The battlefield is silent. Unnaturally so. Even the screams of the dying have faded into a low hum, drowned beneath the weight of the presence looming over them all.
Thanos remains upon his floating golden throne, his expression carved from stone as he observes the bloodied god before him. He does not repeat himself. He does not need to.
Loki already knows what is expected.
"Destroy them."
A simple command. A final test.
Loki inclines his head before turning, lowering himself once more to one knee. The picture of obedience.
"Of course, my Lord."
His voice is smooth, untouched by hesitation, by doubt. If it wavers, even a fraction, no one notices.
He presses bloodied fingers to the earth. Magic ripples outward from his touch in thin golden veins, slithering over the dirt and pooling beneath the feet of the allied forces.
It happens too fast for them to react.
One by one, Asgard, Vanaheim, and Nivadellir warriors freeze as golden sigils flare to life across their bodies. Marking them. Binding them.
A spell of ancient design. One of promise. One of protection.
Loki does not turn back to Thanos. He will not give the Titan the satisfaction.
Instead, he sweeps out one hand, dark power coiling at his fingertips, and whispers the words of death.
The ground shudders beneath him.
A shadow unfurls, darker than any night, consuming the battlefield in a pulse of raw, unfiltered power. The air grows heavy, thick with the scent of something ancient—something final.
A circle of darkness burns itself into the earth before him, jagged and unnatural. Above it, reality twists and splits, a gaping black tear forming in the very fabric of the realms.
A door. A gate.
A passage to the one place that exists beyond all others.
And then the Chitauri begin to die.
They fall without sound, without resistance, their bodies collapsing like puppets with cut strings. From their chests, from their skulls, from their very cores, thin wisps of energy rise—souls torn from decaying flesh.
The vortex of power roars to life, dragging the essence of the fallen into the gaping maw of the void.
Loki stands unmoving before it, the dark wind whipping at his form, his runes burning against his skin.
The battlefield is drowning in death.
And Loki is its master.
Frigga's breath catches in her throat.
Around her, the Vanir nobles and warriors stiffen, eyes wide with something that is neither awe nor horror, but some raw, awful thing in between.
The vision above them does not lie.
They have seen Loki kneel.
They have seen him cast his magic wide, marking the armies that stand against the Chitauri.
And now, they see the gate.
A jagged black wound in the world, drinking in the souls of the slain.
The silence in the hall is thick, suffocating. Even the ever-vigilant warriors of Vanaheim look shaken, their hands twitching toward weapons they cannot use.
It is the Vanir Queen who finally breaks the stillness.
"Loki has made himself more than just the conduit. He is the gate. He is feeding the dead to Hela directly, turning the battlefield itself into a storm of death magic."
Tony exhales sharply. "And I'm guessing that's bad?"
The Vanir King does not look away from the vision, from the vortex of power swirling before Loki.
"If he cannot control it," he says quietly, "it will kill him."
Thanos roars.
The force of it tears across the battlefield, a wave of fury that sends dust and blood whipping into the air. The skies darken further, whether from storm or the Titan's wrath, none can tell.
He surges to his feet, power crackling around him, golden throne forgotten in the face of such pure, unbridled rage.
"You dare," he thunders, voice a force of nature. "You dare defy me, trickster?"
Loki stands amidst the storm, blood-slicked and smiling, his dark hair whipping around his face. The void behind him pulses, growing stronger, feeding on the souls that still pour into its depths.
"I am the Trickster," he spits, tilting his chin in defiance. "Did you truly think I would do anything less?"
Thanos raises a massive hand, fingers curling as if to crush him where he stands.
But Loki only smirks, tilting his head in a mockery of gratitude.
"Still," he muses, voice sharp as a dagger's edge, "I should thank you."
Thanos' eyes burn with wariness, with dawning fury.
Loki's grin widens.
"For restoring my power to me."
And then he moves.
A wave of raw, unfiltered magic crackles through the air, thick enough to turn the sky a sickly green. The battlefield shudders beneath its weight, and the black gate behind Loki pulses—once, twice—before splitting open further, the tear in reality widening.
And from within the abyss, she steps forward.
Hela.
A woman of undetermined age, neither young nor old, neither mortal nor divine. She is death itself, robed in shifting darkness, the crown upon her head rising like jagged antlers. Her presence alone silences the battlefield, her very existence a weight upon the living.
Even Thanos hesitates.
Loki turns, gaze softening as he looks upon her, something ancient and aching settling into his expression.
"I have missed you," he murmurs, voice low, reverent. "I have missed my children."
Hela regards him, unreadable, but something flickers behind her dark gaze.
"They are waiting for you," she says simply.
Loki exhales, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Hela steps forward, silent as a shadow, and in her hand, a blade forms—black as the void, as cold as the grave.
She holds it out to him.
Loki's fingers curl around the hilt, his grip steady.
He moves closer, slow, deliberate, until their hands overlap, both holding the blade now.
For a moment, they only stand there. Close. Quiet.
Then, Loki shifts forward—leaning in, his other arm wrapping around her, an embrace long overdue.
And as he does, he drives the dagger into his chest.
Right on the mark.
Hela holds him as he trembles, as his breath hitches, as blood spills from his lips in a dark, thin line.
Together, they slowly sink to the ground.
Loki lies on his back, body limp, the blade buried deep within his chest.
His smirk has softened into something else entirely—something peaceful.
And then, with a slow, final exhale, his body stills.
The hall is deathly silent.
All eyes remain locked on the vision above, watching as Loki crumples, as the blade remains buried deep within his chest, as his form lies motionless before the open gate.
Frigga does not move.
She stands at the center of the chamber, her magic still holding the image firm, her hands trembling, but her face—her face is unreadable.
The Vanir Queen closes her eyes, inhaling deeply, and when she speaks, her voice is low, almost reverent.
"He has given himself to her."
The words cut through the silence like a blade.
Tony feels something cold settle in his gut. "Tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means."
The Vanir King's expression is grim. "Loki has joined his daughter in death."
Thor is nowhere to be seen, still lost in the chaos of the battlefield, unaware of what has just transpired.
Steve swallows, his fingers clenching at his sides. "Is he—?"
Frigga does not answer.
She only watches, eyes locked on the unmoving form of her son.
The battlefield is silent.
Not the silence of peace. Not the silence of victory.
The wrong kind of silence.
It is the silence of something vast and unnatural, something beyond mortal comprehension.
The Chitauri are gone. Not slain, not left as broken bodies littering the ground. They have simply ceased. Their corpses collapsed, empty husks, their very essence ripped from them, dragged screaming into the black abyss Loki has summoned.
The golden sigils still gleam on the armor of the allied forces, pulsing faintly, untouched by the death magic that has consumed the battlefield. The warriors stare at them, wary, unnerved. They have been chosen—saved by Loki's hand.
And now Loki lies motionless, his blood soaking the ground, the knife buried in his chest.
At the center of it all, Thanos rises from his throne.
Seething.
Loki has tricked him. Again.
And yet, even as rage burns beneath his skin, something deeper flickers behind his eyes. Something dark. Something covetous.
Because she is here.
Hela stands at the heart of the battlefield as if she has always belonged to it. She is neither young nor old, neither beautiful nor terrifying. She simply is. That alone is enough to make the air feel heavy with finality.
Thanos jumps down from his throne with a thud he steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You know me, Lady Death," he rumbles, voice low, coaxing. "I have called for you across the ages. I have worshiped you in war and slaughter." He gestures broadly. "I have laid countless souls at your feet."
Hela watches him with an unreadable gaze.
Thanos smiles.
"And now, at last, you stand before me."
For a long moment, there is only silence.
Then—slowly—Hela lifts a hand and beckons.
"Come forward, Titan."
Thanos exhales, stepping toward her.
There is hesitation in his movement.
Small. Barely there. But present.
Hela's lips curve slightly, eyes glinting. "There are few with the power to stand in my domain unchallenged."
Thanos lets those words settle over him like truth.
He is beyond mortality, beyond limitation. He is Thanos.
And this is confirmation.
He has won.
But before he can step into the black circle, he pauses.
"Wait." His voice is steady. Commanding. "Not long—just a moment."
Hela tilts her head, watching.
Thanos turns, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield, rising beyond it—toward Asgard's warriors, toward the hall, toward Odin himself.
The Allfather stands unmoving, his one eye cold and unreadable.
Thanos lets the silence stretch.
"You have lost," he says, his voice heavy with satisfaction. "And it is because of him."
His massive hand gestures downward—toward Loki's still body.
There is no flicker of movement, no rise of breath, no trick this time.
"Your son."
The words ring out like a judgment.
"You sent him to die for you," Thanos murmurs, his voice almost gentle. "And he did."
No one speaks.
"You never wondered where he had gone? What had happened to him?"
He lets the words settle. Let them hurt.
Odin does not move.
Thanos takes a slow breath, savoring the moment.
"For years, I broke him. I shattered his body, his mind. I tore him apart to learn what I needed—"
He stops.
A muscle in his jaw twitches.
Then, softer. Darker.
"But he never spoke."
The battlefield feels colder.
Thanos exhales through his nose. "No matter how deep I cut, no matter how many times I brought him to the brink of death—he never spoke."
The words land like hammer blows.
The Vanir Queen inhales sharply.
Frigga remains utterly still.
"He endured," Thanos continues, his voice a quiet, reverent thing. "For years."
He turns his gaze back to Odin.
"I burned him. I drowned him. I carved my will into his flesh, over and over again. And do you know what he did?"
No answer.
Thanos smiles.
"He laughed."
A sharp, disbelieving inhale sounds somewhere in the crowd.
Thanos lets his lips curl. "Not at first. No—at first, he fought. But after a while? He laughed. In my face. As I broke him, as I tore him apart, as I forced the breath from his lungs—he laughed."
His massive hands flex at his sides as if the memory unsettles even him.
"He told me nothing." Thanos' voice darkens. "Not of Asgard. Not of its weaknesses. Not of its defenses, its vaults, its kings. I tortured him for knowledge, for power, and in the end—"
His teeth bare.
"He gave me nothing."
A breath.
A moment.
A silence thick with the weight of too much knowledge.
"You have lost, Odin," Thanos murmurs. "Not because your armies were weak. Not because your weapons failed. Not because he failed you. But because you failed him."
He turns back to Hela, something dangerous gleaming in his gaze.
"Now, my Lady," he says smoothly. "Shall we begin?"
And he steps into the circle.
The great hall is silent.
Not the silence of grief. The silence of shock.
A dead silence.
Above them, the battle still plays, reflected in the magic woven into the ceiling, but no one speaks. No one moves.
Because what is there to say?
The Chitauri are gone. The warriors who fought beside Loki still stand, untouched, golden sigils marking them as his. Thor is out there somewhere.
And Loki himself—
Gone.
Not just dead.
Something worse.
Frigga does not move. Does not breathe.
Because she saw it.
She saw him kneel. She saw him smile. She saw the knife pierce his chest. Heard the whisper between him and Hela—words no one else will ever know.
She has lost him before, to the void.
But this—
This is final.
The Queen of Vanaheim exhales, breaking the stillness. Her voice is low, rough with something raw and terrible.
"He never spoke."
Not a question. A statement.
The Vanir King swallows, his face unreadable. "He endured. For years."
Tony exhales sharply, his breath tight and uneven. "Jesus."
Bruce's hands curl into fists. "Odin let this happen."
Thor is not here. The warriors are not here.
Only the nobility remain—the ones who watched Loki paraded in white before the court, bound and shackled, stripped of everything that made him powerful.
The Queen of Vanaheim turns to Frigga, something cold and cutting in her gaze. "This was your king's doing."
Frigga flinches.
"He sent his son to die," the queen continues, her words slow and biting. "And when death came to claim him, Odin was not there. But Loki was."
A breath.
Then—
"He knew."
All eyes snap to Natasha.
She nods to the vision above, her expression unreadable. "Loki knew exactly how this would play out. He played Thanos from the moment he dropped to one knee. That ritual—everything—it was his plan from the start."
Bruce exhales shakily. "Damn."
"He saved the Nine." The Vanir king's voice is quiet, measured. "And not one of them will remember it."
No one has an answer to that.
The battlefield is choking.
The air is thick with death magic, cold and suffocating, curling at the edges of reality itself. Behind Hela, the black vortex pulses, the whispers of stolen souls lost beneath the weight of her presence.
And before her—
Thanos kneels.
The Mad Titan. The warlord who razed planets, who conquered empires, bows.
Hela watches him, her expression unreadable. "Why?"
Thanos lifts his chin, his golden eyes gleaming. "Why did I speak of him?" A low chuckle. "Because it is in your name that I dedicate his suffering. His agony. His death."
Hela's lips curl. "Is that so?"
Thanos presses a fist to his chest. "I have worshiped you since I first understood what you were. I have slaughtered worlds in your honor. And now, I bring you the last of Loki's breath, the final proof of his defeat."
A beat of silence.
Then, slowly—Hela smiles.
It is sharp. Knowing.
Her hand lifts, fingers skeletal and effortless, pressing over his heart.
The darkness thickens.
Thanos freezes.
It is subtle at first—the way the shadows slither closer, the way the air shifts, pressing in. Then the realization sinks in, cold and merciless.
Something is wrong.
Hela tilts her head. "You speak of his suffering," she murmurs. "Of his pain. You offer me his torment as a gift."
Her fingers flex.
Thanos grits his teeth. The weight of her touch is unnatural, crushing against him in a way that should not be possible.
Hela's voice softens, dark and rich, a whisper of something terrible.
"But tell me, Titan."
The shadows rise.
"Did you ever wonder who Loki suffered for?"
Thanos's breath catches.
Hela's smile widens. "Did you think he wept for himself?"
A flicker of something in Thanos's golden eyes. He shifts—tries to pull back—but he cannot move.
The air tightens.
Hela leans in, her breath ice against his skin. "You called me here," she murmurs. "But it was not your voice I answered."
The shadows curl in.
"There has only ever been one who had the right to ask anything of me."
Thanos's throat works, his certainty fracturing. "…What?"
Hela's skeletal fingers press deeper.
"And you," she whispers, "tortured him until he took his own life."
Thanos stills.
The warlord. The conqueror. The inevitable.
He understands.
A tremor runs through his frame. "Loki—"
Hela smiles.
"Loki," she breathes, "was my protector."
The shadows writhe, curling like grasping fingers.
"He was my guardian."
The battlefield trembles.
"He was my father."
Thanos gasps.
Hela's grip tightens.
"And I will have my recompense."
With one final, effortless pull—
She rips his heart free.
The Titan collapses.
His great body crumples, lifeless, empty, the golden light in his eyes snuffed out. Above them, the throne shatters, raining dust over the broken corpse of inevitability.
Hela exhales.
She lifts the still-beating heart in her palm, watching as it slows—stutters—stops.
And then, with all the care in the world,
She crushes it.
Thanos is no more.
Hela is not finished.
She lifts her gaze—not to the warriors, not to the battlefield, but to the heavens themselves. To Asgard.
Her voice rings out, echoing across the realms, vast and undeniable.
"You call him a traitor."
Magic surges at her words.
"You call him a monster."
The golden sigils left behind by Loki's ritual burn brighter, their glow pulsing in response, thrumming with something alive.
"But he has always protected you."
A hush falls over the battlefield.
Even the wind seems to pause, waiting.
"From the moment he could stand, he stood for Asgard. Even when he was cast aside. Even when he was broken. Even when he was abandoned."
She turns her head, sharp and regal, her gaze a blade that cuts across the unseen watchers.
"And yet you let him fall."
The vortex of magic behind her twists, howling with unseen voices.
"The Father of Death has given everything for you."
Her lips curl. Slow. Knowing.
"And still, you ask for more."
And with that, she turns away.
The scrying spell shatters.
For a moment, no one moves.
The image of Thanos collapsing, of his body crumpling, of Hela's voice reverberating through their very bones—holds them frozen.
Tony lets out a sharp breath. "Holy shit."
Steve's hands are clenched into fists. His jaw is tight, his shoulders wound like steel.
Bruce swallows hard. "Loki—he never—"
Natasha doesn't look away from the space where the vision had been. "He never turned against Asgard."
Clint glares up at the empty ceiling. "He didn't attack Earth willingly"
A muscle twitches in Steve's jaw. "No. He didn't."
The Vanir Queen's voice cuts through the thick silence. "He was never allowed to speak at his trial."
Frigga stiffens.
The Vanir ruler turns to her, eyes sharp, blade-like. "You let them silence him."
Frigga does not deny it.
She cannot.
The truth is laid bare.
Then, without hesitation, she turns to the Vanir Queen.
"Help me bring him home."
The Queen nods, solemn and resolute. "We will go together."
Steve takes a sharp breath. "We're coming too."
Frigga exhales, eyes flickering to the remnants of the shattered scrying spell.
Then, softly, she whispers, "Hold on, my son. We are coming."
Golden magic surges.
The Vanir Queen lifts her hands.
And then, in a final burst of power—
They are gone.