The chamber is dimly lit, the flickering braziers casting restless shadows along the carved stone walls. Loki sits on the edge of his bed, fingers idly stroking the small serpent curled against his palm. Jörmungandr's scales, dark as polished obsidian, twitch beneath his touch—a silent protest in every slow, tightening coil.
"You're leaving."
The words are not spoken, yet Loki hears them all the same, threading through his mind in a voice like shifting sand.
He exhales, his thumb tracing slow circles against the serpent's cool skin. "For a time. There are matters beyond Asgard that require my attention."
Jörmungandr tightens around his wrist, constricting—not enough to harm, but enough to make a point. "I do not want you to go."
Loki tilts his head, considering the words for what they are—concern, frustration, the helpless anger of a child who cannot yet stand at his father's side. Gently, he turns his wrist, loosening Jörmungandr's hold until the serpent lays draped across his palm once more.
"I must," Loki says at last, his voice quieter now. "What is happening beyond these walls will not stay there. It is better to face a threat before it finds its way here."
Jörmungandr does not answer immediately. His small form curls inward, tense with reluctant understanding. Then, after a long moment, he unwinds himself, slithering up Loki's arm to rest against his shoulder.
"Promise you will return."
Loki reaches up, brushing a careful hand over his son's head. "I promise."
Jörmungandr makes a dissatisfied sound but stills, pressing closer. A silent truce.
Loki allows himself a moment more before rising. Dawn is approaching, and duty calls.
The golden shimmer of the Bifröst fades, leaving behind the damp scent of moss and the quiet hum of Alfheim's enchanted forests. Loki steadies himself, adjusting the bracers on his wrists—more for habit than necessity now that his magic is bound. The four Asgardian soldiers at his back stand at attention, their armor catching the eternal twilight, awaiting his command.
Before them, the outpost rises in stark contrast to Alfheim's ethereal beauty—stone walls reinforced with wooden barricades, watchtowers scanning the tree line for unseen threats. A place of war, not diplomacy.
A tall elf approaches, his graying braids woven tight, armor polished from years of wear. Captain Ivar's sharp gaze flickers over Loki's party before settling on him with a curt nod.
"Prince Loki." His tone is measured but edged. "I expected an army, not a scouting party."
Loki smirks, stepping forward with deliberate ease. "An army would be a beacon for those who prefer the shadows. I prefer to move ahead of them."
Ivar folds his arms. "And what, exactly, do you intend to accomplish unseen?"
Loki exhales, his expression cooling. "Understanding. Strategy. Perhaps a solution—before this spirals into something beyond your control."
There is a pause, the weight of something unspoken passing between them. Then Ivar turns on his heel, motioning for them to follow.
Inside the war room, maps sprawl across a wooden table, inked symbols marking battle sites, missing patrols, and zones where criminal activity festers. Ivar's voice is grave as he gestures to each mark.
"At first, we thought them common bandits. But they strike with precision—supply routes, weapons stockpiles. They don't steal for survival. They steal to strengthen."
Loki trails a gloved finger along one of the marked paths, studying the patterns. Too deliberate. Too methodical. This is not mere lawlessness. Someone is orchestrating it.
"And none captured alive?"
Ivar shakes his head. "If we do, they refuse to speak. They would rather die than betray their masters."
Loki presses his lips into a thin line. "Then perhaps I should meet the lord of this region and see what he has to say."
The forest stretches around them, dense and humming with unseen life. The faint glow of Alfheim's enchanted trees casts shifting shadows over damp earth, and every step sinks slightly into the moss-laden ground. Loki moves at an even pace, his soldiers—his soldiers—keeping stride beside him. They are not uneasy, not like outsiders fumbling through unfamiliar terrain. These are seasoned warriors, trained under his command, and they read the land as he does—quiet, watching, waiting.
By dusk, they reach the estate of Lord Sigrund. The noble is draped in emerald robes, silver clasps pinning back his dark hair. His smile is warm, his posture open. It is all very welcoming. Too welcoming.
"Prince Loki," Sigrund greets, hands spread in invitation. "Your presence is an honor. I feared Asgard had abandoned us."
Loki's expression does not shift. He allows a measured pause before answering, letting the weight of it settle. "I came to see for myself."
Sigrund's estate is lavish yet tasteful, the kind of wealth meant to suggest humility rather than indulgence. A meal is offered, wine poured, and though the soldiers take the hospitality in stride, Loki remains watchful. Sigrund is generous—too generous.
Between sips of wine, the elf sighs. "We are all suffering under these attacks. Whoever is behind this is ruthless. I fear for my people."
Loki swirls his drink lazily, meeting Sigrund's gaze. "And yet, your lands remain untouched. Fortunate."
A flicker. Barely a breath of hesitation before Sigrund's smile smooths back into place. "The gods have blessed me with luck."
Loki does not believe in luck.
Night falls.
The first arrow whistles through the dark, striking true—a choked gurgle, a body collapsing into the dirt.
Then another.
Shadows move. Dozens of them, emerging from the trees like specters. But their precision is too sharp, their formation too practiced. This is no rabble of desperate thieves. This is something else.
Loki moves before thought, instincts honed through years of war—but the familiar pulse of magic does not rise to meet him. The cuffs on his wrists hold fast, binding him to mortal means.
A blade swings. He dodges, barely, but another strike follows, catching his ribs. He stumbles, breath knocked from his lungs, pain blooming sharp beneath his armor.
Another attacker.
The glint of a raised sword. A desperate lunge. Fingers close around the hilt of a fallen blade, driving it forward without hesitation. The soldier crumples, blood soaking into the earth. Loki staggers upright—only for another blow to send him sprawling into the underbrush.
The world tilts. The edges of his vision darken.
And then—nothing.
A cold wind carves through the silence, dragging him back from pain, from darkness, from the weight of his own failing body.
When Loki opens his eyes, he is no longer on the battlefield. The scent of blood and damp earth is gone, replaced by the sharp, frozen air of Helheim. Frost clings to the barren ground, and in the distance, the great gates loom—jagged, unyielding, the restless dead shifting beyond their threshold.
A figure steps forward, emerging from the gloom as though she has always been there, waiting.
Hela.
Her emerald cloak billows in the spectral light, her pale skin almost luminous against the abyss. One eye sharp as a blade, the other clouded with death.
She studies him, head tilting slightly. "You look terrible."
Loki exhales, slow. "And you look exactly as I remember."
Something flickers in her expression, too fleeting to grasp.
"You brush against death," she murmurs, "but you are not mine to claim. Not yet."
Loki straightens, though the weight of unseen hands lingers on his shoulders. "Then why am I here?"
She does not answer at once. Instead, her gaze turns, cold and knowing. "Because you are thinking of them."
Jörmungandr. Fenrir. Sleipnir.
His children.
And Hela—his daughter, standing before him, both familiar and distant.
Loki does not deny it. "They are vulnerable."
Hela's expression hardens. "Not if they stay with me."
The words settle deep, colder than the frozen ground beneath his feet.
"You would protect them?"
"If they remain in my realm, no blade, no war, no god can touch them."
A truth, spoken without hesitation.
It is not what Loki wants. But it is safe.
And perhaps, in this world of shifting loyalties and inevitable betrayals, that is all he can ask for.
Loki's eyes snap open. His lungs seize, burning as though he has surfaced from drowning.
The ceiling above him is unfamiliar—wooden beams, rough-hewn and aged with time. The scent of herbs lingers, mingling with the faint iron tang of blood. His own.
A figure leans over him. A woman, elven, her features sharp yet gentle. Her hands are steady as she presses a cup to his lips.
"Drink," she murmurs.
The water is cool, washing away the rawness in his throat. He drinks deeply, greedily, before sagging back against the cot. His body aches. His ribs are tightly bandaged, his movements sluggish. Alive, but barely.
"You're lucky we found you," she says.
Luck. A fragile, fleeting thing. Loki does not believe in it.
As he recovers, she speaks of the attacks—how the creatures leading them are not elves, not mortals.
Something in her voice shifts, a flicker of unease.
Chitauri.
The word lands like a stone in his chest.
Loki stills. His mind reels, turning over possibilities, denials, truths he does not want to face.
They are here.
His fingers curl into the rough fabric of the blanket. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. "You must flee."
But the woman only shakes her head. Behind her, others linger—her family, watching him with cautious eyes.
"This is our home," she says simply.
Loki looks at them. Sees their quiet resolve, their certainty. Something twists deep in his chest, sharp and unrelenting.
He knows what will come.
By the next day, Loki is on the move. His body protests every jolt of the horse's stride, but he does not slow. Pain is secondary. The weight in his mind is far heavier.
The Chitauri are here.
It shifts everything. No longer mere raids, no longer a distant threat. The pieces are falling into place, forming a picture no one in Asgard is prepared to see.
When the Bifröst grips him, light swallowing the forests of Alfheim, his thoughts remain fixed on what lurks beyond the veil of ignorance.
The past is no longer content to remain buried. It is clawing its way back, seeping into the present.
And war is closer than anyone realizes.