The wind howls, thick with the scent of steel and war. Loki exhales once, steady, measured, the cold air burning in his lungs. His grip tightens around the spear in his hands, the weight familiar, the haft smooth where his fingers have worn it down. The bindings at his wrists sear against his skin, pulsing with Odin's cursed magic, but he ignores them.

Above, the sky twists into a writhing mass of warships, their dark silhouettes blotting out the stars. The Chitauri descend like a tide—thousands, no, millions—spilling from their ships, their snarling cries rising into a monstrous chorus.

Loki's heartbeat remains even. He has seen war before.

But this time, he knows, is different.

They are coming for him.

The first Chitauri slams into the earth with a bone-rattling impact, and before the other warriors can react, it charges—straight at him.

Not at Thor. Not at the front lines in general. Him.

Loki pivots, fluid as water, sidestepping the lunge and driving his spear through the creature's chest. It shrieks, convulses, claws grasping at empty air before it collapses. Loki rips the blade free, blue ichor streaking the steel. Another comes. Then another.

And another.

The spear moves as an extension of him. A downward thrust into soft flesh, a sharp twist to break the spine. A sweeping arc to knock a blade aside, a sharp lunge to pierce through armour. The haft spins in his hands, whistling through the air as he turns an enemy's momentum against them, sending them sprawling before driving the spearpoint home.

Blood spatters across his armour. He barely hears the war cries of his soldiers over the relentless pounding of Chitauri footsteps, over the snarls and screeches and—

They are not engaging the army as they should.

They are targeting him.

"Loki!"

Thor's voice booms over the battlefield. Out of the corner of his eye, Loki sees his brother cutting a swath through the enemy ranks, Mjölnir crushing bodies as he forces his way forward.

"I see it!" Loki shouts, his spear driving upward through a Chitauri's jaw, snapping its head back with the force of the blow. He jerks the weapon free, spins it behind his back, and catches another strike before it can land.

Thor reaches him, eyes burning with battle rage and something dangerously close to concern. "They are ignoring strategy. This isn't a battle—it's a hunt!"

Loki already knows. His mind races, even as his spear finds its marks.

The Chitauri are not moving to overwhelm the forces. They are not breaking the line. They are moving toward him like wolves scenting blood.

Why?

He knows the Chitauri. Knows their tactics. They swarm. They overwhelm. They do not focus on a single target unless—

You will long for something as sweet as pain.

Loki's steps falter, just for a fraction of a second.

It is enough.

A Chitauri lunges, claws reaching for his throat—

Thor's hammer slams into it, sending the creature flying.

"Loki!" Thor is beside him now, eyes wild with battle fury. "Stay with me!"

Loki barely hears him. His pulse roars in his ears.

It is not Odin alone who wants him dead.

It is Thanos.

This is not Asgard's war. It is not even about his position as general.

This is punishment.

This is the consequence of New York.

The realization sears through him, sharp and inevitable. But he does not falter. If Thanos believes he will die easily, he is mistaken.

A snarl rips from Loki's throat as he turns, spear flashing in the dimming light.

If they want him dead, they will have to earn it.

The vision ripples across the hall's ceiling, reflecting the battlefield in perfect, harrowing clarity. Frigga stands at its centre, hands glowing faintly as she maintains the spell, her face pale but composed.

The nobles and diplomats have long since stopped murmuring. Now, they only watch.

Watch as the sky becomes a storm of warships.

Watch as the Chitauri land like a relentless wave.

Watch as the battle lines hold.

But most of all, they watch Loki.

Steve's arms are crossed tightly over his chest. His frown is deep. "They're going for him."

Natasha's sharp gaze flickers over the battlefield. "They aren't just going for him." Her voice is quiet, and measured. "They were sent for him."

The Queen of Vanaheim narrows her eyes. "So that is their purpose."

The Vanir king's expression is grim. "Someone wants him dead."

The tension in the room thickens.

"Why?" Bruce mutters, shaking his head. "He's powerful, but so are Thor and Odin. Why risk an entire army just to remove one person from the field?"

Tony exhales, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I think we already know why."

No one speaks.

The answer hangs in the air, unspoken, but undeniable.

Because he is their general. Because he knows war. Because Odin has bound him—and someone, somewhere, wants to make sure he never fights at full strength again.

Yet something feels off.

A connection sparks, half-formed, in the back of Tony's mind. A puzzle piece he hadn't realized was missing until now.

And then it hits.

The words leave his mouth before he even fully processes them.

"How did Loki come across the Chitauri when he attacked Earth?"

The question hangs, heavier than it has any right to be.

A slow, cold realization settles over them.

Steve exhales sharply. His jaw tightens, fists clenching at his sides. "They're executing him."

Natasha's expression does not change, but her voice turns cold, even. "Not just executing." A pause. "They're making an example of him."

Bruce's face darkens. "This isn't a war. It's a death warrant."

Clint says nothing. His lips press into a thin, unreadable line.

Because now, he understands.

Loki hadn't found the Chitauri.

Loki hadn't controlled them.

Loki had been given an army, and sent to Earth.

And when he had failed when the Avengers had stopped him—

He had become a liability.

A loose end.

And the thing about loose ends?

Someone always comes to cut them off.

Now, all they can do is watch.

In the vision, the Chitauri keep coming, relentless and unyielding.

Loki fights like a man possessed. He has to. His armour is streaked with fresh blood, his spear spinning in his hands like a living thing.

Even shackled, even bound—

He holds the line.

Loki stands amidst the carnage, breath ragged, each inhale dragging fire through his ribs. The battlefield stretches before him, a grotesque tapestry of broken bodies, shattered weapons, and the sickly mingling scent of blood, sweat, and burning flesh. The once-pristine white of his garments is long gone, reduced to filthy, tattered remnants clinging to him in scraps. Even the gold embroidery—an insult in itself—is dulled with grime and gore.

He has carved out a pocket of space around himself—a circle of death where no enemy dares step. The Chitauri have learned their lesson well. Though they outnumber him a thousand to one, they hesitate, watching with that eerie, insect-like wariness. Hive creatures. They have recognized what he is—what he can do. They have seen him tear through their ranks with the same cold precision he once wielded as their commander. They know he is a threat. But they will not stop coming. Not until he is dead.

He takes the reprieve for what it is. A breath. A moment.

Pain radiates from his shoulder, the blaster burn is raw and searing. His right leg throbs—fractured, at least. Perhaps broken. They had buried him beneath them, a writhing mass of limbs and weapons, had torn and struck and tried to hold him down. But he had clawed his way free.

His fingers brush his side and come away slick with blood. He barely holds back a wince. A knife meant for a Vanir soldier who now lies dead three feet away, a charred hole in his back. Useless. Meaningless.

Yet even as he bleeds, as his body protests every movement, he cannot fall.

He lifts his gaze beyond the circle of corpses.

The hills swarm with them. Chitauri spill from their ships in an endless tide, overwhelming the battlefield with sheer, relentless numbers. Their strategy is shifting. Before, they had isolated him and focused their forces solely on him. Now, they have the numbers to do both—to crush the army and ensure he never leaves this battlefield alive.

At this rate, they will be overrun.

Not immediately. Not within the next few hours. But Loki knows the Chitauri. So long as their queen lives, they will keep coming.

And in this case, the queen is no insectoid ruler. She is something worse.

She is a titan.

A monster dressed in the skin of a king.

Thanos.

His hands curl into fists. His breath steadies. The memories claw at the edges of his mind, slick with blood and agony. The whisper in the dark, the promise seared into his bones.

You will long for something as sweet as pain.

Loki's lips curl in a grimace.

Not immortal, he reminds himself. No one escapes death forever.

And if there is one thing he knows—knows better than anyone—it is death.

It moves through him like an old friend, a shadow that has always lingered at his back, waiting. Watching.

And he knows the one who rules it.

The decision is made before he takes his next breath.

His Glorious Purpose.

Swiftly, he wipes a hand over his chest, smearing away grime and blood. Beneath the filth, scars upon scars crisscross his skin, layered remnants of battles won and lost, of punishments endured, of lessons carved into flesh. He ignores them. Ignores the pull of exhaustion, the weight of his battered body.

His fingers press into his side wound.

Pain flares, sharp and searing.

He inhales through his teeth but does not falter. Blood coats his fingertips, gleaming crimson in the dim battlefield light. With practised ease, he begins to paint.

The runes take shape on his skin, intricate and twisting, spiralling outward in patterns unreadable to most. But not to her.

He finishes with the last mark—the symbol of Death.

The mark of Hela.

A shadow stirs in his bones, dark and ancient.

Loki lifts his gaze.

The Chitauri have noticed his stillness. They have learned—attacking one by one has only fed the pile of corpses at his feet. Now they move in force, a mass of bodies closing in.

He wipes his fingers clean on his arm, red streaks smearing across his pale skin. Then he bends, retrieving his spear from the dirt.

It spins once in his hands, fluid, effortless.

The Chitauri tense.

Loki grins.

"Come on, then," he calls, his voice carrying over the din of war, mocking, sharp. He twirls the spear again, a deliberate flourish of showmanship.

"Come and get me."

They rush him.

Loki moves.

The hall holds its breath.

Frigga's magic remains steady, the vision above them shifting, shimmering with the chaos of war. The image sprawls across the ceiling, stark and unrelenting—Asgard's forces locked in brutal combat against the Chitauri horde. The ground is painted with blood, the air thick with fire and death.

And in the heart of it all stands Loki.

The white of his garments is gone, torn and discarded. His body is a canvas of battle—cuts, bruises, the sluggishly bleeding wound at his side. But it is not the injuries that hold the hall's attention.

It is the blood.

His own.

Smeared across his skin, traced into ancient, spiralling runes, carved over the scars already etched into him. Slow, deliberate movements—he forces the wound wider, coating his fingers in crimson, and paints the final sigil at the centre of it all. The mark of Death.

The moment the last rune is drawn, the battlefield shifts.

The air thickens.

The Vanir queen gasps.

"By the stars…" she whispers, eyes wide.

Freyr's expression darkens, hands curling into fists. "Foolish child," he mutters.

The Avengers exchange glances, confusion flickering between them.

"What?" Steve demands, voice tense. "What's he doing?"

Gerðr does not look away from the vision. When she speaks, her voice is grim, laced with something that borders on reluctant respect.

"He is rending their souls."

A ripple of unease moves through the gathered nobles.

Bruce frowns. "Meaning?"

The queen gestures toward the battlefield. "Every enemy he slays, every soul that falls here, does not pass into the afterlife. He is ripping them from existence, sending them directly to Helheim. Not as spirits—but as power."

Bruce swallows. "He's feeding something?"

The queen nods. "Hela."

Silence.

It is the Vanir king who speaks next, voice heavy. "The Goddess of Death will be pleased."

Natasha frowns. "Who?"

Gerðr exhales. "Hela. She is the ruler of Helheim. And she will claim what is given to her."

Tony lets out a slow, low breath. "Hela," he echoes.

Clint speaks, voice flat. "You know, you still haven't explained why the hell this Hela cares so much."

The queen turns to him, studying him for a moment before answering.

"Because she is not merely the Goddess of Death."

She lets the words hang in the air. Let the weight of them settle.

"She is Loki's daughter."

The silence is deafening.

Steve blinks. "Come again?"

Gerðr does not waver. "Hela is Loki's daughter. His firstborn. She was cast away into Helheim ages ago and made its ruler. She governs the dead, and now Loki is supplying her with the power of an army."

Tony's gaze snaps back to the battlefield.

To Loki.

To Loki, standing there with blood-drenched hands, with glowing runes carved into his flesh, with a spear twirling in one hand and a mad grin splitting his face as the Chitauri hesitate before him.

"…Shit."

Frigga's fingers tighten. She knows this magic. She has read of it, warned against it. It is sacrificial in the truest sense. Ancient. Raw. Forbidden.

The kind of power no one calls upon lightly.

Not without a price.

And the price—

"Loki is the conduit," Gerðr continues, voice grave. "It is his blood that binds the spell, his body that feeds the link between this world and Helheim." She swallows, her expression twisting. "This kind of magic… it does not grant power. It demands it. It will take everything from him."

The realization settles like a lead weight in the hall.

This could kill him.

Steve inhales sharply, the lines of his face tightening. Natasha's jaw locks. Bruce looks away.

Tony presses a hand over his mouth, eyes unreadable.

They have always thought of Loki as dangerous. As reckless. A threat, a villain, a manipulator who wields words and knives with equal precision.

But now—now they are watching him willingly carve himself into a weapon.

And the worst part?

It is working.

The Chitauri hesitate. The battlefield shifts.

And above them, Loki only smiles.

"Come on then," he taunts, voice carrying even over the magic of the vision. He rolls his shoulders, readying his stance, eyes alight with something sharp. Something furious.

"Come and get me."

The Chitauri surge forward.

And the battlefield bleeds.

The battle does not slow.

Blood still soaks the ground. War cries still split the air. The clash of steel and the screams of the dying still echo over the hills.

And yet—something changes.

A ripple of unease spreads through the Chitauri ranks, silent and wordless, a command that pulls them back. As one, they disengage, retreating to the edges of Loki's killing ground, forming a wary, shifting perimeter.

Loki stands at the centre, panting, blood-slicked and bruised, the runes carved into his skin still pulsing faintly with sacrificial power. His grip on his spear remains firm, but his body protests, screaming against every moment he forces himself to remain upright. He ignores it.

Then—a shadow falls over the battlefield.

A golden throne descends from the void, gleaming against the ship-darkened sky. It is an impossible thing—both a seat and a cage, both a symbol and a warning. It shimmers with the light of stars long dead, held aloft by no force but the will of the being upon it.

And there, seated as though he were a god, is Thanos.

The Titan surveys the battlefield with idle interest as if watching a play unfold exactly as he had foreseen. His massive hands rest on the armrests of his throne, fingers drumming idly. Then his gaze—cold, ancient, knowing—falls upon Loki.

A slow smile spreads across his lips.

"Loki."

His voice is deep. Resonant. It does not need to be raised to be heard. It simply is, vibrating through the air like an immutable truth.

Loki straightens despite himself, unwilling to show weakness before this creature. He tilts his chin just so—a silent defiance.

Thanos inclines his head slightly. "You have not disappointed me."

Loki's fingers tighten around his spear, but he does not speak.

"You have carved through my forces, led your armies with precision, and survived where others would have crumbled." Thanos spreads a hand, almost magnanimous. "You have proven yourself worthy, as you always were meant to be."

A flicker of something cold and insidious curls in Loki's gut. He knows exactly what to say.

Thanos leans forward, his gaze sharpening. "You have fought for Asgard, yet what has Asgard done for you?"

Loki's jaw clenches, but he does not rise to the bait.

Thanos chuckles, a dark, knowing sound. "Odin has bound you, left you shackled when the very realm he rules is at stake. You know what this battle requires. You know the power you hold." His expression turns almost pitying. "And yet, he would rather send you to die than set you free."

Loki swallows, forcing himself to remain still.

Thanos gestures with one massive hand. "I can give it back to you."

The words slither beneath his skin, silk and poison.

"I can break the chains he has placed upon you," Thanos continues. "Restore your magic, your strength. Give you the power to reshape this war, to burn your enemies to dust with a mere thought." His voice drops lower, thick with promise. "All you must do is take your rightful place at my side."

Loki exhales slowly through his nose. "You expect me to trade one master for another?"

Thanos smiles, indulgent. "Not a master. An ally." He gestures to the battlefield below. "You see the truth now, do you not? You are alone in this war. Asgard's rulers see you as nothing more than a weapon, one they are willing to break for their cause. But I see your worth, Loki. I always have."

Loki lets his silence speak for him.

Thanos tilts his head, watching, waiting. And then—softly, as if an afterthought—he murmurs,

"You remember what I promised you, do you not?"

A spike of ice slides down Loki's spine.

You will long for something as sweet as pain.

His fingers twitch, barely perceptible.

Thanos leans back on his throne, satisfied. "You have earned my mercy, Loki. Do not waste it."

For a long, terrible moment, there is only silence.

Loki has not survived this long by being strong—strength is Thor's game. No, he has survived by being clever. By knowing when to kneel, when to strike, and when to let someone think they have won.

And so, as he looks up at Thanos, at the gleaming golden throne floating above the battlefield like a god's judgment, he makes his choice.

He drops his spear.

The clang of metal against stone is deafening.

Slowly, he sinks to one knee.

Loki exhales, keeping his voice measured. "I do not fight for those who cast me aside."

Thanos watches him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, slowly, the Titan smiles.

"You have made the right choice."

With a flick of his fingers, power surges through the air.

Loki gasps, barely holding back a shudder as visible shackles and invisible chains shatter around him. Magic roars to life inside his veins, a storm of cold and fire that nearly steals the breath from his lungs. He can feel it, raw and unbound, rushing back into him like a flood breaking through a dam.

It takes everything in him to keep his face passive, to suppress the rush of exhilaration.

He flexes his fingers. The air crackles with potential. Magic coils inside him, waiting. He is whole again.

At last.

Above him, Thanos observes him like a master assessing his newest weapon.

"Rise."

Loki does.

And as he stands, as the Chitauri move forward to welcome him back into their ranks—

He lets himself smirk.

The silence in the feasting hall is suffocating.

Frigga stands frozen, her magic keeping the vision aloft, her face pale but impassive. Around her, the gathered nobles, warriors, and diplomats remain locked in stunned disbelief.

"He—he kneeled," someone whispers, horrified.

A sharp exhale cuts through the silence. The Vanir Queen. "You fools," she murmurs, her voice thick with something between rage and sorrow.

Thor is absent, still locked in battle, still unaware. Odin, too, does not yet know what has transpired. But here, in the grand hall of Asgard, they have seen it.

Steve's voice is low, tight. "What just happened?"

The Vanir Queen turns to him, her expression grave. "Loki has abandoned this war."

"No." Frigga's voice is soft, yet absolute. "He has not."

The Queen gives her a look of sharp scepticism. "Then what do you call it, Allmother? Because from where I stand, your son has just sworn himself to the very thing we fight against."

Frigga does not answer immediately. Her gaze remains fixed on the vision, on her son. On the smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

She exhales, almost too softly to be heard.

"He is playing a dangerous game."

Tony folds his arms, scowling. "Yeah? Well, let's just hope he remembers whose side he's on."

The Vanir King's gaze lingers on the battlefield, on the way the Chitauri surround Loki—not as a prisoner, but as a commander.

"If he does not," he says grimly, "we are already lost."