The halls of Valaskjalf gleam under the eternal torches, their golden light casting long shadows across the vast chamber. Odin's throne looms high, a towering testament to Asgard's might. Pillars stretch toward the ceiling, etched with stories of conquest and victory. At the throne's centre, Odin sits unmoving, his lone eye sharp, unreadable.

Loki strides forward, his boots ringing against the marble floor. His armour is still stained with blood—some his, some not. The wounds from Alfheim ache, but urgency burns hotter than pain. This is not just an Alfheim problem. This is a war waiting to happen.

He halts at the base of the throne, chin high. Around them, the council lingers in the shadows, their gazes wary, expectant.

Odin watches him. "You return sooner than expected." His voice is even, but suspicion coils beneath it. "Did your mission in Alfheim prove too difficult?"

Loki forces himself to bow his head, if only slightly. "Alfheim is under attack. But not by mere bandits or rebels."

Odin's fingers drum against the armrest. "Then who?"

Loki meets his gaze. "The Chitauri."

A ripple of unease sweeps through the gathered council. Odin's fingers still. His eye narrows.

"A dead army," he says. "Scattered when their master fell."

Loki's fists curl at his sides. "They are not scattered. They are regrouping. And their master is not dead."

Silence. Then, Odin laughs—low and humourless.

"You speak nonsense, boy."

Loki takes a breath, steadying himself. "You know I do not."

Odin's gaze darkens, his presence pressing down like a heavy weight. "Thanos is gone." The words are final, and dismissive, as if the matter is already settled. "Even if there are remnants of his army, it is not our concern."

Loki steps forward. "Not our concern? The Chitauri are at Alfheim's borders, slaughtering and pillaging, preparing for something larger! This is no mere uprising—this is war."

Odin scoffs. "Then the elves should handle their own war."

"And what happens when it spreads? When it reaches Vanaheim? Nidavellir? When they come for Asgard?" Loki's voice rises. "You are making the same mistake you made with Laufey! Ignoring a threat does not erase it!"

The air tightens. The council members shift, uneasy.

Odin's grip on Gungnir tightens.

"Mind your tongue."

But Loki cannot. Not this time.

"You refuse to see it because you do not want to believe it," he presses on. "Thanos is not just alive, he is preparing for something. You—"

The blow comes fast.

Pain explodes through Loki's jaw as the end of Gungnir crashes into his face, sending him sprawling onto the marble floor. The hall rings with stunned silence.

Loki blinks up at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. He has been beaten before. This is nothing new. The sting of it fades beneath something colder, something sharper.

A boot presses down on his chest, pinning him to the floor.

Odin stands over him, gaze like carved stone. "You overstep, boy."

Loki gasps beneath the weight, but the words matter more than the pain. He searches Odin's face for something—recognition, hesitation. There is nothing.

"You let your fear make a fool of you," Odin continues. "You let the ghosts of your past cloud your mind. This is no war. This is no great invasion. This is nothing but a few desperate remnants clinging to a dead cause."

The pressure lifts. Odin steps back. The dismissal is final.

"Asgard will not move against shadows," he declares. "We will not be provoked into a war that does not exist."

Loki presses a hand to his ribs, already feeling the bruise forming. He stares at the floor, pulse pounding in his ears.

Then he laughs.

Soft. Bitter. Humorless.

Odin turns back, his expression flickering between rage and disbelief.

Loki wipes blood from the corner of his mouth, his lips curling into something sharp. "You are a fool."

The council gasps.

Odin's expression hardens.

Loki exhales sharply, finding his balance despite the throbbing ache in his bones. He has survived worse. He will survive this.

"I have been beaten before, Odin. By you. By Thanos. By the very forces you refuse to acknowledge." His voice is quieter now, but it carries. "Ignore this war if you wish. It will come for you all the same."

Odin does not answer.

Loki turns without another word, pushing past the guards as he leaves the throne room.

He has done his part.

The warning has been given.

Now, all he can do is wait.

And prepare for the storm to come.

Darkness pools in the corners of Loki's chambers, a silent reminder of the danger pressing in on all sides. The golden light of Asgard's lanterns cannot reach him here, in the depths of his own mind, where fear curls like smoke in his lungs.

Behind him, Jörmungandr lies on the fur-lined floor, his emerald and gold scales shifting faintly in the firelight. His original massive form has outgrown its curse, but the chains of fate still cling to him. Just as they do to all of Loki's children.

Loki turns from the window, his mind racing.

No magic. No spells to bend the world to his will. No illusions to slip past Odin's ever-watchful gaze. The binds placed on him after his trial have stolen his greatest weapon.

But not his mind.

And not his blood.

A whisper of movement at the door.

Loki tenses, fingers curling at his sides until a soft voice breaks the silence.

"You look like a man in need of a miracle."

He exhales, shoulders dropping as Eira steps into the room.

The seiðrwoman is clad in simple travelling leathers, her hair bound in intricate braids, a pouch of bone and herbs at her hip. Her piercing eyes settle on Jörmungandr, lingering for a moment before flicking back to Loki.

"You're certain you want to do this?"

"There is no other choice." His voice is quiet but firm.

She studies him, then nods. "Then we must be careful. You have no power but that which runs in your veins. Blood and will. That is what we will use."

Loki inhales sharply. It will have to be enough.

The royal stables are more dangerous than the oceans of Midgard or the mountains of Vanaheim. Guards patrol every entrance.

Loki and Eira wait in the shadows. Timing is everything.

The watchmen pass, their armour glinting in the moonlight. Loki moves.

Silent as a wraith, he slips into the stables, ducking past the stalls of warhorses until he reaches the farthest one.

There, standing in quiet defiance, is Sleipnir.

The eight-legged stallion turns his head as if expecting him.

Loki presses a hand to his son's strong neck. "We don't have much time."

Eira slips in behind him, pulling a bone charm from her pouch. "Your father's mark binds him here." She places the charm against Sleipnir's coat. "A binding cannot be undone… but it can be rewritten."

He grabs a small knife from his belt and drags it over his palm. My blood is all I have to offer.

She reaches for Loki's bleeding hand, smearing his blood across the charm.

A deep pulse thrums through the air. The mark shifts.

Loki doesn't hesitate. He whispers, "Go."

Sleipnir snorts once before lunging forward. His hooves barely make a sound as he disappears into the dark.

A shout from outside. The guards have heard something.

Loki and Eira vanish into the shadows.

Two down.

The golden halls of Asgard shimmer with light as the announcement rings through the great throne room. Odin, seated upon the gilded throne, his expression unreadable, gazes out over the gathered nobility, warriors, and council members.

"In one week's time, Asgard shall host a feast of diplomacy," his voice echoes, filling the grand space with authority. "A celebration of peace, of unity. A time for our allies to stand together in strength."

A murmur of approval sweeps through the court. Golden goblets are raised, voices humming with excitement over lavish meals, flowing mead, and political manoeuvring.

Loki, standing near the edge of the crowd, feels bile rise in his throat.

Peace? Unity?

Alfheim is burning.

The revelry swells around him, but Loki sees the truth etched into Frigga's tense shoulders, the tight set of Sif's jaw, and the way the Warriors Three exchange wary glances. Those who know the weight of war understand the absurdity of this announcement.

Yet no one speaks.

And when Odin's lone eye sweeps the room, daring opposition, Loki sees not a single soul willing to challenge him.

Loki's fists clench at his sides.

Then I shall.

The heavy doors to Odin's study slam shut behind Loki as he strides inside. The scent of parchment, aged wood, and burning embers fills the chamber.

Odin stands by the hearth, his back to Loki, his posture rigid.

Loki wastes no time. "A feast, Father?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the flickering firelight. "Alfheim is under attack. Their borders are crumbling. You cannot expect them to drink and make merry while their homes burn."

Odin does not turn.

"You overstep." His tone is cold.

Loki's jaw tightens. "I overstep? If anything, I have not said enough. If you refuse to see the danger, then let me paint it clearly—Thanos is coming. This 'uprising' in Alfheim is not just rebels or outlaws. The Chitauri are there. His forces are moving."

Odin's grip on the mantelpiece tightens.

For a moment, Loki thinks he has gotten through.

Then Odin finally turns—and his gaze is cold steel.

"Thanos is dead."

Loki freezes. The sheer finality of those words sends ice down his spine.

Odin steps forward. "Do not speak of that name again. There is no war, only a squabble among the lesser realms. Asgard will host its feast, and our allies will see that we remain strong."

Loki can scarcely believe what he is hearing. Denial. Utter and complete denial.

"You are a fool," Loki whispers. "You blind yourself and expect all of us to play along. But when war comes knocking at your door, will you still pretend it is not real?"

Odin's expression darkens.

"Enough."

A heavy silence falls between them.

Then Odin exhales slowly, reining in his anger, but his next words come sharp and merciless:

"If you are so concerned with diplomacy, then you shall handle it. You will personally deliver invitations to the delegations of Vanaheim and Alfheim. And you will do so with the grace expected of an Asgardian prince."

Loki stills.

This is not a task—it is punishment.

Odin knows exactly what he is doing.

To send Loki to Alfheim, to its broken cities and grieving people, and command him to invite them to a feast—it is a cruel irony.

Loki swallows down the burning retort on his tongue.

He meets Odin's gaze and inclines his head—not in submission, but in defiance.

"As you command, Allfather."

Then, without another word, he turns and leaves, the weight of his father's orders pressing heavily upon him.

The feast will go on.

But war is coming.

And this time, Asgard will not be ready.

Vanaheim is not like Asgard.

Where Asgard's golden towers stretch toward the heavens, Vanaheim breathes. The forests here are endless, thick with mist and pulsing with raw magic. Rivers carve through the land, their waters glowing faintly beneath the twilight sky, whispering secrets only the old gods remember. The very air hums with power, ancient and untamed.

Loki inhales deeply as he rides through the wild landscape, the scent of damp earth and blooming herbs filling his lungs. Here, at least, he is not an outcast.

Vanaheim has always held a soft spot for him.

The Vanir value magic. They do not fear it.

And they have not forgotten him.

The great hall of King Freyr and Queen Gerðr is woven from the land itself. Trees, centuries old, curl their roots into the foundations, their branches forming a living ceiling of green and gold. Bioluminescent fungi glow along the walls, casting eerie blue shadows as Loki steps forward.

He feels their eyes on him.

Not with disdain, as in Asgard.

But with recognition.

The Vanir priests, the seiðrmancers, the warriors—those who still remember how he once walked these halls, not as a prisoner, not as a villain, but as one of them.

The king and queen sit upon their thrones, regal yet untamed, like the realm itself. Freyr, golden-haired and sharp-eyed, studies Loki as one would an old friend returned from war—wounded, but not broken. Gerðr, dark-eyed and quiet, looks deeper as if she can see the bruises beneath his skin, the ghosts that haunt his mind.

Then—her gaze falls upon his wrists.

The iron binds.

The room shifts. Magic stirs, a ripple through the air. The very walls groan beneath its weight.

Gerðr rises first. "Who dared to do this?" Her voice is quiet, but power coils beneath it like a storm waiting to break.

Loki stills.

Freyr's knuckles tighten against the arms of his throne. "You are bound," he says, his voice dangerously low. "Odin has done this to you?"

Loki meets his gaze, throat tight.

"It was his decree," he admits. "My punishment."

A murmur rises, voices sharp as the edge of a blade. Some furious, others sorrowful—but none surprised.

Gerðr steps down from the throne, long robes trailing like shadows behind her. She reaches out, fingers hovering over the metal shackles. A spell whispers through the air, and the binds shudder—but do not break.

Her lips press into a thin line.

"Odin dares to bind one of the greatest seiðrmancers of the Nine Realms?" she hisses. "He dares to strip you of your birthright, your very soul?"

Freyr stands beside her. "He has gone too far."

Loki swallows past the ache in his throat. Here, at least, someone sees him. Someone understands.

But that is not why he has come.

He takes a breath. "There is something else I must ask of you."

Freyr and Gerðr wait.

Loki hesitates—just for a moment. Then he steps forward, voice low, raw.

"My son is here."

A hush falls over the room.

Loki clenches his hands into fists. "Fenrir. Odin's chains keep him locked in the mountains of this realm, hidden away like a beast to be forgotten. I am forbidden from freeing him on my own. But you—you are not."

Silence.

Freyr and Gerðr exchange a look, something ancient and unspoken passing between them.

Then, slowly, Freyr exhales. "You bargain for your son's freedom."

Loki lifts his chin. "I beg for it."

A stir of voices, sharp with disbelief. Loki, the Silver-Tongued, the Trickster, the son of Odin—begging?

Gerðr studies him, searching. "You would risk everything for him."

Loki's breath is unsteady. "He is my blood."

Freyr lets out a slow, measured sigh. Then, he nods.

"Odin has taken much from this realm. Too much." His gaze sharpens. "We will not let him take more."

Gerðr's lips curve, something like amusement flickering behind her dark eyes. "Vanaheim does not abandon its own. And you, Loki, are still one of us."

Loki barely breathes. Relief crashes into him, too sharp to be soft.

Freyr steps closer, placing a firm hand on Loki's shoulder. "We will free your son."

Loki bows his head, just enough to hide the tremor in his hands.

"Thank you."

Freyr gives a wry smile. "You can thank us by ensuring this feast of Odin's is as unbearable for him as possible."

Loki exhales a quiet, breathless laugh. "That, my friend, I can do."

For the first time in a long time, he does not feel alone.

And when the moon rises high over Vanaheim that night, Fenrir's chains will break.

And Odin will learn—Vanaheim will not be tamed.

The storm rolls in before he does.

Dark clouds churn over Manhattan, thick with the promise of rain, but the lightning does not fall. It coils high above, restless. Waiting.

And then, with a crack of thunder, he arrives.

Thor lands on the rooftop of Stark Tower, the lingering glow of the Bifröst fading behind him. Mjolnir strikes the ground with a dull thud, and the air hums with static, the sharp tang of ozone clinging to the wind. He straightens, shoulders squared, gaze steady as he surveys the city stretched out below him—vast, gleaming, still bearing its scars.

The penthouse doors slide open before he can announce himself.

Stark stands on the threshold, one hand braced against the frame, the other wrapped around a glass of something dark. He lifts it in a slow, lazy toast.

"Look what the storm dragged in."

Thor exhales through his nose. "Stark."

Tony steps aside, gesturing loosely. "Well? Come on in, big guy. Unless you'd rather brood dramatically on the roof. Not judging."

Thor steps inside. The space is sleek and modern, all sharp edges and glowing screens. The others are already gathered—Steve at the far end of the room, arms crossed, Natasha perched on the arm of the couch, Clint sprawled lazily beside her. Bruce lingers near the bar, fingers curled around a cup of tea. They watch him, wary but not unwelcoming.

It is different than before. They are different than before.

Thor does not waste time. "I come not for battle, but with an invitation."

A beat of silence.

"Invitation?" Steve echoes, measured.

"To Asgard." Thor meets each of their gazes. "A feast has been called—one of diplomacy and goodwill. You are invited as honoured guests."

The weight in the room shifts, subtle but certain.

Natasha tilts her head. "Odin invited us?"

Thor hesitates, but only briefly. "It is a gesture of peace," he says. "A chance to mend what has been frayed."

Tony snorts. "Yeah, see, call me crazy, but I have a hard time believing your old man is suddenly eager to play nice with us." He swirls his drink, eyes glinting. "Especially after—well. Y'know."

Loki.

The name is not spoken, but it lingers all the same, settling between them like an uninvited ghost.

Thor's jaw tightens. "The feast is not about the past. It is about the future. Asgard does not wish to be at odds with Midgard. This is an opportunity to strengthen ties."

Steve studies him, gaze steady. "And you truly believe that?"

Thor holds his gaze. "I do."

Silence.

Bruce exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. Clint shifts, unreadable. Natasha's expression gives nothing away.

Tony downs the rest of his drink in one smooth motion and sets the glass down with a decisive clink. "Great. Love diplomatic feasts with a family of gods who almost obliterated our planet." He sighs, rubbing his temple. "Alright, so let's say we consider this. What's the catch?"

"There is no catch," Thor says simply. "Only an offer. A chance to be seen as allies, not as adversaries."

Steve nods slowly. "We'll talk about it. But no promises."

Thor dips his head. It is all he can ask for.

"Then I will await your answer," he says.

He turns toward the balcony, toward the waiting storm. The Bifröst hums beneath his feet, light gathering at the edges of his vision.

And then, with another crack of thunder, he is gone.

Alfheim's capital gleams beneath the twin suns, its silver spires stretching skyward like delicate branches woven from light. Beauty drapes the city like a veil, but beneath it, something frays.

Loki sees it in the streets—the merchants who watch the roads too closely, the patrols that move with too much urgency. The unrest has not settled.

His escort of Asgardian soldiers—four men, well-armed but not in full battle regalia—draws more stares than he likes. This is not a warm welcome. But then, he expects nothing less.

They are received with tense formality at the palace gates. The Alfheim royal guards lead him through elegant halls, their steps soundless against polished stone. No words are exchanged.

In the throne room, King Vaelor and Queen Illyria regard him with barely concealed distaste.

"Loki Odinson," the king greets, polite but cold. "Asgard honours us with its presence."

Loki smiles, sharp and unreadable. "I would hope so, Your Majesty. It has been too long since our realms last stood united in friendship."

The queen's lips press together. "Asgard has been… distant."

"A failing of my father's, I'm afraid," Loki says, tilting his head. "One I wish to amend."

The king exhales, studying him with careful eyes. "Then tell us why you are here."

Loki lets the silence stretch. Then, in a smooth, deliberate voice, he says,

"Odin has announced a great Diplomatic Convergence. He invites Alfheim to attend."

A flicker of displeasure passes over the queen's face. "A feast?"

"A gathering of the Nine," Loki corrects.

The king's expression darkens. "While our borders are raided. While our people live in fear. Asgard calls for revelry?"

Loki does not smile this time. He steps forward, voice lowering.

"Yes," he says. "And that should concern you."

The air in the room shifts. A breath held too long.

The queen's gaze sharpens. "What are you saying?"

Loki meets her eyes. "There is unrest across the realms. I know you feel it." His voice dips, urgent. "You are not the only kingdom facing growing violence."

The king's fingers curl over the armrest of his throne. "We are handling the situation."

Loki tilts his head. "Are you?"

The king's jaw tightens.

It is the queen who speaks first. "What do you know?"

Loki studies them both, weighing his words before he speaks. "That this is not a coincidence. That these attacks are not random." His voice lowers. "And that Odin refuses to see it."

The queen inhales sharply.

The king's eyes narrow. "You believe this is leading to war."

Loki holds his gaze, unwavering. "I do."

Silence.

Something unspoken passes between the king and queen, something Loki cannot quite read.

Then, finally, the king exhales. "We will come."

Loki does not let his relief show. He only nods. "Wise."

The queen leans forward, her eyes like steel. "And if you are right? If this is war?"

Loki's green eyes darken.

"Then Asgard is not ready."