Snow was still falling over Asgard.
Not with the cutting violence of the North, nor with that cruel persistence that turned entire mountains into white tombs, but in a calmer way. The flakes descended slowly over the mansion gardens, accumulating on the edges of the fountains, on the bare branches of the trees, and over the stone paths that had been cleared only a few hours earlier by the servants. Winter covered the city with a soft silence, but it could not completely hide the distant sound of factories, trains, and the life that continued running beyond the walls of the estate.
In the inner garden, a round table had been prepared beneath a heated glass structure, allowing the snow to fall around them without directly reaching the guests. The place was elegant, but simple enough not to seem like an official reception. There was hot tea, small sweets, candied fruits, and a few documents carefully organized in a dark leather folder beside Monica's cup.
