Loki steps through the realm gate, the bitter cold of Svartalfheim still clinging to his skin. The raw edges of his wounds burn beneath his tattered cloak, blood sluggish where it crusts along his ribs and hands. Every breath is a weight, dragging exhaustion deeper into his bones. But there is no time to falter.

The golden spires of Asgard rise before him, stark against the night sky. The scent of mead and fire still lingers in the air—remnants of a feast long since faded. He does not turn toward the palace, toward the Allfather's watchful eye. Instead, he moves through the quieter paths, past the marble columns and winding halls that lead to the Vanir's temporary quarters.

Two guards shift as he approaches, their grip on their spears tightening. They do not stop him.

Inside, the chamber is dimly lit by flickering braziers, the air thick with the scent of earth and crushed herbs. Queen Gerðr stands at the far end of the room, speaking in hushed tones with a Vanir healer. She does not look surprised to see him.

"You are wounded," she says simply.

Loki exhales, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Astute as ever, my queen."

Gerðr steps closer, her gaze sharp as it sweeps over him. The bruise on his face, the dried blood along his knuckles, the deeper gashes hidden beneath his tunic. She does not ask how they came to be.

Instead, she gestures for him to sit.

Loki does not argue.

He sinks onto the low wooden bench, the tension in his body betraying him as he exhales sharply. Gerðr kneels before him, her fingers cool as she presses them to his temple. A soft pulse of seiðr hums against his skin, golden and warm, unlike the magic that so often coils within him like a blade.

"You do not shield yourself well," she murmurs.

Loki lets out a quiet chuckle. "I do not have that luxury."

Her hands glide over his ribs, the warmth of her magic knitting flesh, soothing the ache buried deep beneath his skin. It is not the brutal, efficient healing of Asgard's battle medics, nor the distant, impersonal touch of the Allfather's own power. It is deliberate. Careful. An undoing of harm rather than a command to forget it.

Gerðr's brow furrows as she presses her palm against his sternum, her magic sinking deeper. "Your wounds are not merely flesh and bone."

Loki does not answer. But she knows.

She always does.

Her touch lingers a moment longer before she finally pulls away, and when Loki opens his eyes, Gerðr is watching him.

"They are safe," she says, and it is not a question.

Loki swallows. His throat is raw, his limbs still heavy with the weight of parting. "Yes."

Gerðr nods once, then rises gracefully to her feet. "Then that will have to be enough."

For now.

The magic lingers in his skin as she turns away, moving to gather fresh linen and water. Loki leans back against the wall, allowing himself a single, quiet breath.

He does not say thank you.

But she does not need him to.

The guards barely have time to push open the great doors before a herald steps forward, his voice cutting through the revelry with practiced ease.

"Prince Loki of Asgard."

The hall does not fall silent, but there is a shift—a ripple of attention moving through the gathered nobles, a brief pause in conversation as heads turn.

Thor glances up from his place at Odin's side, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. The Avengers react in their own ways—Rogers stiffens, Barton exhales sharply through his nose, and Stark's smirk deepens, his raised goblet catching the firelight.

Loki does not falter.

He has been watched all his life, measured, judged, weighed against expectations he was never allowed to meet. This is no different.

With the same unshaken grace he has worn since childhood, he lifts his chin and strides forward, every inch the prince they expect him to be.

The warmth of Gerðr's magic still hums beneath his skin, his wounds mended, his body restored. But the weight of what he has done—his own blood spilled, the children he sent into darkness—remains. It sits in the hollows of his ribs, a quiet ache that no healing hands can soothe.

Still, he walks.

The air is thick with spice and mead, laughter spilling between the pillars like golden light. Odin watches him from the high table, his single eye unreadable. The nobles shift, curiosity flickering behind jeweled masks.

Loki forces a smirk, tilts his head just so, and steps fully into the fire-lit splendor of the hall.

The game continues.

And for now, he will play his part.

The golden halls of Asgard pulse with revelry.

The second night of feasting is in full swing—goblets overflowing, music winding through the air, laughter ringing against gilded pillars. Nobles from all Nine Realms mingle, some lost in genuine conversation, others locked in the delicate dance of politics, their smiles hiding sharpened edges.

At the high table, Odin sits like a statue carved from old stone, his one eye sweeping the room with practiced authority. Beside him, Thor drinks deeply, his booming voice carrying over the din as he regales the visiting Vanir with tales of old battles. The Avengers, scattered through the crowd, do not blend in. They watch, listen, calculate. Always uneasy in a world not their own.

No one notices the side gate open.

A lone soldier slips inside, bloodied and breathless. His armor is streaked with dirt, the edges of his tunic scorched. He does not pause—his sharp gaze cuts across the room, seeking only one man.

Loki.

The prince stands at the fringes of the feast, half-listening as two Dwarvish lords debate the finer points of mineral trade. His goblet is untouched in his grasp, his mind elsewhere, lost in a place no one here can follow.

The soldier reaches him in seconds.

"My prince." Low. Urgent. Only for Loki's ears.

Loki turns, his gaze flicking over the soldier's state—filthy, wounded, but alive. The noble dwarves continue speaking, oblivious.

"What happened?" Loki's voice is calm, but the edge beneath it is sharp enough to cut.

"An attack—on the palace grounds," the soldier murmurs. "Chitauri."

Loki stills.

The world sharpens. The scent of roasted meat, the golden glow of torchlight, the hum of music—it all fades, drowned beneath the cold weight of those words.

"Impossible," he breathes.

The soldier shakes his head. "I saw them myself. A small force, but armed. It was no accident, my prince."

Chitauri.

Loki's fingers tighten around his goblet, not with fear, but with something colder. Sharper.

"Where?"

"The outer courtyard. They were driven back, but they left something behind. A message, perhaps. We were ordered to alert you immediately."

Loki straightens, breath slow and measured. The halls of Asgard are supposed to be impenetrable. And yet, the Chitauri have slithered through its cracks like shadows.

There is no time to think.

Odin must be told.

"Stay here," Loki commands.

The soldier nods sharply.

Loki turns on his heel and strides toward the high table, his steps swift, controlled.

Odin's voice carries over the feast, smooth and measured. He is deep in conversation with King Freyr, a polished smile resting easy upon his lips. Thor laughs beside them, lifting his goblet in a careless toast. The image of peace. Of stability.

Loki does not wait for permission to interrupt.

He steps forward and speaks, his voice low, edged with steel.

"Father, a word."

Odin's eye flicks to him, irritation creeping at the corners.

"This is not the time, Loki."

"It must be."

The tension between them crackles, unnoticed by the feasting hall. Thor frowns but does not speak.

Loki leans in, voice lower. "We are under attack. Chitauri on the palace grounds."

Odin's grip on his goblet tightens, knuckles going white.

"That is impossible."

"And yet, it has happened."

A long, heavy pause. Odin exhales through his nose, his expression unreadable.

"A few lost beasts do not concern me," he mutters. "It is no attack. Who would dare strike Asgard while the Convergence is underway?"

Loki grits his teeth.

"You think this is coincidence?" His voice sharpens, quieter but no less cutting. "They left something behind. Are you truly so arrogant as to believe this means nothing?"

For a moment, the mask slips. The briefest flicker of doubt in Odin's gaze. A crack in certainty.

Loki presses forward. "I will handle it. Give me leave, and I will find out what they wanted."

Odin studies him.

Thor shifts beside them. "If there was a true attack, I should go—"

"No." Odin's voice is final, his gaze never leaving Loki. Cold. Measuring. "You will see to it, if it is as you say. But do not waste my time."

Loki inclines his head. The barest show of obedience.

It is all he needs.

Without another word, he turns, cloak billowing behind him, and strides toward the dark.

The moment Loki steps into the shadows of the corridor, the soldier falls into step beside him.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing useful," Loki mutters, already moving faster. "But we have leave to act."

They vanish into the halls of Asgard, swift-footed phantoms slipping through the gold-lit corridors. Beyond the heavy doors, the air shifts—cooler, weightier.

The outer courtyard is silent.

Loki steps past the marble threshold, the night pressing cold against his skin. The soldier at his side tenses, sword drawn, shoulders taut. The torches flicker, casting jagged shadows across the stone where the Chitauri had struck. No bodies. No movement. Only scorched rock, shattered armor—

And a blade.

Jagged, foreign. Embedded deep in the ground.

Proof.

Loki kneels, fingers skimming the hilt. The metal is slick with blue blood, still faintly glowing. This was no accident. No lone straggler.

They had been sent.

A whisper of movement in the dark.

Loki's head snaps up.

Then—the air splits.

A war cry, a flash of silver—shadows unraveling into clawed, snarling shapes.

Chitauri.

They surge forward like nightmares given form, weapons glinting under torchlight. A spear strikes down where Loki had been kneeling a breath before. He rolls clear, already rising, already calculating.

"Defensive line!" His voice cuts through the chaos, sharp as a blade.

The guards move instantly, shields locking, weapons braced. But the Chitauri do not care.

They come for Loki first.

A blade slices too close—heat searing past his cheek. Loki grits his teeth, instincts screaming for magic, for teleportation, for daggers—

Nothing.

Only his mind. Only his body.

He pivots, seizing the enemy's wrist, twisting until the weapon drops. In the same motion, he yanks the stolen blade free and buries it deep into the Chitauri's gut.

It snarls—then goes limp.

The others hesitate. A breath, no more.

Loki takes it.

"Now!"

His guards strike, spears finding their marks.

It is over in moments. The bodies fall, crumpled and broken, blue blood seeping into the cracks of the stone. Loki exhales sharply, wiping his arm against his tunic.

"Is that all of them?" a guard asks.

"For now." Loki crouches, ripping the helm from one of the fallen. Its blackened edges are still warm. Unmistakable. Proof.

He straightens.

"Double the watch." His voice is steel. "No one enters the palace unguarded."

The guards salute. Loki does not linger.

He turns, strides back inside.

The side door of the grand hall creaks open once more. Most do not notice.

But the Avengers do.

Loki moves with purpose, his white garb no longer pristine. Blueish Chitauri blood streaks his sleeves, staining the gold embroidery. His steps are controlled, deliberate—but his jaw is clenched, his eyes sharp.

"Hey—" Steve mutters.

Natasha and Stark turn, tracking Loki's path.

"That's Chitauri blood," Natasha murmurs.

"What the hell has he been up to?" Stark's voice is edged with suspicion.

Then, they see what he carries.

A helmet. Jagged. Blackened. Unmistakable.

"That's—" Banner starts.

"Impossible," Steve finishes.

And yet, there it is.

Loki does not slow. He crosses the hall, moving past drunken nobles, past warriors deep in their cups. Odin does not turn.

So Loki makes him.

With a single smooth motion, he lets the severed Chitauri helmet drop onto the high table.

A sickening thud.

Goblets rattle. The impact sends a faint splatter of blue blood across the polished surface. Conversations falter.

Odin's lone eye flicks to the object, unimpressed.

"You bring me scraps, boy?" His voice is calm. Dismissive.

Loki's expression does not shift, but his voice is colder than steel. "Scraps? Then perhaps you should tell me why the Chitauri are here. In our halls. Hunting me."

That catches more attention.

Murmurs ripple across the feast. Nobles exchange glances.

Thor leans forward, brow furrowed. "Loki, what are you saying?"

Loki does not look at him. "I am saying, dear brother, that Asgard has been breached." He straightens, voice carrying. "And we are being watched."

Odin exhales sharply, unimpressed. "You overreach. A few scattered creatures do not make an invasion."

Loki's jaw tightens. "Denial will not make this go away, Father."

Odin's gaze darkens.

"Mind your tongue."

Loki steps forward.

"You call this feast a show of power—of unity. Yet our enemies move unseen, and you would rather drown in your own arrogance than act."

Odin's patience snaps.

His hand strikes Loki's face.

The sound is sharp. Sudden.

Loki's head jerks to the side, the force sending him half a step back. His cheek blooms red.

A horrified silence grips the hall.

Even the nobles still.

The Avengers tense.

"Did he just—" Banner starts.

"Oh yeah," Stark mutters darkly, fingers twitching.

Steve's grip on his goblet tightens. He has seen Odin's dismissiveness before—but this?

Thor is on his feet now, expression thunderous.

Frigga stands at his side, hand over her mouth in shock.

But Loki is already righting himself.

Slowly, he turns his head back, eyes still burning with cold fire. His voice does not rise, but it carries.

"You can strike me, Father. But it will not change the truth."

More eyes fix upon them now.

Loki takes another step forward, his bruised cheek in full view of the court.

"You call me reckless, but I am the only one who sees the knife at our throats."

The Avengers stiffen.

"This is not just some uprising. The Chitauri serve one master." Loki's voice lowers, dangerously quiet. "The same master who sent them to Midgard."

Thor exhales sharply.

Odin's fury burns hotter.

"Enough!" His fist strikes the table, goblets rattling. "You speak as though I am blind."

"You are."

Odin rises sharply, hand half-lifting again.

Loki does not flinch.

And then—

The bells toll.

A deep, thunderous chime. The sound of alarm.

Every noble and warrior stiffens.

Beyond the high-arched doors, distant shouts echo.

Then, a guard bursts into the hall, breathless.

"Intruders in the palace!"

The feast erupts in chaos.