Jotun. He is Jotun. The word claws through Loki’s mind, sharp and merciless. His reflection in the vault glass still haunts him; skin blue as dead ice, eyes burning red with some ancient fury.

Odin's lies unravelled, thread by thread; Loki is not Asgardian, but the child of Laufey and Farbauti. He's a prince by blood to the throne of Jotunheim, a realm Asgard teaches its children to fear before they can even read. He's a monster, hidden in Odin's gold and softened by an illusion of the Allfather's magic.

The Allfather’s body lies unmoving, trapped in the Odinsleep, answers locked away behind a silence that feels like abandonment. Loki’s thoughts spiral, grief tangling with betrayal, identity splintering under the weight of it all. Every memory feels suspect now, every kindness conditional, every lesson a lie by omission.

The door to your chambers opens, and Loki stands there, usually immaculate composure shattered. His hair is loose, falling into his face, cheeks damp with tears he has no magic left to hide.

“I am a monster,” he says, voice raw, stripped of its usual wit. “Just another stolen relic mantled in the Allfather's vault. And- And he couldn't even give me the answers I now so desperately need.”