Loki had been marking the days with tally marks scratched into the cold, damp stone.

He had been trapped in this gods-forsaken cell ever since they dragged him from Midgard in chains, bound like a criminal, paraded before the masses as if he were some common beast. His magic, suppressed. His pride, stripped away. His wrists still bore the bruises of manacles too tight, and the aches in his ribs reminded him of every blow the guards had landed when he refused to kneel.

A prince. No—a king.

He wasn’t meant to be caged like an animal, left to bleed and bruise in the dark.

He was a prince of Asgard. No—a king. A god.

And yet here he was: caged like a dog, left to rot beneath the palace he once called home.

The silence of the dungeon had become a cruel companion. It clung to him like a shroud, broken only by the occasional drip of water or the scurry of vermin. His wounds festered. His patience frayed.

Then, the heavy iron door groaned open.

“Come to gloat, have you?” he muttered, voice sharp with contempt.

His words hung in the air like frost.

Because if there was one thing he had left—just one thing—it was his pride. And they would not take that from him. Not while he still drew breath.