Thor had been less than enthusiastic in his reception to Býeistr, though he'd done his best to hide it. Loki, for his part, tried his best not to take his brother's displeasure to heart. It would take more than the revelation of his adoption to banish the Thunder god's suspicions of the Jotuns. Thankfully, their visitor seemed more amused than annoyed by his hesitant greeting – a fact which helped disperse some of the tension they were all feeling.

Býeistr had surprised Loki at every turn, his lighthearted nature doing a great deal to counterbalance the grim portrait Asgard painted of their long-time enemies. Where Laufey had been cold and often cruel – hungry for power and land and vengeance against Odin – the young king laughed at every slight and seemed to be eager to pursue peace. Where Laufey was slow and hard as ice, Býeistr was water, fluid and forceful and quick. In many ways, the giant's sharp wit and casual demeanor reminded Loki much of himself, and the Trickster hoped that resemblance would be enough to smooth the path to a much needed alliance.

At Loki's insistence, they retired to a small meeting room he could more easily veil from Karnilla's sight. When Thor asked for a reason, he shrugged his shoulders and let slip that Surtur would be a fool not to have eyes in Gladsheim – whether or not that was true, Loki cared little. Until he had proof of the witch's treachery, he would not reveal his suspicions unless absolutely necessary.

"My brother has risked much to bring you here, Jotun King," Thor began, choosing his words carefully. His face was lined and caked with dirt and ash and blood – a tribute to the fierceness of the fighting raging at the gates. Loki had rarely seen his brother look so drained, especially with the rage of battle coursing through his veins.

The Jotun, true to form, didn't miss a beat. He flashed a smile over his shoulder as he moved away from the rich painting he'd been glancing over and gave a small shrug. "Formalities take time – which is doubtless in short supply. And calling you both 'Prince of Asgard' may soon become tedious and confusing if we continue. Besides," his ruby eyes twinkled knowingly. "I do believe we both call the same man 'brother.'"

Thor balked for a brief moment at the idea of being family to the king of Jotunheim, and Loki once again did his best to separate his emotions from the current situation. Now was not the time to test his brother's love of him, let alone his birthright.

Býeistr raised a hand casually to calm the older prince. "Laufey was a harsh and unforgiving man – much like Jotunheim itself. Though Loki was born before I was a thought in my mother's eyes, I have little doubt my father would leave him to die. The Allfather has done my family a great honor by making my brother his own son – though there are many who would not see it as such. For good or ill, we are all bound together now. And I, for one, am hopeful that this rift between our peoples will at last be breached."

Loki smirked to himself as he watched his brothers grasp arms in a sign of peace, though Thor seemed to fear the Jotun's touch. "Where is Odin?" he asked the blonde man quietly, green eyes displaying the triumphant song in his heart. Eat that, Witch.

He paused for a slight moment. "Eat that"? Damn Cara and her Midgardian influence. Norns forbid he utter something so ridiculous out loud.

"Father is preparing to take the next cycle. He hopes to draw Surtur into the fray and meet him in battle." Thor rolled his shoulders to stretch before glancing between his brother and their would-be-ally. "I will go and find him."

Before he really knew what he was doing, Loki put a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from going to the door. "I will go. You must rest, Thor. No one will be thanking you if you fall asleep mid-swing with Mjollnir in your hand." Býeistr chuckled briefly at that as the Thunder god bristled at the implication of weakness. Loki merely grinned as he projected his consciousness down the hallway and into his father's chambers, disappearing from sight.

Ѡ

"Are you ready?"

Sigyn barely recognized herself as she gazed emptily into Karnilla's looking glass. Dressed head to toe in green, blonde waves arranged around an artful headdress, she was a vision of power in emerald. The witch had amplified what small magical abilities she had, leaving her skin to tingle with heightened awareness as the air brushed across her bare shoulders. There was a faint glow to her eyes, staining the normally blue irises to an eerie sea green.

Am I ready? Such a simple question. The answer should be equally as simple, shouldn't it? She didn't believe in the Norn's cause – she didn't really believe in anything at the moment. Yet she was tired of doing nothing, tired of waiting for things and people who had no intention of making the wait worth her while. She would wait no longer.

Goddess of Fidelity? Goddess of foolishness, more like. She had been naïve, a girl in a woman's body. Fidelity was a dream – one could not be faithful to those who bore no allegiance to her as well. There was no trust, now, in either party. And she would not be a fool. She might choose to serve Karnilla, but it was through no act of loyalty. She might just as well choose to serve the Jotuns or the Dwarves or even the Æsir, should it suit her. Faithful only unto herself – to her own desires and passions. Fidelity. Sigyn, no longer. She would take a new name, and with it a new domain. A new identity.

Am I ready?

"Sigyn?" Karnilla had never been a patient woman.

"Amora," she said simply, her lips pressed into a line. Amora after those she'd loved and those who'd betrayed her. Amora to remind her every moment that love was a dream.

The red witch smiled slightly. "What was that?"

"My name," she repeated carefully, betraying no emotion. She was empty as Loki's promises. "Is Amora."

"Very well then." The woman could not contain her glee, and Amora felt only disgust for her. She wanted war for the sake of war. Yet she would give her everything for such a small price. "Enchantress."

The Enchantress looked back at the shimmering pane of glass before her, prepared for her task. Sigyn had been hesitant, afraid, and weak. She would not be. She stepped forward, feeling the cool liquid-like mirror pass across her skin. The cold burned, but her new power sustained her. And she was unafraid. When at last she opened her eyes, it was not the golden towers and gleaming suns of Asgard that greeted her, but a dark and shifting wasteland. Svartalfheim – and her army.

Ѡ

Loki quickly realized why, exactly, Thor had set up the cycle system. Within minutes, the Trickster found himself nauseous and dripping with sweat-saturated ash, fighting not only against the terrifying creatures before him, but also the exceptionally strong urge to return to the palace and use the Casket as an air conditioner.

Duck. Spin. Throw. As the knife left his fingertips to imbed itself between the eyes of another foe, he was already moving away from another attack. His were distance-based weapons, and every time he took the time to throw a knife or call one back, he was vulnerable to closer demons. He had successfully slowed the onrushing flow of their enemies, but he found himself relying heavily on others to defend him.

He recalled the knife, slamming a bolt of green energy into the back of another demon who had gotten past the first line of warriors. The Asgardian who had been about to get skewered by the ten-foot poleaxe rushing towards him spared a moment for a look of gratitude, too tired to speak, but Loki was already gone. He could not allow himself to hesitate.

Three knives shot out from his hands as he sprang out of the reach of another long axe. He rolled away from a blackened sword edge, as wide as his own waist. His hands found the jagged haft of a spear and he brought the discarded weapon arcing up into another's chin, singing his glove in the process.

Move.

There was little time to spare for thought between blows, so he relied almost completely on instinct. Somewhere he'd found a shield, then lost it again. Now and then he found a sword or an axe in his hands, but mostly he called upon his magic, sending green light out in darts to slow them. When the heat became too intense, he would try and cool the air lest it become too oppressive. He threw shields around those who were about to be killed and threw knife after knife after knife out into the horde until he could no longer feel his arms or his fingers for fatigue. Yet there were so many he could not spare – so many he could not kill. They were losing.

And suddenly he understood why he had lost on Midgard, as he watched his people dying around him. There was a strength the mortals had found in desperation – a strength which Asgard in all its might had never known. He had everything to lose. And if, as he very well might, he should lose he'd be damned if he wouldn't take as many of these bastards with him.

Ѡ

Cara watched Fenrir chase a squirrel around a tree, chuckling to herself, though she found little humor in life lately. Nearly two weeks had passed, and there still was no word from Asgard. Yet she told herself to be patient, all the while wondering if time passed differently on Earth – or if Loki was just being an ass and forgot. Granted, he was probably fighting eight foot tall fire demons and attempting to defend his home and everything he cared about – well, almost everything – from being incinerated. But he really couldn't take five minutes out of his day to let her know if he was still alive? Really?

The direwolf, as if sensing her dark mood, trotted back over to where she stood on the back porch, leaning out over the balcony. The lake was indeed beautiful, especially as the sun was setting, but she found herself only wishing for Loki's company. It was odd how she'd grown so accustomed to having him around – not so long ago she'd actively gone out of her way to avoid all people as much as possible. But somehow he had her reevaluating the merits of solitude, thinking that maybe life as a hermit was somewhat overrated.

And then he left her alone with their adopted direwolf so he could go fight his war.

The sound that escaped her was half frustrated grumble, half resigned sigh as she reached down to rub Fenrir's head, glancing down at his worried expression. "You miss him too, huh?"

"Dinner!" Jane's voice drifted out of the house along with the scent of burning meatballs. It was the scientist's turn to cook again, and, although Jane could use all the practice she could get, Cara couldn't quite bring herself to encourage her friend's enthusiasm. Thankfully, she didn't think Jane would be spending much time in Asgardian kitchens whenever Thor got around to making their relationship "official" enough to take her home with him.

"Do you feel like meatballs?" she asked the amber eyes gazing affectionately up at her. The snort and shake of the head – combined with a tongue lolling out in disgust – confirmed her suspicions.

"You gonna go catch that squirrel, then? Cuz I'm out of jerky, kid."

He looked longingly back at the tree before hanging his head in resignation. She couldn't help but laugh at the mock-hurt expression he was giving her. And you claim to love me, he seemed to say in complaint.

"Hey, if I've gotta eat it, you can too." She knelt for a moment to scratch under his chin. "Don't like it? Tell that to your dad when he finally shows up." She sighed and kissed him lightly on the cheek before heading inside, her son at her heels.

Darcy was coming down the stairs and gave Cara a look of feigned horror at the prospect of entering the kitchen. The hunter merely grinned in agreement.

"Hasn't someone shown you how to use the pan yet?" The political scientist teased as she sat down at the table.

Jane frowned. "They're still better than my last try."

"Far be it from us to complain about progress," Cara laughed.

"If you don't like it, cook for yourselves." She pretended to be hurt as she dished out the charred once-brown spheres onto a plate filled with overly-sticky pasta. No sauce. Just pasta. There hadn't exactly been an overabundance of Italian food when she'd been a recluse, but Cara was pretty sure she remembered tomato sauce going really well with spaghetti and meatballs.

Darcy flashed her a look across the table as if this was all her fault. You had the option of cooking and you passed it up?

She shrugged and picked up a fork even as Fenrir pushed around his food with his nose, debating on whether or not he'd break his teeth if he made an honest attempt at chewing. "I tried. She kicked me out."

"Cara knows how to cook – sort of. Ask her for help," Darcy suggested, still obviously set on complaining for a while.

"I want to – "

Before she could finish, there was a firm knock on the front door. The hairs on the back of Cara's neck rose in warning and Fenrir bared his teeth, emitting a low growl as he leapt down off the chair. Jane pushed herself up to answer it.

"Wait," Cara warned her, grey eyes suddenly fully alert. She slipped a knife off the table and into the top of her boot, heeding that strong sense that something wasn't quite right.

"What's wrong?" Darcy started, but the hunter put a finger to her lips, indicating for them to be quiet.

"Go out the back door and get into the boat. Be as quiet as you can. Fenrir, you too. Start across the lake, but don't wait for me. If I'm not there in five minutes, call Stark." Without waiting for a response, she crept up the stairs to retrieve her bow and knife, hoping her friends trusted her enough to follow her instructions. She peered out her window carefully, but could see nothing but the night. The streetlamps were out.

Going down the stairs with her bow drawn was more difficult than she'd anticipated, but she managed well enough. Better to be ready and slow than not have an arrow when she needed one. Their visitor knocked again – how absurdly polite of them. There was, of course, the possibility that she was overreacting, but when her instincts said something, she had to listen. She had too many scars from previous experiences to ignore them with a clear conscience.

The wood in the house creaked as she carefully made her way towards the front door, hoping to get a look at whoever was on the other side. She'd hate to evacuate the house because some poor European cop was letting them know there was some sort of power outage on their street. But as she stood to try and look through the peephole, the door exploded in a burst of blinding green light, throwing her backwards down the hall to lie bleeding and stunned in a pile of splintered wood.