic, little man, I am going to bounce you off the pavement until you forget your own name.
Who said Thor was a fool? In his mind, he was a genius. He couldn't wait to see the look on the "sorcerer's" face when his spells failed to ignite.