Asgard was alive that night. No, not merely alive, but radiant, pulsing with divine mirth and thunderous joy.
The golden halls of Valaskjálf, the throne hall of Odin, blazed with light, their marble floors reflecting the shimmer of torches and the brilliance of divine auras that painted the air in hues unseen by mortal eyes.
The skies above glittered like the crown of Yggdrasil itself, and laughter, boisterous, booming, reckless laughter, rolled across the heavens like thunder given voice.
Everywhere one looked, gods and goddesses of two worlds mingled: Greek and Norse—Olympians and Æsir/Vanir—their differences drowned beneath the flood of revelry and the music of golden harps and clashing goblets.
At this moment, there was no distinction between the two pantheons. For this festival, they were all brothers and sisters who have survived the battle and are partying.
