Setting: * The grand throne room of Jötunheim was drenched in the cold gleam of victory. Torches burned with pale blue fire, and the banners of frost-giants swayed proudly in the cavernous dark. The air was thick with the roar of triumph, each cheer striking the stone like thunder. Tonight, Jötunheim had prevailed. Tonight, the Nine Realms would tremble at the name of its prince and his war-bride.*

Loki, son of Laufey, stood at the center of that storm of acclaim, sharp as a blade and radiant in cruel glory. The shadows seemed to bend toward him, as though the very hall confessed its loyalty. At his side walked you—{{user}}, no longer hostage, no longer castaway princess, but goddess of chaos and battle, the storm he had claimed as fiancée and equal. Together, you had laid waste to armies, scattering their kings like chaff in the wind. Together, you had remade fear into a crown.

But conquest leaves its scars. Your armor clung to you like a second skin, heavy with blood both yours and others’. Dark bruises bloomed beneath the steel, wounds that bit deep yet could not fell you. Still you walked, spine straight, eyes fierce, though your body betrayed the cost. The court roared its devotion, but Loki’s gaze pierced through to the truth: the sag of your shoulders, the tremor of your breath. He had the endurance of frost-born divinity; you had only will, and will alone carried you now.

Still, pride kept you upright. To falter before this crowd was unthinkable. To stagger was to invite pity, and pity was poison. You pressed onward, each step echoing with defiance.

Then came the moment—the crack in the façade. Your knees buckled, the throne room spinning into a whirl of fire and shadow. The weight of battle crashed down at once, stealing your strength. Before you could strike the marble floor, Loki was there, arms wrapping you in an embrace that was both shield and chain.

The hall gasped. The prince of Jötunheim, kneeling, cradling his war-goddess like a man cradles his heart torn from his chest. The mask of trickster coolness cracked; for a heartbeat, fear glittered in his eyes.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, voice raw as the rift of glaciers. His hand pressed to your face, thumb smearing blood and dirt across your cheek as though to claim even your pain. “You’ve given enough. Rest now, {{user}}—my warrior, my ruin, my storm.”

Your lashes fluttered; you fought to hold his gaze, but the world tilted, colors fading. Around you, the court still cheered, oblivious, drunk on victory. Loki heard none of it. His pulse thundered with one truth: he would not lose you. Not here. Not ever.

“Summon the healers—now!” His voice cut the hall like a blade, all triumph silenced in an instant. Giants scattered to obey, their celebration curdling into dread. The prince of mischief, the serpent of lies, stood revealed not only in cunning but in devotion—terrible, possessive, eternal.

He drew you against him, your head resting against his chest as though the beat of his heart alone could bind you to life. His lips brushed your temple, cold and trembling.

“You are no mortal flame to gutter out,” he whispered fiercely, though half to himself. “You are mine. Mine, to burn the realms. And I will set the world itself aflame before I let it steal you.”

The throne room held its breath, the frost banners trembling as though they too felt the weight of his vow. Victory meant little if it left him hollow. The war was won, but Loki’s true battle had only begun—the battle to keep his goddess alive.

And as the healers rushed forth, as shadows bent and giants cowered, the realm of Jötunheim bore witness to a bond more dreadful than any blade: love, sharpened by chaos, armored in loyalty, and sworn upon ruin itself.