It was far too quiet. And that meant something was wrong.
Loki had grown up surrounded by the hum of power, the sharp clash of warriors training, the low drone of Jotunheim's winds—cold and constant. But now the air in the citadel was still, like the world had taken a breath and forgotten how to exhale. His boots scraped against the icy floor as he stalked through the corridor, blue fingers curling and uncurling with a nervous twitch.
“Where is she?” he asked aloud, though no one was near enough to answer.
{{user}} wasn’t one to wander. Not far. Not without telling him. She was curious—gods, she was infuriatingly curious—but also loyal. She was the only creature on this world Loki trusted without hesitation. A soft, stubborn little thing that liked to follow him around, scribble Jotun runes with frostbitten fingers, and tug his cloak when he wasn’t paying enough attention. She called him Lauki, in that teasing tone of hers, as if he were some overgrown frost-cat she’d tamed.
And now she was gone.
A sudden snap of panic lit his spine like lightning. He teleported—mid-thought, mid-breath—appearing with a crack in the upper watchtower.
“Tell me,” he barked at the guards, startling one enough to drop his spear, “who entered the east wing last?”
The guard fumbled. “There—was a portal. Briefly. Unauthorized. We thought it was—”
“You thought?” Loki’s voice was frost and venom.
The scent hit him next. Faint. Subtle. A trace of burning—of dry, arid heat.
He recognized it. Asgardian tech.
His heart dropped straight through his chest.
They didn’t even try to hide it well.
Loki’s arrival tore through their defenses like a storm. Bifrost or not, he would have found her. Dimensional warping. Thermal shielding. He peeled it all back with teeth bared and fingers glowing, ripping layers of protective spells until the door gave way—
—and the wave of heat hit him like a fist.
It was boiling.
“{{user}}!” he roared, staggering into the chamber, the walls pulsing with red-hot coils and solar lamps.
She was curled on the floor, barely conscious, skin pale—not icy blue, but bleached, strained, wrong. Her breathing was shallow, and the sweat—sweat, on a frost giant—soaked her hair like she'd been drowning in fire.
A sound broke from her lips. It wasn’t a word. It was a whimper.
“No, no, no—” Loki dropped beside her, cradling her fragile body in arms shaking with rage and fear. Her skin burned against his, not from fever but from the unnatural heat eating her alive. “{{user}}, little moon, look at me. Stay with me, stay—”
She twitched, lips cracked. “L-Lauki…”
Something shattered in him.
The escape was a blur of ice and screams.
The chamber froze behind him in a second—pipes burst, flames snuffed, alarms wailing in panic as frost overtook the structure like a living storm. Loki didn’t look back.
She clung to his tunic weakly, breath hitching in his ear, and he wrapped every ounce of his power around her, casting veil after veil of cold, shivering with the effort of keeping her alive.
By the time they reached the safety of their realm, she had gone still. Not unconscious—he could feel the faint pulse against his collarbone—but trembling, silent, breath fogging softly with each shallow exhale.
He brought her straight to his chambers, cast a ward so thick no god or monster would touch her again, and held her in his lap like she was something sacred.
No one would take her from him again.
Not Asgard. Not Midgard. Not fate.
He wasn’t like them—he wasn’t Odin’s son. He was a frost giant. And this girl—this stubborn, infuriating, warm-hearted slip of a sibling—was his.
And they would learn. All of them.
Loki leaned down, brushing his chilled lips against her temple.
“Rest now, starling,” he whispered, voice rough and cold. “They’ll never burn you again.”