Red Hair

In the depths of a dark and cold corridor, a lone figure limped forward. Clad in a black robe of armor - that now a little bit tattered –that clung to his form like his own shadows, the man moved with a pained and uneven gait. His breath ragged and every step seemed to drive a fresh wave of agony through his battered body. Beneath a mask that concealed his features, his eyes burned with a mixture of shame and anger.

He cursed under his breath. The humiliation of being bested by those three—mere children!—gnawed at him like a festering wound. How could they, of all beings, have managed to wound him so gravely? The thought was unbearable, the sting of it far worse than the physical injuries he'd sustained.

Its because he had underestimated them. Thinking that they must be cowering in fear after he showed a little bit of his power. But who would've thought that suddenly they have the spirit to fight back?

His hand drifted to his face, where a deep cut still throbbed with a persistent ache. The wound, though nearly healed, was a stark reminder of his failure.

Every pulse of pain seemed to mock him because of the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of those brats. He gritted his teeth, the memory of their blows and the look in their eyes as they fought him replaying in his mind.

He would make them pay for this. That much he swore. But first, he had to deal with his current predicament—how to explain these injuries to his master.

As he limped closer to the door at the end of the corridor his thoughts churned with the dilemma.

Should he admit the truth? That he had been wounded by the warriors Thor had chosen from Earth? But what if his master discovered they were nothing more than children? The shame would be unbearable.

And yet, if he lied, if he concocted some tale of a fierce battle with a more formidable foe, the consequences could be far worse. His master was not one to suffer deceit lightly.

The figure let out a frustrated growl as he reached the door. There was no easy choice. The only path forward was to tell the truth, bitter as it was. He would confess his failure and hope that his master's wrath would be tempered by the knowledge that these children were not ordinary mortals. He could only hope that this admission would not seal his fate.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come, and then with a trembling hand, pushed open the door.

The door creaked open revealing a room bathed in orange light that flickered like fire. The illumination cast a wavering glow across the walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingling with the low, haunting strains of classical music that filled the space with an almost eerie calm.

As the robed figure stepped inside his eyes were immediately drawn to a figure standing by the large window. His silhouette framed against the backdrop of a darkened sky. The man's hair is a vibrant shade of red and it appear as if it were ablaze.

He was tall and imposing, dressed in an orange robe that seemed to shimmer with the same fiery hue as the room around him. His back was to the robed figure. There was no mistaking the aura of power that radiated from him.

The man by the window turned slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips as he gazed out at the world beyond. The music swelled, its melancholic melody weaving through the air, amplifying the tension.

Without turning to fully face his visitor the man's voice broke the silence, smooth and easy.

"Do you like this music?" he asked. "I got it from Midgard. There's something... soothing about it, don't you think?"

The black robed figure hesitated, his unease palpable. He stood stiffly, his injured form barely hidden beneath the folds of his black armor. The music that drifted through the room that meant to be calming only served to heighten his anxiety. He knew that behind that pleasant tone lay something far more dangerous.

The red-haired man's smile widened ever so slightly, as if he could sense the turmoil within his guest. The robed figure shifted uncomfortably. He knew he had to respond, yet every word felt like a potential misstep.

The red-haired figure's gaze settling on the black-robed man who stood uneasily before him. His eyes looks like a piercing shade of amber. He studied the robed figure for a moment. Then, with a slight nod, he spoke.

"At ease, Nox. There's no need for formality here. Speak your mind. What happened on your trip?"

Nox, the black-robed figure, felt a small measure of the tension leave his body at his master's words. He straightened slightly.

"My lord," Nox began. "I encountered something… unexpected."

The red-haired figure arched an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Unexpected? Go on."

"Thor has recruited children from Midgard," he said, the word "children" nearly spat out with disbelief. "They're young—barely out of their youth—but they are... somehow strong. More so than I anticipated."

For a moment the room was silent, the only sound the faint strains of the classical music playing in the background. The red-haired figure's expression remained inscrutable, his eyes narrowed slightly as if contemplating the implications of what he had just heard.

"Children," he repeated slowly, his tone contemplative. "Thor is using children as his warriors? And they managed to wound you?"

Once again, shame filled Nox's heart and face. He kept silent, choosing not to say anything.

"That means they're not ordinary children."

The red-haired figure gazed back out the window with a thoughtful expression. Then, he spoke, more to himself than to Nox.

"Thor must have taken them to help stop Ragnarok. But why? Who are they?"

"I'll investigate further, my lord," Nox said.

"Yes. Do so. But you must be careful."

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