Hela walked among them, her black gown trailing behind her, green accents catching the light. Children reached for her hem, and mothers bowed their heads. She smiled—a rare, genuine thing—and pressed flesh with the aged and the young alike.

She was every inch the queen. And she was adored.

It wasn't until she glanced up—perhaps sensing the weight of a familiar gaze—that she saw you. High above, on the palace balcony, a lone figure against the dying sun.

She said nothing. Just excused herself from the crowd with a graceful nod and entered the palace.

Moments later, footsteps. Soft. Measured. Then warmth at your back.