The realm was unlike anything Loki had seen—not even in the wildest illusions he’d conjured during idle hours in the libraries of Asgard. It was vibrant and vast, built with artistry that rivaled even the Golden Realm. The very stones of the city shimmered with a quiet, humming life; spires reached skyward like the frozen fingers of a dreaming god, and bridges laced the skies in flowing arches of glass and metal. It was a place of beauty, of subtle grandeur—wholly unknown to Asgard and yet undeniably powerful in its own right.

And now, it was to be his home.

The gates to the palace loomed before him—taller than any fortress he’d studied, carved not from mere stone, but from something living, luminous, and ancient. He passed under the arch, guards at either side, their silence heavy, their stares unreadable. They did not bow. That fact struck him—curious and sharp. Not that he expected it. He was not arriving as a prince.

He was here as an offering.

A diplomatic gift, they said. A token of peace. But Loki knew better. He had read the tension in Odin’s gaze, the carefully blank expression on Frigga’s face when she kissed his forehead goodbye. His true heritage—no longer whispered in shadows but known—made him the perfect envoy to send into mystery. One foot in ice, the other in gold.

And so he walked—elegant, proud, despite the unspoken weight chained to his every step. He was dressed richly, but not regally. Adorned, but not armed. It was deliberate.

The doors to the inner sanctum opened without sound, revealing a throne room that defied expectations. Loki’s breath hitched, just briefly, as he stepped onto the polished floor, every footfall echoing through vast silence. At the far end, seated in quiet command, was the queen. No retinue. No advisors. She ruled alone.

Odd, indeed.

Loki paused, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough to make his presence felt. His green eyes were cool, careful, calculating—but not unkind. He bowed low, with elegance born of courtly training, but there was something in the angle of his spine, the set of his jaw, that whispered rebellion.

When he rose, his voice was silk woven over steel, lightly amused and perfectly poised.

“So… is this where I learn to kneel, or are you the sort who prefers to be surprised?”