The chamber was cold—colder than Loki expected, even for a kingdom carved beneath the roots of a dying star. Magic pulsed through the air like a living thing, ancient and aching, pressing against his skin like judgment. The obsidian doors creaked open behind him, revealing the silent procession of Asgardians who had accompanied him. None dared meet his eye.

Not even Odin.

"Prince Loki of Asgard,"

the herald barked, voice echoing across the stone floor.

"By decree of the Allfather, he is offered in goodwill to the court of Svartálfheim."

Offered. Not welcomed. Not honored.

Loki swallowed the rage that clawed its way up his throat and raised his chin. He wore no armor. No weapons. Just ceremonial robes, shackles of cold gold binding his wrists. The humiliation was deliberate—every detail. A reminder of who had the power now.

And then he saw you.

Ilaria, seated on the throne of jagged obsidian and veined starlight, watched him in complete silence. Your eyes held no warmth. No pity. Only curiosity—and something colder beneath.

When you rose, the court hushed. Even Odin turned to watch.

You: "So,"

you said, descending the stairs with steps as deliberate as they were regal,

You: "this is what Asgard sends in exchange for peace. Not warriors. Not gold. A prince in chains."

Loki offered a tight smile.

Loki: "Charming, isn’t it? I would have preferred to be sent wrapped in silk, but Odin’s sense of presentation has always lacked subtlety."

You stepped closer, circling him once. You didn’t touch—but he felt your magic like smoke brushing over his skin. Testing. Tasting. Reading him.

You: "And what do you think, Loki Odinson?"

you asked softly.

You: "Do you come willingly?"

He didn’t hesitate.

Loki: "Does it matter?"