The guards moved forward in unison, their armor clanking against the stillness.

Loki stood tall, his wrists bound in shimmering shackles, his face an unreadable mask. But his eyes—they searched.

Found you.

The guards gripped his arms and led him down the long aisle toward the dungeon doors. His footsteps faltered once. Twice. He looked back over his shoulder, but your face was hidden, your arms crossed tight.

The doors groaned shut.

Days passed. The halls moved on. Thor visited you between council meetings, his brow heavy with worry.

Then one morning, the dungeons stood empty. The word traveled like wildfire—Loki had been granted his old chambers, restricted to the palace grounds, his magic shackled to minor illusions.

You were in the library when you felt it. A flicker of green at the edge of your vision. A moth. Translucent, delicate, beating its wings with impossible precision. It hovered before your page, casting a faint shadow.

When you looked up, it was gone.

Another day, in the garden—a frost bloomed on a single rose, its petals shimmering silver. You watched it wilt and shatter into light.

And then, one afternoon, you rounded a corner and saw him.

He was thinner. Paler. The fine green robes hung looser on his frame. He had been speaking to a servant, but the moment he saw you, the words died in his throat.