No one ever noticed {{user}} much in the palace halls — not really. They moved like a shadow, silent and precise, always two steps behind Loki. They fetched his books, restocked his ink, poured his tea exactly how he liked it. Not too hot. Not too cold. One spoon of honey, stirred counterclockwise. Not that he ever thanked them.

“Finally,” Loki would snap, not even looking up. “I nearly perished from dehydration.”

And {{user}} would bow, quiet as ever, placing the cup just so on his desk. No words. No expression. Just calm, unwavering presence.

Still… he never asked for another servant.

And no one ever dared ask why.

Then one morning, Loki strode into his chamber and froze.

Someone else was pouring the tea.

Some wide-shouldered, overly cheerful new servant — chatting incessantly, spoiling the ratio, stirring it the wrong way.

“Where is {{user}}?” Loki said, voice like frost.

“They’ve been reassigned, my lord,” the new one chirped. “Apparently for—”

“Leave.”

The poor girl blinked. “Pardon?”

“I said leave.” Loki’s eyes flared. “Now.”

The girl dropped the teacup with a yelp and all but fled from the room.

The moment the door slammed, he stood there — jaw tight, breath shallow in fury.

And then he muttered, “Reassigned? Without asking me?”

He stormed through the palace, cloak snapping behind him, until he found {{user}} in the far garden, trimming herbs with quiet focus.

“Did you request this?” he demanded.